Repurposing Christmas

A Gift Exchange

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CHRISTMAS, HELL

*

I can’t even find time

to write the irrelevant,

irreverent form letter,

for Christ’s sake,

let alone wax

poignantly about peace

& joy, chestnuts

or snow, those memories

in slo-mo of dark

mornings we danced

across freezing wood floors

to dig for socks & long johns

in dresser drawers,

bedroom windowpanes

glazed in ice—

we’d run to the living room,

shiver-up to the oil stove,

smell coffee, bacon

cooking in the kitchen,

listen to larch kindling crackle

& the trash burner roar,

Mother’s slippers scuffling

the linoleum floor—dishes

clattered as we buttoned

& tugged, pulled on our clothes,

hypnotized by the glow

of icicles & colored bulbs

silhouetting the fir tree

we’d cut down

up Madison Gulch,

the literal presence of wonder

in our black & white eyes—

an evergreen rainbow

topped with a blue star—

it was our chromatic

invitation to dream.

*

—for Connie

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Seasonal thoughts so “Deep” they’d make Jack Handy’s “personals” retreat to where his tonsils once were:

Seriously (I know that’s hard to swallow) here’s hoping everyone finds some peace and joy this holiday season. Because we are alive, simply that, we should celebrate, find a little time to acknowledge and reflect upon the miracle of our awareness, this existence, toast this here and now.

Given the obvious reality that our situation could end at any time, and if not soon then sooner than we think, the simple fact that our death is inevitable and we might as well accept the idea that since we will leave here shortly to go onto something we cannot know, we might as well try to enjoy, love, let go, and stop trying to control ourselves, others, or anything, just tune into the wonder of this sensory experience! Whether you are going to Heaven or you don’t know shit, you are going. No way around that.

So now “let me tell you what to do!” Today, listen and talk to other human beings. Don’t worry about who. Give everyone you encounter a chance, and give yourself a chance by getting out and encountering someone. Avoid electronic stimulation and media. Only allow yourself to use those devices for direct interaction, vocal and visual. No, it isn’t as good as experiencing a human being in the flesh, but it’s better than nothing. Body language speaks volumes.

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LET IT SNOW

*

Up from the basement, Luna’s paws

tear at tissue paper in tomato boxes.

She eyes the fireplace mantle:

Santa Claus in long underwear;

sprigs of lavender; a tiny pair

of cherry-topped mittens; some faceless,

buxom angel-whore, blue dress

and metal wings; polar bears and terrier

elves leaning on etched depression glass

beside a dime-store chalice (golden

and empty as Ft. Knox);

Bob Dylan’s closed eyes

(cigarette dangling from parted lips)

blind as an unlit Buddha candle.

Anne Sexton’s White Snake and chicken

thighs in my lap exhale smoky

Ho-Ho-Ho’s—transforming stockings

hung like vigilante businessmen

for a good-old, sub-zero Christmas—

let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Woody,

our stiff New Guinea totem-friend, stares

bug-eyed in the corner—his ears

celebrating an Obama New Year

with his Mo-Jo exposed (a red bow

on the tip) unwrapping all lovers’

under-the-covers wintry dreams.

And Luna rolls on the carpet,

Luna rolls yellow eyes, black fur,

black holes. Luna knows,

Luna lies for my hand on her belly,

she lies in my lap, her lovin’-motor runnin’,

her kitty-song hummin’: let it snow,

let it snow, let it snow. Luna knows

the secret is no secret

wrapped under the tree. It’s the moon

on the floor, a black fur ball for me,

or hopefully a friend at my door—

it’s the business of sharing

what can’t be bought or sold.

It’s slowing down, it’s snowing

now—let it snow.

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The main reason I’m climbing onto my Holly-day soap box is to make my case for face to face. I grew up in a small town, worked and raised my sons in small towns. You can run but you can’t hide in a small town, not as a kid anyway. You learn to tolerate each other because no one is going anywhere soon. You’ll have to deal with them tomorrow again, and play with them, and work with them. You’re on the same team. People have to tolerate one another because they all know when the shit hits the fan everybody needs to help out. Misfortune comes to anyone and usually everyone. That small town unity was a microcosm of the country. The survival of the community was dependent on that philosophy.

