I forgot how often you used to slip into the champagne room behind the visible spots in my irises. You would ask me to dance, and I would laugh because I had always been afraid of stepping on other people's toes. You taught me that a little pain is sometimes better than no feeling at all, and I took that to heart.

My chest has never ached more, ever since you planted that seed in the garden I had been saving for the past three thousand seventy seven days for someone I believed would come to me in the form of a prince in a gleaming pumpkin chariot. It was that afternoon eight years ago that I decided I would wait, whether it be in a tower covered in thorny vines or asleep and guarded by a dragon the size of Mars, for someone to save me from the fantasy created in my own mind. All that time relying on fairy tale love stories vanished in a moment of betrayal like an antique grandfather clock tumbling down flight after flight of stairs.

The sound was like that of a mistreated music box, like the one you gave me as a gift for our last day together, or at least one that was happy. I thought it childish then, but I suppose it was fitting from the way I regarded you unconditionally. I should have grown up faster, but you helped me through it quite effectively. I just wish you hadn't absconded from the scene with a stolen innocence you didn't deserve to have. I like to think you keep all of them, the naïvités, the wonders, the trusts you stole from girls, in glass jars lining the windowsills in your bedroom.

You never allowed me even a peek inside, after all. I always wondered what you kept in there. Sometimes I feared there was another girl, bound and gagged and rolled beneath the bed like a doll made of flesh and hair and bone that you could only take out and play with on certain occasions. Other times, I believed you were the tamer of great beasts, and housed illegal Bengal tigers and pronghorn deer in specially fabricated cages among your dresser and nightstand.

You did have a way with your words; I would know. Your voice wasn't quite poison, but tasted like peppermint schnapps on my lips and whiskey on my throat. I was afraid to taste when you first led me away from the bustle and noise of public life, but I soon became alcoholic and revered the high I was lifted into upon your smiles and the sight of your jawline silhouetted against the light of the rising sun filtered through thin white curtains on a cloudy day.

Coming down from it was a sudden and excruciating crash I haven't yet recovered from. I was left in a pile of ripped clothes and broken bones and organs that had burst with the pressure of the altitude I had just tumbled so unceremoniously from. Everything is a mess, both figuratively and literally.

I cannot take any time to clean any belongings. I dig through the growing pile of laundry in the middle of the floor sometimes, searching for any hint or whiff of you. The smell of mint and liquor, a nicotine stain from your chain of cigarettes, a rip in the hem if a shirt you liked a little too much: I would hold that bit of fabric, so irrelevant before your being entered it, with less than a memory and worship it until the smell faded, or the stain rubbed off, or the rip widened with my worrying and resembled less a bit of the scar on the edge of your thumb from when you cut yourself cooking dinner for the birthday and more like a rift in my lungs that leaves me wheezing at the slightest thought of you. An ache in my rib cage that won't go away gave away that little injury. I lost my breath in the folds of fabric a lot after you left. I'm afraid of washing any piece of clothing I wore in your presence for fear if washing any of you away.

I can't blame that compulsion on your lacking in my life, though, for I practiced this long before you even noticed me. A brush in passing, a shared glance in a crowded room, would force me to stuff that outfit out of sight in the back of my closet. I was still so afraid of your toxic smile, I would only allow myself even a quick peek at the clothes in the dead of night, when even my conscience was slumbering. Fear of insanity and of your reputation kept me safe for long enough, but I was already gone when you took initiative and approached me two hundred and sixteen days ago with a hidden offer of escape tucked behind your ear. You were exactly what I was looking for.

But now I realize I am not grateful for you saving me from myself. Although it was what I desired for longer than I have been logical, I've realized since that I have to save myself.

No longer do I keep ***** clothes on the floor. I need things to wear in my life, and I can no longer use that as an excuse to stay home mooning over a lack of even blurry pictures of you. I am no longer a lingering drunk, so I no longer stumble embarrassingly down the street as my old friends stare on sadly. I am independent and I always have been.

The only thing I can really thank you for is bringing me to realize that fact. I cannot even thank you for the adventures you took me on because you abandoned me in a trip to the atoll of islands you claimed had been your home in a past life. I had to fashion a raft out of bamboo and palm leaves and vines and reeds to escape, and on the journey home, I found a piece of myself I should have discovered long ago.

I'm starting to see that you hid it from me to keep me loyal. I can't say I hate you for that.

