What art thou, Christmas?
Building up your legendary come-back year by year,
Always
on the last three months, In commercials so fancy,
through verbal anticipation, in decorated streets,
On joyful wrappings dazzling lights
glitters around me
What art thou, indeed?
a volcano day
jolly arrangements of lava, Las Vegas eruptions?
What have you been?
What have you been for them peoples?
What have you been for me?
You have
been something for my house, I must admit.
But nothing, nothing for my room!
You have done nothing, nothing for my soul,
You have done nil, nil for my health!
You have forgotten my children dying in wars.
What art thou, Christmas?
Would I hear about you in Shakespearean riddles?
In a Freudian myth?
Are you registered in the Jungian archetypes list?
25th December, I know, you have been that,
That has been you,
But for that date what have you done?
Have you enhanced it, made it merrier?
For some, yes. Even perhaps for many a western world,
With so many turkeys in distress.
You have enchanted it.
25th December, a dolly charcoal burning of my
thoughts.
But you have forgotten to shush the earth
the earthquakes have killed many
on this merry date
the hurricanes, this theatre natural of an alternative
absurd…
But I cannot forget.
No, no, nothing can make me forget.
25th December.
“Is your name Christos?”
I can’t forget.
They don’t let me forget.
“Wow! Today is your name day!”
they always say
And I should be so happy.
Christmas, the merry lolly dolly day tailored to my
being.
And what have you done for me, my soul, my mind,
my fucking plague inside my oversized shoes?
What have you done for my omni-ceased inspiration
during these days of fixed bliss?
Nothing, nothing for my ever-leaking perspiration over
wishes for my damned name
Christos
Christmas
chrisimon
chrisma
All Greek creeks creeping inside my red veins.
What art thou, Christmas?
Winter, shouldn’t my complexion whiten whither ado?
But like the shadow of a dead Jesus epitaph view
in a church yard
three months later just before Easter,
as I pass under it,
I am darker as I approach this weird Christos day,
My skin is darker
the lava - the charcoal – the decorations – the wish –
the wish is a curse – I know now!
I KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE BEEN!
Baptizing me
to the rituals of death,
Indeed, Christmas,
what have you done
for my birth
and what
for my
long-gone
mirth?