(I wrote this years ago, and it represents what my poetry style has turned into. I almost said ‘evolved into’ but even I don’t take myself seriously enough for that.)
I.
When we lived on Bolivar
every neighbor we had was crazy
just like now but less noisy.
One lady saw me putting up Christmas lights
in late November and asked how my
Thanksgiving was. I said fine.
How was yours, I asked.
It was embarassing, she said.
She told me that she was alone.
How was it embarassing if
you were alone, I asked, stringing
ribbon as tinsel from one metal pillar
to another.
Well, she said, my garbage disposal clogged,
and the maintenance man came,
and I had left out my vibrator and an
empty bottle of Southern Comfort by the sink.
I stepped down off the chair.
Is that where you normally keep them, I asked.
II.
When I was barely a teenager,
my brother was home from California.
We were decorating the tree and
my parents were hiding from each other by
checking lights or
balancing the checkbook.
I went to the kitchen for something to drink
and even though I didn’t like orange juice
I yelled into the living room at Jason.
Hey, I shouted. You drank all
the fucking orange juice. He was quiet.
Later, he told me was on acid.
That explained his side of the tree, all right.
III.
What is it about Christmas that makes
me not want to talk about politics.
No one I’ve ever loved has ever left
or died during Christmas.
Except maybe Richard Pryor. Kennedy
ruined Thanksgiving for me before I was even born.
Thanks a lot, guys. Now I’m one of those people.
IV.
My first Christmas back from Berklee
it was all bitter
drinks and hiding from the truth.
The truth is, my parents divorced.
The truth is, I had plans for Boston.
The truth is, I paid for my plane ticket home
by putting Icy Hot on my genitalia
thereby winning a $200 bet.