Bill Wilson sat down for his 10th
and 11th drinks tonight,
drowning out World War I
with shots of top shelf
bullets.
Pulling the trigger on his own body,
satiating the burning in his gut.
He almost forgot what a
sober night
tasted like.
This kind of alcoholism takes
patience, practice makes perfect.
Months of one drink as too many,
and one hundred as not enough.
Written off as a man destined to die,
Bill downed bottle after bottle,
leaving the shelves heaving for
company, wonder how he drank himself
solitude, empty?
Or was he full gut war,
bodies stacked to his brim,
leaking post-traumatic stress into
everything he touched.
Each ****** drink a reminder
of too many sober deaths he caused,
each granite countertop
the cold touch of tombstone, the silent
wish for his own, not sure when he started dying
but determined to make this pub
his own battle field. Metal of honor turned
Jack Daniel’s bottle top, wearing it noose
hoping it won’t slip off, needing to
cap his own demons.
This kind of alcoholism takes
steps, 12 to be exact.
Bill created AA for people just like him,
Each meeting pouring out
unquenchable thirst, trigger warning written
inside the door next to the exit sign.
Trigger warning: real life
Trigger warning: you’ll wish fire hydrants were taps.
Trigger warning: communion wine looks devils blood,
looks so good.
Trigger warning: the small girl who wrote this
is shaking from withdrawal right now.
The creases of her palms ache in absence,
in remembering what sobriety tastes like.
5 days sober and her mouth waters
at liquid death, her own southern comfort.
She is daydreaming of the three years
she spent intoxicated, sitting down for her
10th and 11th drinks of the night.
Her expertise in lower-spine life
has recovery seem dishonorable discharge
with no health benefits.
Seem loaded gun, cocked in mouth,
brain matter saying brain doesn’t matter,
saying swim in the trenches of this
World War between Russian *****
and German schnapps. Would take this
over the war in her own head.
This kind of alcoholism takes
patience, takes steps,
practice makes perfect.
Bill Wilson made AA for the nights
I would drive by the meetings on purpose,
trying to trick myself into entering.
Bill Wilson taught me that the need
for liquor is laying dormant in my bones,
a monster who i know is only sleeping,
waiting to make me eternal dirt nap.
And i am just
so god ****** exhausted.

"What are you doing here? You're not even old enough to know how bad life gets."

"Obviously, Doctor, you've never been a thirteen year-old girl." ~ The ****** Suicides*

The smell of teenage lipstick and sunbeams
Why are they different from us?
(it's so great they are different from us)
These memories of our youth,
transient,
will mean more than the permanent ones of adulthood.

The flash sparkle of amber in her eyes
high and low pressure air combined
my name on your *******
breaking smoke circles
the sound of vinyl stabbed
just listen to them,
the taste of peach schnapps.

"You don't have to talk to me."
terrible sources of information
"We weren't talking if you know what I mean..."
And off they go to join the thirty-thousand plus

hair dashing vision deploy sud featherless\
motion in active taste bud slipped on eternal\
tip of my tongue whistle lunge internally\
**** drizzle dripped seating scampi intestine\
grip swung intensity hitting uvula grump\
the bedroom slippers pajama snap running\
throat hiccups stuck doll sitting smudge crap\
pat tack in scratch mouth I due alley loop mucus\
packing trunk wood you irritate stove chappy baker\
hunk the lock spinning the sling cling on schnapps\
surviving by the beer Craving Peace of ear confession minding\
the sake of better judgement intrigue maleficent impression\
spite traditional contraceptive contradict hypocritical Kitab rewrite\
Ktab inducting paschen arrange friction pronounce tissue adjudicated\
hit or miss mission issue clevis tension ******* metabolism buoyant crevice\
sullied virginity abolishing hip ripping meat window damp moist cherry\
fur confined steed Structurally Mounting **** transcoding soil instrumenting\
matrimony ring band regent gown slapping *** crack Larry the Cable Guy wed\

Din Din Baby Fat Naming like/
be Naming Baby Shat Chat/
bei spin nozzle creek up/
drift bottleneck swifty/
dream line bleachers/
above the body top/
under tummy tuck/
wackbush stroke/
c ******* broad/

Harvey Wallbangers In Times Square was
her teaser, a Mai-Tai bang in Taipan, once
or twice her kisses so, sweet he trembled;
as she let him taste her Irish Coffee making
his Rob Roy so, **** hot and bobbing.

