Oh, ho-ho, what’s that, poet, you hate Christmas? It’s capitalism
with the heart of cannibalism as Coca-Cola Santa blows
sharp frozen snot rockets over sleeping Afghan children?
You want to slap the smile off Walmart’s mascot because
you survived the Black Friday plague but carry disease:
a Claymation childhood and a craving for hot cocoa.
You’ll use Red Rider to assassinate neighbor’s ornaments,
shooting down stars and couples in accidental mistletoe moments?
You’ll survive the Yule times, you’ll see, not by a king’s birth,
Ho-ho-ho! No! But by one good Christmas blockbuster.
Muppets and Griswalds can bring cleansing artificial snow.
Even Grinches and Scrooges are due for a 38th
no matter if the North Pole is run on slave labor,
no matter how many buy bravery by daring to want or desire.
All art is pursued bliss, and some will hate this, but all I wish
is for all poets to have a Mad Merry Christmas.