Tag Archives: holidays

‘Twas The Night Before Christmas Break

Twas the night before Christmas break, when all through the web.
Not a tweeter was tweeting, not even your Aunt Deb.
The blog posts were scheduled to autopost with care
In hopes that the readership soon would be there.

The college kids were passed out all drunk in their beds,
while visions of potential high school hook ups danced in their heads.
And mama implores them to help her with chores,
but they’d rather sit around the whole month and be bored.

The news cycle trickles out with hardly a clatter
And we habitually check Facebook to see what really matters.
But everyone posts the same holiday status
of seasonal greetings and some New Years gladness.

The impending threat of the first-fallen snow
gives a nostalgic glimmer to objects below.
And then once it snows, what instead should be appear
But wet muddy roads that make it hard to steer

For every little drink driver, so lively and thick —
but really, you should have had a DD, you dick.
How rapid you spun when to black ice you came
but you’ll come out unscathed, and still find someone to blame.

“Well yeah but so maybe I had a few beers.
I was just fine to drive, there was nothing to fear.
I was typing a text to see who else was home
when I don’t know, man, I just swerved on the road.”

And the mornings you spend with your family feel quaint
but by mid-afternoon, it’s clear that they ain’t.
Your parents have so many answers to seek
when they don’t realize that you just want to sleep.

But you’re still looking forward to seeing old friends —
forgetting, of course, their own holiday plans.
So you look back to Facebook, but nothing is new,
so then you check twitter to find something to do.

But your parents have cable, so hey, that’s still cool!
With eight thousand channels, and you feel like a fool
for watching some network crap you don’t like
but that’s better than just surfing channels all night.

Then you see an old ex on the way to the store,
And she’s fat, or he’s married to that old high school whore.
And the comfort is fleeting, but at least now you’ve seen
that your life didn’t peak when you’d just turned eighteen.

So you get drunk with dad and discuss politics
and realize that hey, maybe he’s not such a prick,
and wine works much faster than cheap, shitty beer
so you start to rethink your plans for New Years.

Then you remember your plans for a productive week,
and the things that you wanted to watch, write, and read.
But instead you fall down a Wikipedia hole
and learn all about the agricultural benefits of voles.

And you watch with your parents an childhood great
which washes over you with a sentimental wave
and those annual plans you had made with your friends
are now spent at home with more emails to send,

checking twitter, and updates on Facebook for news;
you find nothing, and so open a new bottle of booze.
But when the time comes to leave, you drive off with a grin
because you can’t wait ’til next year to do it again.

Green Christmas

Traffic lights, the pulse
And release of the city,
A thousand things running
And stopping,  little  holidays
For us on our road maps, calendars,

Enjoy those little holidays,
Hold them like a rattle,
Baby, shake it while you
Can, make it count while

The amber glows and
Just because there are
A few reds, don’t forget
The greens, don’t forget
The greens.


Ambling sloth-like through the wasteland, breathing in a noxious haze of tryptophan and sickly sweet liquor, I plod past the pestilent pond of porcelain piled high in endless pillars, towards the puddles of putrid fat liquidized and pooling on the plates, once poured steaming over broken bones now dripping down the drain while the last vestiges of flesh hang threadbare off that osseous matter. Small hands have left their mark behind them, stained and sliding down the wall as if grasping for some invisible rungs to rescue them from wrath. Meanwhile, that gelatinous glob of congealed red mass continues to vellicate on the floor, a ceaseless tremor that suggests its sentience. Yet somehow, the empty glass and glasses have survived the slaughter mostly intact, only weathered and worn by overuse though now dirty, discarded and disheveled down among the grateful undead whose virile corpses litter the living room furniture until such time tomorrow that consumption might continue.

Morning Coffee

Remember that week we ate only hot dogs and mac and cheese? Shirley says.

Mom has walked into the room to see if anyone needs another helping of anything and swats at my sister like a fly. She is smiling the way she does when my aunt informs her that she’s using the dinner fork with her salad, laughing politely at a joke no one made.

Let’s talk about things we’re grateful for instead, my mother says. She leaves again, presumably for more sweet tea or another plate of food materialized from what was a pile of ingredients just this morning when I joined her in the kitchen for some coffee.

He’s forty-two, huh, she said after she poured me a cup and laid out all four flavors of creamer she bought for the holiday. I pretended to read the labels on Spicy Gingerbread hoping she wouldn’t notice that I was drinking my coffee black. I know you’ve always been mature for your age, but sweetie.

She said the last word as though it was a reason all its own for me to immediately stop dating Russell, the man lying in my childhood room upstairs. He’d woken before I had and encouraged me to go down and talk to my mother who had made no effort hiding her discomfort with me dating a man whose age is a fresh memory to her.

What can I say, mom? He’s a wonderful man, and for the first time, it’s actually working. I’m sorry it makes you uncomfortable, but you’re going to have to trust me.

She’d been taught – though never told – to understand a certain thing about unmarried men of a certain age. She had two failed marriages and a rocky relationship with the rest of her family that had taught her to assume those things about people, but I can’t help but think she wished he was at least a widower.

She leaned on the counter toward me, covering both of my forearms with her own. Okay, she said, making me want to cry for no reason at all. I trust you.

And before I could reply, soften my tone the way I’d always been meaning to, she gathered up the four bottles of coffee creamer and moved toward the fridge.

You drink your coffee black now, huh, she said.