It sprang forth with a twang for her Firewater;
engorging the Latted Espresso between her thighs
as Egg Cream threathened to explode,
dipping into her lustful Brandy Alexander;
spillage between her Champagne Cocktail,
cheek to cheek.

She asked me if I wanted a sip of her Coffee Royale;
I said I wouldn't mind being coated in her behind's
libation, drowning ourselves in lust of a throbbing
nightcap; while I slap each cheek in rhythm in a state
of osmosis.

Drinking from her Schnapps; my mind sailed the
sevens seas of her lubricious ocean; riding her Schooner
as waves pushed me within her lagoon with each motion,
slinging Deep Shots; full of emotion, moaning baby! your
Snifter is so, **** wet; swilling your Dom Perignon
and me, just before morn, intoxicated in your elixir
of life; smiling a lopsided smile still tasting your
luscious liquor.

So, we staggered back to bed; laid bulbed
head in inviting peninsula on the shore of
Demon *** Isle and some more I smiled,
absorbing in slurps her coveted Olive Martini,
lapping like a newborn kitten smitten with her
Mint Julep's robust lips; while Lime Rickey
dipped his straw in ebbing shores; sipping
as we eagerly explored, clawing my back.

I in gentlemanly fashion opened all her doors,
as she infiltrated me in every light; mouth
covered in Hot Buttered ***, tasting from
Highballs to every Gimlet of body with skilled
tongue of a bartending artist.

Tasting salt rimmed glasses with hungry tongue
lashes in places so, naughty I flicked out Mickey
Finn; nibbled her in bites of delight front to end,
such a naughty appetite we fed; breathing in heat
like Green Dragon's brew, going down south of
Manhattan's lower eastside; drinking up her **** hide.

She said baby! it's time to ride; Igniting each of her
rooms with Bullshot Cocktails in flaming explosions;
I couldn't get enough being drenched within libations
of her ***** ocean.

Drowning in waves of ardent spirits like a bolt of lightning
poured through us from head to toe we flowed in slow mo';
sweet bon apetits of ecstasy complete, swallowed nice and
neat; spent, bathed in Brandy Smash of a contented bash,
inebriated in slumbered splashes.

wasted in her folded sashes...

I like drinking, I really do.
I know that it worries you.

My grandfather is an alcoholic,
and so is my father.
I'm not one,
but every girl is a little bit like her father.
For me, it's a little more than a bit.

He's a quiet man, absent, tortured.
He likes red wine, Crown on the rocks,
and making people laugh.
He hates his job
and himself.
I would say that these things aren't true for me,
but then I'd be lying.

My father and I
order the same things at restaurants,
laugh at each other's jokes,
and like Hemingway more than most.

I'll drink anything,
just like my father.
Whiskey, *****, beer, schnapps,
well, anything besides tequila...
Christmas break two years ago was a rough time.

I really wish you wouldn't worry about my drinking.
You see, people don't usually worry about me.
I was raised by a single mother
who didn't even have time to make dinner,
much less worry about me,
the middle child.
My father wasn't usually around,
but I guess our similarities are genetic.

I guess I'm kind of scared
that you care so much
because then I actually have someone
to impress,
someone to make proud.

To make my father proud
is to like the same kind of beer as him.

I haven't quite figured out, yet, how to make you proud.

You’re a puzzle
Thousands of missing pieces
When I reach to hold you
I touch the missing spaces

You’re going nowhere
Awfully fast
Pedal to the metal
Hope this high will last

“Do you see me?”
Your mother snaps.
Can’t hear.  Ears
overflowing with schnapps

Addiction coded in genes.
Father to son it passes
The pattern continues
Passed along in ***** glasses

Let’s go, you and I.
And sweat beneath the African sky
Watch the lions lazing
And the wild dogs playing.  
We can sip Amarula
And listen to the hyenas laugh and cry
As the mythical sunset
Silhouettes giraffes and Acacia trees.

Let’s go, you and I
And walk the streets of old town Barcelona.
Find old timey cafe and luxuriate
In sangria and itty bitty tapas
Stroll by Sagrada and gawp
At Gaudi’s home.
Maybe we’ll stop for some ice cream
Maybe we’ll just go back to the hotel

Let’s go, you and I
And swim the blue blue seas of the Bahamas
Nervously Play with the nurse sharks
Hoping they’re not the other sharks
Take those long walks on those beaches
That everyone likes.
We’ll sit on Jankanoo and drink sky juice
Until we can truly reach the heavens

Let’s go, you and I
And ski the Slopes of the Swiss alps
We can stop at small cabins and drink
heartwarming schnapps
Take trains that slink around mountains
And sprint through white capped forests
We can put snow down the backs
Of each others jackets and
Squeal in furious delight.

