marry fucking christmas

Marry Fucking Christmas
The jingle of the crystal balls,
a chaotic gipsy dance, hang
strange bodies, on the green of my christmas tree.
The course of the future;
The knowledge of the past

****

Smells of cinnamon and hot rum,
warm wet whiskey breath

"Only thing Christmas' good for 's drinking
an tellin' lies to kids."
Uncle Kringle died
the night before Christmas
walking home from Wal-mart
empty jug of Kentucky in hand
a cold unmade bed
waiting patiently in the dark

****


And the cheatin', "Ho Ho" filled with the sour smell of liquor, just as my father's whenever he entered the room, drunk. Another cola commercial: More like jack and cola. Uncle Jack wearing a stupid Christmas hat: The foundations of a religion: A sea of red hats drowning in cinnamon wine; Holding on to melting cookies; Soaked with children's tears; Some because the gift wasn't right; Some because there was no gift. And mine, because they slaughtered my ancestors, so I can drink wine, eat cookies, and drink wine: And believe in the sea of red hats and red cheeks. Colored with hits. Colored with wine. There is an angel watching me. But he's unavailable right now. Ordering a happy meal and coke to go. Thank u Santa.

***

*** 

My father

Always left a glass of wine

or a beer for Santa"

He gets thristy,"he'd laugh.

When we were asleep my father

often joked to my uncle, "Santa's

an alcoholic."

It was the year

my father left a shot of whiskey

for Santa when things got

out of hand.

Our neighbor, Stephen Spinks, a Vietnam vet, got arrested that year for

attacking a Santa

Claus at the mall. "You fucking liar,"

Stephen yelled

as he broke the old man's nose, and cut open

his lip so that the blood ran and

Santa screamed,

"Help, God help me. This man's mad."

"You're not the real Santa," said Stephen. "He died."

Stephen claimed that he killed Santa in Vietnam

Saw him coming through the jungle

a bag on his back

and thinking it was the enemy he shot

the bastard in the face.

Turned out to be an Asian

man, but Stephen claimed he killed Santa.

It disturbed all the neighbors,

This vet, on Christmas Eve, telling children,

"I killed Santa. I saw him

in the jungles and I shot him in the head.

There ain't no more Santa. I splattered

his brains against a tree.

Uncle Sam sneaks down

your chimney now - and he's

got guns and bombs

and presents and things

that make you American and make

companies American

and you'll be able to kill Santa when he comes

back as a vampire."

That Christmas, Spinks, when released on bail

went home and dressed up as

Santa, stood out in the street

yelling to his neighbors, "Come out and see

Santa, see the real Santa." And most of the kids thought it was Santa --it

was late at night and he looked the part: white beard, white hair, the red

suit. He even had a big black bag.

We went out and he handed us candy canes,

water guns, plastic army men.

He handed Budweisers to the adults, and led

us in a couple

of songs, "You better watch out, you better not pout". Then casually Stephen when to his garage got a can of gasoline, poured it on

himself, said calmly, "There is no Santa Claus,"and lit himself on fire. He

flared up briefly, ever so bright. A woman

screamed. Many of the kids cried

"Santa, Santa". But mostly

I remembered the silence. Something holy in

the flare. Santa Santa

Burning bright in the forest of the night.

My father pulled me inside, and I

saw him drink the shot he left Santa.

"I needed it," he said when he noticed

me staring at him. "Besides, I don't think

Santa wants it tonight." The fire trucks came and put Stephen's ashes

out. My father got really drunk,

mumbling, "What was he thinking. Stephen,

Stephen." My father had known

Stephen before the war. They went to the

same church as children. "I played

football with him," my father continued.

"His mother taught six grade. She

always got me a book for Christmas."

I went to bed knowing that Santa was an alcoholic.

***

And as the fire was devouring the red plastic I remembered what the priest said: "From ashes to ashes", as our house burned by the Christmas lights, as the plastic table at the mall. As you, my love, and

as another foreigner down our throat. Marry fucking Christmas everyone.

The 3 imagineers at the mall

going green

as i was watching an O.B. tampon
forgotten in the washing machine
during the spin cycle
i remembered someone told me 350 times to save the environment...

what a perfect way to start...

My sister is drinking listerine to get drunk
She laughs about how green the world has become
She shaved off all her hair
Donated it to wig companies
My sister believes bald is good
Make clothes out of human hair
Dress statues of Hitler in dresses of pink hair.

My sister is drinking listerine to get drunk
Her best friend's father has a human skull
in his basement - "An Indian skull".
Given to the family as an heirloom.
A symbol of the old west.  I wonder if an Indian
somewhere holds hostage a white man,
Threatening his skull with a kiss.

My sister believes we should use the bones of the
dead for tools of sex.  She is drinking listerine to get drunk.
"It's cheap.  The government
doesn't tax it, can't make weapons when I drink it."

My sister is pulling off her toes nails to send to
the bank.  She is asking for a loan.

Seven days ago Magen
wore her Chilian gold necklace
it danced under hot stage lights into
the eyes of those attending the

"Environmental & Sustainable Conservation Society of the Endangered Chrysophyllum Conference"

Four thousand eight hundred miles away
Mario Gómez curses and swears at the rocks crushed
                   for the sunshine worn round Megan's neck
his wife and children sleep with their eyes open
                   staring at the cracked ceiling
while their husband, father, friend, lover
                   suffocates under millions of tons
                   earth two thousand feet beneath
                   their hearts

Magen's ignorance
is a finely trimmed and kept lawn
stretching out before her sorbet colored
suburban home

Some Pope
One thousand four hundred twenty
years ago called this
"extravagance"

A deadly sin then.

