Rome rose
among seven hills,
shone like pearls,
and burned,
like a witch.

The known world
fell dark for ages.
Priests and rats-
one in the same.

Art brought light,
minds brought invention,
rejuvenation!
the world taken across the sea.

Crow's eyes spot land,
natives felt steel,
trailed tears,
a new world.

But, what if Rome
never ceased rising?

Time,
that ***** *******,
will indeed one day
**** your mother.

Father Christmas came and slipped
through the cracks
of my poorly constructed home
so quickly
and quietly
that I hardly marked the date.

I suppose it's my fault
for spending so much time
listening to angsty
drums and guitars
scream my name
that I can no longer hear
his voice in the tear
of wrapping paper
and Mr. Crosby's tunes.

But I caught a glimpse,
between the blinking
of red and white
on my tree,
when my mother smiled
as I opened my new suede shoes.

He's out there, hiding,
that *******:
old man Christmas.
Hiding and trying
to make me change,
make me surrender
my joy to the jaded
state of adulthood.

I will not.

**** brown grass
covers my yard,
saddled
by dead gray skies
that **** rain
on my holiday.

Where is Christmas?
Will it come this year?

I fervently remember
swirls of snow
everywhere, a silent,
peaceful, white world
in which I could think.
There’s less now, each year.

My mother no longer bakes
those delicious peanut butter
cookies with the Hershey kiss
in the middle.

I can’t even remember
their smell,
nor the heat of the oven
to be my blanket
after I walk inside.

Is Christmas coming this year?

I don’t see the smiles
of holiday cheer,
just the grimace
of old men,
tired of buying presents
and putting up decorations.

Maybe it’s my eyes,
but I'm not sure Christmas
will come this year.

Just beyond the black iron fence
a haze settles on a parking lot
lit with the ghastly orange glow
of the old street lamps that
tower like rusted butlers.

I crack my window
and billow a gray cloud
that swirls amongst a
***** mist.

The butlers’ bulbs buzz mechanically.
The fog grows thicker.
Amidst it the parking meters
take shape of  metal tombstones,
pale in the darkness
beyond the glow.

I wonder how they died—
they beneath the tombstones.
This place—this city, have you—
boils to the brim with people,
with so many recipes for tragedy;
it’s no wonder they put tombstones
in parking lots.