Let’s go, you and I.
And squish our way through the streets of New York
Relieved when we can pop into a shop
To escape the crowds.
Necks sore from looking up
Small town people in the Big Apple City
Central Park for pretzels and Snapple
Times Square later, neon addiction sated.
And a boat ride to see lady liberty

Let’s go, you and I
And bare our feet in Balinese temples
Speak to the monks in broken English
And then retire to our curtained gazebo
To indulge in the sins they can’t
We’ll get massages and champagne
Then ride our bikes along pothole
Ridden dirt roads.

Let’s go, you and I
And get Nuevo Chic in London’s west end
We can catch a show in tux and evening gown
Then head to the pub and catch a pint
We can walk the trail, hunt Jack the Ripper
And visit The Tower.
Cross the Thames and maybe
No definitely
Another pint in some quaint little place.

Let’s go, you and I
And lie in bed late on lazy Sunday mornings
I’ll poach the eggs and make the hollandaise
You can put some upbeat daytime jazz on
Then we can go sit in the garden
Under the oak tree and read
Each other poetry
Until it’s much much later
...

This pub.  This chair.
BUT-- by this time, that year,
you were driving me to the airport--
Like you were sending me off to war--
Like you doubted whether I would actually come home this time.

That was the first time you lost me.

The second was after a few too many Peppermint Schnapps,
and I walked you downtown,
through each stage of rejection,
smiling.

The third and fourth are no short story,
mostly for all the time between them,
but also because there are parts of me you'll never get back.

Dark lights, locked doors.
Today the pub is closed.
Sorry.  That's the way it has to be.

severed , fish on the block
head I sit
ripe as a two year old egg
shelled
bitter as vinegar mixed with jack
Black stirred into a margarita and two shots of
house bourbon a beeker  of *** two
fingers of peepermint schnapps
and a handi-wipe
for a napkin
moderating an argument between this big woman
and a bear of a man  
about the rules of pool
whether  ***** are big small which
both of them dripping ice from their nostrils wild *** eyed
trying to slip off the far edge of the stool and at least go ****
they have me surrounded
one in my left ear big girl in my right
any closer their teeth would take a bite
sneered she does good and he all 6 4 350 lbs of him
reeks of hard work and the drout
I see clouds overhead

clouds everywhere
a lot of spit
little rain

I

Behind his eyes of Laser Blue
I have a history as brief as titsi-flies

Behind a furrow or a dormant smile's bloom
I am indentured
by his manipulations,
                                lessened by his education
and I am supposedly the one he loves...?

So, there in the bear-hug of his lies
I am mute in delirium
copulation cranked to carnival speeds

Because he has power in the unspoken
as vaporous as white smoke
incantations & sorcery
                          fish hooks my love into my doom

I understand that gaze
I commit to its kaleidoscope
variegated faces
for every season and holiday
each hour etched is an emotion
pretend and pretense

Splayed

Muscle, toned,
limbs limned in liquids
arms of a giant squid
the transparent center:
a cluster of homosexuals suckling...

He is Captain Nemo, submariner
mad haired scientist,
testing each concoctions' mixed diversions
and perversions / replete to repeat
                               how we all un-burden ourselves
to him, patience
is an old man with an oil burner...

I am transfixed
a lobotomy experiment of chopsticks
and peppermint schnapps

who's time has misplaced it's tick.


II

I am aerodynamic...

Because the laws of attractions
commonalities not flesh on flesh
or polysyllabic meals of kisses
none are removed from him

He weaves his wizard's wand
fantasia music to magic  ***
to a whistle's whim,
while I chimp out puzzles complex
just to gain praise and admiration.

(As he vanishes to rendez vous
another grinder, another victim,
another name game)

For behind his hood
and hat of tormenting's tricks
I have glimpsed his true nature

like Midus whose touch once harsh straw,
rumpled in his still-skins
complete with fanatical flaws
I witness an aging ram
horned, silver haired satyr...

I am a deer in headlights
every time I am shocked by my own
naievette
like sheep to a herder
steering a flock,
a troop, a school, a ******

unguided paths that shape themselves
by the traffic of every foot.