A sin known
to us
as lust.

Someone has to be fucked
for the things we want

Over seven thousand years ago
Abraham (or so the story goes)
after plowing his wife's wet fertile
crescent in the orange light of dawn
cast seeds of farro to the dancing wind

He watched as the chaff was
driven forth like dust and waited
for the wheat to take root
and bear hard dry fruit

"Yea, the lord shall give what is good
and our land shall yield her increase."

Seven days ago Philip sat in his cubical
staring at the Monsanto shipment figures
bound for Idaho

The elastic band of his underwear
was still wet after quietly masturbating
to Lada Gaga's Bad Romance music video
on youtube, paused and muted at three minuets
and one second

On his potato farm in Idaho, one thousand miles away,
the Mormon Joseph drives his green John Deere
preparing his fields for the dispersal of Monsanto's
herbicide he bought on loan again this year

Listening to the fire of the engine, Joseph
thinks of his sixteen year old son who
died of a brain tumor two years ago

Joseph, intoning with the engine whispers

“I would that ye should always remember,
and retain in remembrance, the greatness
of God and your own nothingness...”

Seven hundred and sixty eight miles
to the northeast, Eva
(a single mother
who only eats the trunks of muffins
with her black coffee)

buys a bag of Idaho
potatoes with the last of her twenty dollars
she got for licking the nipples and cock
of a lonely man who said his name was Tim

The Mormon Joseph didn't know
the metal vats his son helped move
with sloshing Monsanto herbicide could
seep into the blood of his only son and
kill him with cells that refused to stop
multiplying

Joseph's ignorance sits
like the stagnant muddy pool of water
on rainy autumn days at the edge of his field
near the crumbling paved road that's always
empty

Someone has to be fucked
for the things we sell

green is good
i'm thinking to myself
drinking the last 2 drops of absinth

this time i won't roll tires...
i'll roll myself.

i’ll roll on my back,
as a salut to Mr. Samsa
roll as the roach of feelings I’ve become

My little metamorphosis of going green

Green with envy
Cause somebody else is living my own dream…
Screaming: “die verwandlung!”, saluting to imaginary statues
Running down the street in my green vapor uniform

green is good.
my eco friendly road to oblivion
on which i roll 350 degrees...

roll, roll. roll
My forgotten tractor wheel

virgin white

Virgin white… i awoke.

church bells filled the streets at dawn

mustard colored building No. 48

sits humbly in his peeling paint, green

moss, and crooked white windows

Latvians that never smile or wave

pad down morning cobble streets

after tomatoes cucumbers and

rye bread. i love them.

golden light slowly pushes

aside restless shadows

quietness held by the hands

of bells, slips into the busy

wheels of trucks and cars

a police officer speeds by

all is, as it should be.

i awoke to the sounds of bells

with the realization that i am

building No. 48, witnessing

life unfold into its proper place

The (once virgin) white plastic window

As a mirror for her face

Next to my reflection

A retarded man

Picks up the garbage under my window

And sings a servo-Croatian love song ( i hate the dervish sound of the words)

»Just make sure there is some violence involved...«

He says... chatting

 [i love the painful sound the words make]

 

(photo here)

While i bake 3 eggs

(scrambled  not  too done,  thanks)

I know that's the only photo i ever took of her

Two cups of coffee

(afraid they're to go)

No milk-just black (cause it was never in the fridge)

urine heals wounds,

i saw it on the TV...

so who's going to piss

on my broken heart?

yellow urine clouds

like stains

of nicotine and coffee

devouring, with their heart like shapes

the once virgin white pages

of your letters.

the once virgin white pages

that i kept on spilling

with the blood of my memories

i love u my little white coffee cloud

single serving portions of feelings...

single shot

a once in a life time

ticket in the drum

from Russia with love

the virgin white shapes

of an other lonely morning mist

little yellow "post it notes"

stained with the ink of my blood

the first time u went,

you told me:

"i can't love u just because you do"

now i'm screaming:

"i can't stop just because u did"

in the virgin light

of an another white morning

“let's invent the time machine imagineers"

“let's invent the time machine imagineers,

 to catch some foreigners together (at the mall)”

I sit and wait for the beginning of the world of words

listening to the chatter of Latvian

A bunch of brown foreigners sitting on the table,

next to me. I guess it's the time for a shot.

A Russian roulette of thoughts

John Smith lied like all good explorers,

and tobacco browned in autumn heat

(as I teach this, it rains)

Thousands of miles,

hundreds of years later,

the goddess is burned

in the fire of a Turkish water pipe.

rain drops hitting the iron frame of my window...

as i think of her it gets devoured...

rust as the dementia of iron...

fading away... as my cigarette...

the last lucky strike...

waiting for it to come...

the orange glow of the crematory, the bones

of my hand around the filter

crackle of my inhale, rain

against iron, the window,

I wait for it to come...to come

also contributing

Vasily Orlov-
Wagner

third voice in his head
born Stalingrad '41
imagineer
foreigners addict

contributors

Fielding Kent

alias: jesus

writer and artist exceptionnel

Forest Kvasnikoff

proffesional foreigner catcher exceptionnel

the first common project...

under construction

let's invent the time machine umagineers to catch some foreigners together (at the mall)

 under construction