The Death of Santa

It happened when I was five or six. My dad was drunk after a late shift and was shouting about some asshole at work who couldn't hold his weight. It was cold outside. The kind of cold that clings to your skin and never lets go even when you're inside. It was Christmas eve and we were watching "It's a Wonderful Life," like every over American in the world. My dad was angry about the Bears losing yet again and the fact that he didn't get a Christmas bonus. I was wide-awake listening to his wailing and watching the black and white movie diligently. My younger brother was slumbering quietly beneath my mother's feet like a cat while she stroked his head and nodded. I was getting tired watching them, my eyes dowsing off, half listening to the movie, half listening to my father's rants. Beneath all that I heard bells ringing, coming from the roof. That was accompanied by a heavy scratching and the sound of twenty tiny feet stomping on the wooden tiles above us. For some reason my mother nor my father seemed to be bothered by the sound. I tried to ask them what it was but that tiredness encompassed me, arresting me into a prone position I couldn't unravel. Dense steps scampered along the ceiling and stopped at the window. That's when Santa emerged, seemingly out of thin air, but that was impossible so I assumed he hopped in through the window. He had the familiar huge sack slung over his shoulder and a jocular fat grin. My dad's eyes were as red as an angry bull and lifted himself out of the chair looking to charge. They exchanged words but I couldn't make out what was being said. It looked like my dad was saying get out, yet Santa held his ground pointing to my brother and I. That's when my dad pulled out a gun that was tucked in the back of his jeans and unloaded a clip into Santa's fat carcass. Green blood busted out of Santa as he landed flat on the floor, still grinning like a lunatic. My dad stood over him like a prized boxer, gun dangling between his fingers, and breathed out steam from his nostrils. Eventually his anger subsided and he floated back to his comforter and finished the movie in silence. I woke up in my bed that following morning and rushed downstairs to see Santa's corpse, but found nothing under the tree, not even gifts.

Drifting pt 2.

All the water is gone,

a stiff wind uppercuts the stubble on his face,

a endless horizon running every way,

each time seeking shelter under 

a tree as thin as a skeleton, it's bones

cackle with the tepid air.

He heard of an oasis for those lost souls,

a place that quenches the tongue,

a place where it's safe to rest,

a place to settle till eternity,

judging by his legs he's been searching countless years

with not a sign,

It would be easier to stop and turn back,

or sink into the cemetery at his feet,

kneeling, his knuckles 

dig graves in the sand,

he decides to wait till his limbs come back alive.

Drifting pt. 1

Floating effortlessly in a skiff hoping I don’t drown.

I catch my reflection and wait for it to ripple away.

Icy to the touch, but if you let your hand stay submerged it’ll feel right.

I lift my fingers before the bite,

the fish here are not who I seek.

Tracks

Pulse pulling at the ears each new tune swooning silently through dreams upstream a skiff that wobbles and sways with the wind while sounds stick and guard my heart my head falls into every old scene gleaming globes of yesterday's first hug and kiss miss those moments when they play at random yet each time they are still there care for old thoughts cause they're brittle and tend to break like a crumbling sand castle spread across this deserted beach is a place for each but watch those surges those heavy waves so they don't devour the foundations you'll need them when you're alone

Picking Flowers

Picking Flowers

1. 

A violet rose may rise from rubble,

leathery petals poking gingerly upwards with a slight swoop,

ripe stem, stingy about rattling wind, 

barely peeking above the taller grains,

stealing all the sun will give,

just starting to spread into its true form.

2.

I've collected daffodils, jasmine, sunflowers, and all.

Tucked into my jeans, leaning elegantly waving 

to those weary wanderers passing by.  I can't decide

which smells the best, keep asking each particular nose

to choose the fragrant champion so I can finally rest.  No

way to distinguish from them and along the mountain sides

I still attract fancier foliage that tug at my eyes and flair 

my nostrils.  Is scent a curse, a bane?  

I can't decide.

3.

There once was a ghost lily that fell in love

but it couldn't be seen.

How many times he passed by her without perceiving

her fluttering petite palms calling.

If only I could sing, she thought, then he'd

surely saunter over to my mellifluous sound.

In her dreams, he whispers about a smile that

seizes all motion, that resembles the sun.

I know love only through sight, she nods,

and in his sight I see.

Never failing to dance with his exact steps,

the ghost lily lounges in his comforting shadow,

waiting for the moment he'll finally turn around.

I am the Ship

I'm the vessel that'll sniff out the wharf's of old,
they call me bold for bounding seas,
they whispers rumors of my unstable ease,
what's a life without vanishing into the falling pink fold,

Ululating tides spray brisk bounties of water on board,
squabs with new wings spread gloriously painting the blue canvas above,
a mast torn by zephyrs harshly bashing me forward,
gripping the banister awaiting the fading light to recede toward the underworld,

I'm skipping across these emollient waters staring at a tenebrous space
spreading like green wildfire dancing along tangentially, a lace across its face
fleering at my peripatetic soul tattooed along my heart with two soft sails,
I can't fail sidling through the fugue until I've docked on an abundant land,
not counting sheep instead counting stars and collecting them and creating tales
of those lost times between alleys where I heard those vivacious jazz bands.

I am the ship that seeks a shimmer solace,
innately bound to move toward places south of the sun.

Neverfull

There are still things out there I haven’t seen—

a mere tadpole blindly clinging to the base of the pond.

I reach for every star in the inkwell but none are close enough—

even on toes tickling the edge you’ll never reach that boundless ceiling.

I heard them call that warm violet glow love but it appears rarely and never stays—

you’ve only had a slightly quenching drop but there's still endless waves to wander.