I have grown blank
no mirth or self-contrition
this rat retreats into moist dark spaces
to converse with paranoid shadows...

Behind his eyes
even when he mistakes his conjuring
excuses tangled among false & fallacies
but stupidity is
the only spell he never casts
upon my helicopter spinning mind


III

He has transformed me not to a toad
with a swollen desire
to croak / a burp

but turned me
into a boomerang...

Flung high with speed
inaccurately to flee blind
uncertain as wind-shears in Chicago
but still returns to suffer

A beaten Benji,
and still an Ole' Yeller defender of truth
I remain

knicked, knocked, chipped
licked - not yet
but seemingly to his soul's spotlight
dead.

Thrown out
to welcoming skies so blue

still there's an anger behind his eyes
I understand / it will be the end of me

I am unable to discern
our story - where dying heroes lay
when they realize
tragedies end unluckily...

But a boomerang
knows not reasoning to leave
and be victim
to its own nature's treason,
it does not question why
nor weep helplessly

yet it also does not sing
celebrating when in its master's hand
yet comes home
unhappily half alive
I suffer like the boomerang
still my own company
without
compass or wayward destination
give in to it's predestined
abilities
in high flight always returning,

whistles to the joy of living

you see, a yo-yo can not fly

I have become acquainted with heaven's sky
kingdom of light
familiar to it's shine
delight in my unforeseen
demise

(my magic kiss kiss
imagination bang bang!)*

I am a divine toy of life,

be it

a boomerang.

This parachute is crushing my ribs so that
my knees buckle when I land.

I feel sick.
I ***** up post-its and
menthol cigarettes
and pages of a movie script.

Inside jokes drip off my chin
when my eyes
roll back inside my head.

There's too much sweat
on my upper lip out,
out without warning doubled over
come collaborated lyrics that ****
sticking to quotes from books that speak to us.

I put a message in a full bottle of
gingerbread schnapps
so you won't know what it says
when you get drunk
and this parachute won't come off.

dearly beloved i've gathered you here today
to remind you of the smell of your father
the warm feeling you got when he held your hands
love feels that way
like home

darlings i search for a man like my father
the same age
who felt the same way looking down on me with love
the same smell, the same warmth when he holds my hands
i search for a man who feels like home

All i want is a man on prom night who
will give me enough love to write his name on my *******
a man who will give me enough dignity to drink schnapps and not feel ashamed

Met her up in the club
Drinking her pineapple schnapps
I took a chance,
asked her for a dance, she said yes
So I said take my hand
from the moment we met
I just knew we would connect
Felt the sparks fly 
between you and I
She gives me that electrical feel
Shocked to the heart 
The blood rush starts 
One taste of her strawberry kiss
From her red cherry coloured lips
To the sweet caress from her fingertips 
It had me feeling like this,

I love every little thing about you
I love every little thing that you do
(You know it)
I want your loving
Yeah baby it's true (You know it)
I can't get you off of my mind girl
(You know it, you know it)

Come and get on it
I want it (You know that I do)
Your bubble gum tongue
Your passion, your love
The connection we feel (So surreal)
Come on get on
We want it, I see that you do
(I know your feeling it to) Girl

It's the way that we sweat
In the passion, in ***
Out of breath
By the end
Fall asleep in your bed
Her head on my chest
You know that feeling
It's the best,

I love every little thing about you
I love every little thing that you do
(You know it)
I want your loving
Yeah baby it's true (You know it)
I can't get you off of my mind girl
(You know it, you know it)

Come and get on it
I want it (You know that I do)
Your bubble gum tongue
Your passion, your love
The connection we feel (So surreal)
Come on get on it
We want it, I see that you do
(I know your feeling it to) Girl

She likes it when,
I run my fingers through her hair
I see your feeling the attraction we share
Yeah we both feel it there
I can feel your body heat on mine
Yeah you know that's something I like
You know you got the look girl
You know you got me hooked girl
You know we got it good girl
Couldn't have made it any better
If I threw a wishing stone
Into a wishing well
She knows we got it good and,

I love every little thing about you
I love every little thing that you do
(You know it)
I want your loving
Yeah baby it's true (You know it)
I can't get you off of my mind girl
(You know it, you know it)

Come and get on it
I want it (You know that I do)
Your bubble gum tongue
Your passion, your love
The connection we feel (So surreal)
Come on get on it
We want it, I see that you do
(I know your feeling it to) Girl

