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