I remember fighting sleep, in youth,
thinking it surrender of the gravest sort—
Surrender to the same thing that people
who close down their businesses on holidays surrender to.
A real Christmas, mind you, is the busiest Christmas,
with yacking people everywhere
In red and sparkle—
Gold and twinkle.
At four walls,
Concealing mind-numbing boredom—
Waiting impatiently, if not frantically,
for the 26th to come—
The day after our Lord Jesus
slouched, as Yeats put it,
to mingle—to slum it—with those who are the fleshiest.
The day after, with its resurrected people rushing
To malls and sales,
Filling up all the highways
Cursing at the traffic and the fact
that people won’t stop fucking
And making future lane-hogging babies.
The industry of humanity,
Its bright shoes,
Its tight, yoga pants,
Sweet chaos and carnal dance
of flesh, clothed in sin skins
that we all imagine stripping off each other.
Fragmented conversations as we pass one another by
in our glorious, gorgeous little worlds
of hope and folly.
I confront the builders
with their brick and mud,
between the heart-shoring running,
this subroutine to that,
and my humble bedchamber.