©2019 Written By Benji James

Wail
Whine
And flail

Regale us with your colorful photographic memory
But use discretion, there are children here

We had Schnapps in a spray bottle
At the time I had the most unsightly uni-brow
And they asked us all to define the term "tongue-in-cheek"
We laughed and said, "Never go *** to mouth!"
We got suspended

We decided to pull out the heavy artillery
And painted a giant **** on the side of the school
We needed an auxiliary artist
So we hired an abstract
He spray painted "Get up and go, lay down and die"
Right on the main entrance, so incredibly serupticiously
And in such an irregular manner, as if he put every ounce of his disdain towards that institution of  lower learning in every movement
Like Van Gogh in real life live action

The next morning, hot off the press was our act of vandalism
We foiled the plans of the faculty to have a nice school day
They acted perfectly, like it was scripted
Angry, horrified and ashamed

The sound of us patting ourselves on the back was incomparable to anything we've ever felt
Even my incontinent grandmother laughed

But soon all the movers and shakers at city hall demanded the ones guilty were found
They rechecked the security footage again and again
They went through student records
It all lead to us
They picked me up while I lied drunk on top of scraps of nonsensical
writings
I resisted arrest and became a victim of police brutality
Knight sticks slammed into my chest
Tips of pointed boots driven into my stomach
And demeaning verbal abuse to my person

The aftermath was all of us serving six months in juvy
Surrounded by incompetent correction officers
And just waiting for our boys to spring us
If I had a chance to do it all over, I'd do it all again

There is a spot on the banks of the Ohio River
where rising and falling water levels
have birthed a tree,
100 years ancient,
Whose roots burst forth
To create a cage of wood
And whatever debris it happens to net up.


There is a safe there too,
Half buried by dirt and sand,
And the rotting remains of a dock sunk long ago
laying just below the water's surface,
It's broken post still sticking out a few inches...


A forgotten ferry ramp crumbles to pebbles
just 10 yards upstream.
The concrete foundation of it's pay station
Juts out as a peninsula
when the river drops below 25 feet deep.


The City hides around the bend,
with towers that sometimes peek over the horizon,
and an ever present night-time glow
that never lets this place go absolutely dark.
There are just a handful of stars here,
Ten or 20.
Only the best and brightest,
Receding with time
To the perpetually growing presence
of fluorescent outdoor lighting.


This is a place of ages.
Of 5 year old forbidden mystery
and 8 year old epic adventures
among the apocalyptic rubble of whole city blocks,
Torn down to make way for the levee,
I've know for all my life.


This is a place of 10 year old games with childhood pals
And 15 year old parties-in-secret.
A case of double-deuces and a bottle of schnapps,
and all the other regular tools of teenage rebellion.
It's a place of countless caught catfish
during early morning hours,
When the boat traffic dies down save for giant river barges,
working their way through the locks and dams
that keep the water deep enough for commercial navigation.


My grandfather knew the white-sand beaches here
That once stretched for two solid miles,
And hosted vacationing mid-westerners
and the rebirth of Sun Worship.
His adopted father knew it even better,
working the steamers that made this place civilized.
My own father swam in these waters,
even claims he once swam all the way across and back
and I never call him on it,
though I know this place too well to believe it.


I know this place very well, to say the least.
I've been here more than often,
going way back to when the riverside road ended in a circular turnabout,
where a mostly dead old oak
held a 30 foot long steel cable,
that would swing you out over a hillside
made of broken brick and steel re-bar.
Back before the pumping station's overflow pipes were capped,
and you could echo your voice
through the outlets down by the river,
up to ears on the path along the floodwall.


I still go there,
though not as often as I once did.
It still holds wonder for me,
Magic and mystery...
It's never the same on two different days,
yet it never changes,
and when I think of home,
I think of this spot.

The name is Kringle
But so few know
When I'm working I use my other name
Where I almost glow in the dark
Such joy I spread
But I've never let it go to my head
I work year round except the the first two weeks of the New Year
I'm exhausted from the deliveries
Amazon, have no fear
But I'll keep it up, been doing it so long
Christmas would not be Christmas without me rolling along
I need to clear something up, that false story
I never kissed any mommy; got Mrs. Santa to satisfy me
To surprise me with presents on Christmas Day
After the reindeer are settled
We have schnapps and then we play.

trip up the island to see all the folk
monopoly, pong => pig 'n a poke
crystalline glass with dark bitter ale
Santa is looking a little bit pale

cherry red cheeks from a chilled chardonnay
one sailing wait for the talk of the day
drum sticks and dressing are the pick of the bird
chestnuts and brandy for gravy being stirred

brussels and taters are pulled from the bake
pears in the salad bring memories of Jake
sparks from the fire with rich amber glow
grey hair and wrinkles will come...don't you know?

gingerbread man with a white icing smile
candy cane schnapps (with its seasonal style!)
pine cones and tinsel that cover the tree
carols are humming from churches and streets

cold winter nights are the best of the year
chocolate and eggnog await with good cheer
a heavy thick fog approaches the sound
the comforts of Christmas, with joy all around!