As we’ve progressed, grown, modernized, and become more comfortable (and maybe not so dependent on one another) that old covenant has taken a hit. I think comfort, isolation, being less personally engaged with each other, is at the root of this climate of intolerance we are living in. Our current state of “my way or the highway” thinking is different than the old “love it or leave it” slogan of my youth. Back 50 years ago people were at each other in the streets. As distressing as that time was, I think it was healthier. You consider what you are going to say to someone’s face, and as you are looking them in the eye, you begin to consider that just possibly you might be full of shit. So you listen . . . before you strike.

When you “really” listen, you ask questions, clarify what someone is saying, then you give your point of view, answer their questions, and repeat. You can call it an argument, you can call it a discussion, whatever, but by the time you have concluded your engagement, you will be rethinking everything and the better for it. That process of engagement, of really “trying to hear,” “to understand,” what the other person thinks and how they feel, has suffered greatly since the miracle of social media. Only when we exercise interpersonal communication are we truly capable of empathy, imagining walking in someone else’s shoes, what it might be like to see the world the way they do. If we can’t listen to each other, talk to each other, put ourselves in our neighbors shoes, this great American experiment is finished, done, failed, kaput. Many, myself included, have predicted and bemoaned the fall of the American empire for decades, but I don’t know if I ever truly believed it was a possibility till now.

So, do something about it. Go talk to actual human beings. Listen to them. Get in a discussion. Call it an argument if you want, but invoke your mother: be kind. Follow your eruptions of anger with humor. Listen. Explain. Be adamant. Apologize. Don’t be afraid. Be passionate, compassionate. Try to love the asshole talking to you. Just like you, they love, they have dreams, they’re going to die. Live and let live. Break out that old conservatism my radical dad and conservative grandfather could agree on: mind your own business, unless somebody is being abused, then speak up; believe everyone deserves a fair shake and a hand up when needed; respect your elders, and be polite for Christ’s sake! Ask yourself: what would Jesus do?

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MY JESUS

*

Is a gay black man

Who loves women and Muslims and Jews.

My Jesus got off

That slivered cross some

Two thousand years ago, rolled away

His stone and went back to smoking

Behind the Salvation Army thrift store.

Sometimes my Jesus is a Dick

Like Richard Nixon,

“Don’t do as I do. Do as I say.”

Grab your boot straps and get along

Little Commies. My Jesus

Thinks Christmas is an obscene

Consumer orgy. If he believed in Hell,

That’s where the richest

Assholes would be.

My Jesus swears

That churches are heartless as nails

Or stone, pinched claws

Determined to line out wild souls.

My Jesus believes

In freedom, balloons, and hypocrisy

Some of the time. He walks

The talk and like my sister

Falls down a lot, but

My Jesus gets up again

Because he’s a man,

And getting up is what men love to do.

My Jesus has balls

Enough to call bullshit

On all that whack he’s credited for—

Like walking on water

And rising from the dead.

My Jesus knows the power of story,

He’s seen it deployed with guns

And grins again and again.

My Jesus dreams we’ll grow

Tired of killing each other,

Grow tired of feeling afraid

And learn to live gently

Until we retire, until

We return to our subatomic selves.

My Jesus knows

The kingdom of Heaven

Is inside my head

Next door to the serfdom of Hell.

And sometimes some days

He rides my melancholy tsunami

Over steeples and freeways,

Funerals and white sales,

Hurtling bruised and broken

Onto stinking mudflats, bankrupt

As the American Dream,

Tears blurring the blue moons

Of his eyes, the stars in my night

Sky—bright rimmed puddles, dark

Rings of light. My Jesus

Celebrates the mornings I wake

Up. We both imagine he dies

With me. My Jesus doesn’t pretend

To know what will happen.

He’s just happy to be. My Jesus

Is the king of vulnerability—

He’s all about love and service,

Responsibility, for him

There’s no judgment day.