Christmas Eve

Twas' dark outside
Christmas eve
a tad bit chilly
but not cold
the neighbor to my right
built a fire in his front yard
and sat with family and friends talking quietly
with marshmallows on sticks
across the street
directly from me
my other neighbor
was having a garage party
motorcycle engines a glow
and to my left
were Christmas lights, lighted candy canes
a clear path for Santa
and I knew young kids were inside
asleep in there
beds . . . with eyes wide open.

In my house was a shallow stream of light
from a hallway
where promise had once drank youthful form a wine bottle
but promise passed out drunk many Christmases ago
and, in my front yard
a pillow of blackness
feathered out over the sand
decoration-less without dreams
a galvanized ghost of futures wrapped up in boxes of terrorized silence
waiting to unravel themselves

it made me nervous
mistletoe on the refrigerator door
I toyed with the idea of making out with myself

it felt good that people were outside
and that they were alright with one another
it felt good to think that
just for a moment
sometimes moments are all
we got.

Santa on his sleigh
rattlesnakes skinned and drowned in ketchup
a small vile of powder
lucha libre mask
ornaments of white on a tree of green
star a top
a missile over Moscow,

It's Christmas again.

Rain Thursday, Rain! As Dogs Sweat in Blankets of Napalm

It was raining
in Joshua Tree
on a Thursday night
I ran up the steep driveway incline
to the mail box
wearing a Hoodie
with a black leather suit coat over top
all the while remembering that
last Sunday my neighbor across the street
had told me he had carcinomas in both lungs
and some cancer on his brain
the docs gave him 6-8 months
a year with procedures
I said, "if there is anything you need just ask."
and he said nonchalantly, "Ah, fuck it. Let the wolves come."
I stood there dripping without movement
recalling last Sunday
when the sun was out and the news was bad
then, in sudden re-flux of memory, I realized
I was standing in the dark, in the rain
so I hastened to open the mailbox
suddenly remembering that he had built it for me
when I first moved in
six or seven years ago
peering inside for letters
the ice cold rain marching like a slaughtered army on my shoulders
I felt them dry and protected
in the metal black womb
and I thought to my self
not a bad job on the mailbox
grabbed the gas bill and the back child support notice
closed the lid
shivered in wet release
ran back down the driveway
and went
inside.