They call me crazy: I guess it’s in my right. I’d say I parallel Plath and Dickinson in their poetic plight. It’s a part of life. It’s something I’ve always known. And this holiday season shows how my disdain has grown for lies; I even hate the Christmas lights. I’m a Grinch-like *****. I won’t pretend to love consumerism, plastered-smiles of family—I lose my sanity every night there’s a holiday party. I sneak multiple glasses of wine. I text my lovers while my parents laugh at boring stories my relatives share. I am the coal of children’s stockings. I am the hair in the drain of the virtuous people showering off Christmas cocktails.

I was raised to be scared. I was raised to believe magic. It was so ******* tragic when I found out Santa was a lie. I held him in such high regard, the accord that I’d get some kind of reward if I was always nice. These terms included rejecting all vice and feeling faith in the stillness that even mice couldn’t be heard. I wouldn’t ever share a word of any sadness or doubt and this shutting of my mouth would promise prizes. Santa was my savior, my lord. I had a hard time adjusting to the fact that he was a fraud, but even worse—my parents were. My mother was a Mary. I couldn’t see her having *** as a means to create me. She was the wholesome, proper etiquette of French perspective and Muslim heritage. Santa was a separate thing. Santa was my father’s way, his mechanisms and faults that taught us to be loyal kids. I prayed., I prayed. I prayed to a mystical man who’d promise me goodness and accept me for myself, only if I followed his guidelines. I could be rewarded later, later, and my dreams on Christmas Eve of this anticipation would keep me awake and wondering: “sleep, sleep” they said, so I’d lay my head on my pillow and think of marshmallows and wrappings and peppermint and cookies and milk. “Santa will love my favors,” I thought. “Just be a nice girl and he’ll provide all you want in exchange for your virtue and goodness. Toys and family are all you need to be happy.” I accepted this notion, along with wine and bread and didn’t question the thoughts in my head that asked for a better understanding.

I prayed. “Dear Santa, I want a pony,” all the little girls said. Who would know in reality how much I’d dread cleaning up **** and taking care of it like a child or sacred possession? I wanted something to ride, to love. “Don’t question Santa—he lives above in the North Pole. If you asked him he’s bring a whole bag of presents. His presence will bless you if you stay a good girl and twirl in nice dresses and count all your blessings.” I wondered about all children in the world. “Well how can he fly all around the world at night and serve everyone? How does Santa know who deserves any one certain present?” “It’s not a competition—just be a good girl and don’t worry your little head about the mechanics of Santa’s magic: get good grades in school and listen to the authoritative teacher who expects you to learns but scolds you for asking questions. Listen, but don’t be heard. Believe our word that Santa’s coming to make your life better. Just be a good girl.”

I remember stacking cookies on a plate and leaving milk. The last time I might’ve been nine and I felt such guilt for not having them fresh-baked but leaving Chips-Ahoy! I went to bed but my brother’s ploy to catch Santa in the act—to prove for a fact that he existed—persisted beyond my parents answers and later went to destroy my fantasies of merriment. They call me crazy, but I’m not the one who lies. I found out later that Santa was a disguise. From sitting on the lap of every man who wore a hat and went to pat my thigh after asking for a bicycle, I learned Christmas was a cruel cycle of lies. I thought beyond it and wondered why my parents would deny the fiction they instilled. Did God advocate this kind of ignorance towards a child? Three years before I found out about Santa I learned about life and knew about death and realized one day my parents would die. I cried every night. I wondered when it would happen and the thought that no particular circumstance could rob their life made me anxious inside.

“What’s beyond life?” I’d wonder, in my little girl way, and my parents would reassure me to chase those thoughts away with Barbies and rainbows and sunshine. “Everyone has their time. There’s very little chance I’ll die tomorrow.” Tomorrow would pass and they’d still be alive but I’d ask about the day after and they’d chide me without providing answers. “How did Mary give birth?” asked the thirteen-year old me. I knew enough about biology to wonder how Santa and Jesus combined to make “merry”—a holiday of lies.

Adults despised my young eager mind and talked about a bible, a fairy-tale of St. Nicolas who once did this thing where he delivered socks to houses. I was wrong for my investigations and grown-ups had no hesitations in telling me so. “I don’t know,” they’d say, but just have faith and all will be okay. I knew about the Santa hoax so I figured Allah and God were also a joke I was too young to understand. Christian neighbors would reprimand my efforts and tell me about hell—saying they would show me the way and take me away if I went to church with them on Sundays. They were so nice and so threatening. “(Your Muslim friend is crazy but we can sway her back to normalcy). Would you like to try some bacon?”

Maybe I was crazy. I fetishized naught and nice later in life and I preferred the role of naughty. I thought if someone taught me a lesson I could get some answers in exchange for being bad. All I came up with was touching in the private parts with a warning “keep your mouth shut unless you want to be put up for adoption.” My mother was away. “Be grateful for your step-dad—that dead-beat Franklin isn’t the one filling your stockings.” I couldn’t endure talking because my silence was the exchange for “stuff”. Merry Christmas indeed—when mom was away we celebrate with shots of peppermint schnapps. “Do you remember those days?” I’d ask my siblings. “No-but I don’t really want to.” I wanted to ask “Does it haunt you in the same way?”

Mother was away. My siblings were estranged. I had no one to talk to so I used my own gift to make new friends. “Cute,” they’d call me, right as I was hitting puberty. “I thought you were older—when’s your birthday?” “Several weeks before the holiday,” I’d say. I’d find a boy with a nice sitting-lap and I’d talk about all the crap I couldn’t share otherwise. They’d sometimes stroke my thighs while they pretended to listen. I’d look in their eyes and see irises glisten but I didn’t know what I thought was trust was the human condition—a sin called lust. I wanted someone nice to provide me with goodness, but in my heart I knew that naughtiness earned the ultimate prize. I grew to despise the accustomed way men would lie and top of me and sweat out their secrets while robbing my thighs. I went with it anyway. You deal with this kind of celebration during the holiday and you don’t think twice about the lies—just do your best to be nice. I was nice in so many ways. They called me crazy.

Met her up in the club
Drinking her pineapple schnapps
I took a chance,
asked her for a dance, she said yes
So I said take my hand

from the moment we met

I just knew we would connect

Felt the sparks fly

between you and I

She gives me that electrical feel

Shocked to the heart 

The blood rush starts

One taste of her strawberry kiss

From her red cherry coloured lips

To the sweet caress from her fingertips 

It had me feeling like this.

I love every little thing about you
I love every little thing that you do
(You know it)
I want your loving
Yeah, baby, it's true (You know it)
I can't get you off of my mind girl
(You know it, you know it)

Come and get on it
I want it (You know that I do)
Your bubble gum tongue
Your passion, your love
The connection we feel (So surreal)
Come on get on it.
We want it, I see that you do
(I know you're feeling it too) Girl

It's the way that we sweat
In the passion, in ***
Out of breath
By the end
Fall asleep in your bed
Her head on my chest
You know that feeling
It's the best,

I love every little thing about you
I love every little thing that you do
(You know it)
I want your loving
Yeah, baby, it's true (You know it)
I can't get you off of my mind girl
(You know it, you know it)

Come and get on it
I want it (You know that I do)
Your bubble gum tongue
Your passion, your love
The connection we feel (So surreal)
Come on get on it.
We want it, I see that you do
(I know you're feeling it too) Girl

She likes it when,
I run my fingers through her hair
I see your feeling the attraction we share
Yeah we both feel it there
I can feel your body heat on mine
Yeah you know that's something I like
You know you got the look girl
You know you got me, hooked girl
You know we got it, good girl
Couldn't have made it any better
If I threw a wishing stone
Into a wishing well
She knows we got it good and,

I love every little thing about you
I love every little thing that you do
(You know it)
I want your loving
Yeah, baby, it's true (You know it)
I can't get you off of my mind girl
(You know it, you know it)

Come and get on it
I want it (You know that I do)
Your bubble gum tongue
Your passion, your love
The connection we feel (So surreal)
Come on get on it.
We want it, I see that you do
(I know you're feeling it too) Girl

©2017 Written By Benji James