Oh God, Christmas

Orion's belt is tightening
and the men of earth gasp
at the frightening onset of winter.

The very stars themselves constrict
as we constipate in our anxiety.
Christmas be damned,

There isn't time.

Christmas. A short season of hope, poinsettias and pines. Why not rather oak? Or dried, gathered grasses? But pine have we, and plastic, and relatives in tight places, dried, bound in pews, watched over by the Christmas shepherd of souls. He would gather us into his arms with all the others if we would let him. But wayward sheep am I, leading my little flock astray, away from the one, away from Jerusalem, away from Rome, away from home, away to stay, alone. A religion of smiles, a showing of teeth, a hiding of hearts, unable to think, or breath, or pray. Church is the last place I want to be when I don't want to be anywhere with anyone, and Christmas Eve is worst. My back is deep into spasm on the oaken bench and all I want is a soft chair and a cold Christmas lager. The bells compete with the tumpets, the trumpets compete with the cantor, the cantor competes with the congregants, the congregants compete with the organ, and the organ crushes speech as it thunders from above the seats and drowns the mindless sheeping bleats and bares me to the bones.

"Merry Christmas," yes, but all I want for Christmas is to smash the fine Italian creche and set fire to the poinsettias. I stare longingly at Christ upon the cross, nails through feet and hands, and I feel his pain in chatter's dross that blares like marching bands as we reminisce with those we see all throughout the year. Why? Why today? Why here? Why now? Polka-dot dress, white Ostrich-feather hat-lady snaps me from thought as she leads us in prayer: "Lord, get us the hell out of here..." We miss the gift of Father's post-sabbatical homily as he confesses his middle-age doubts and anxieties because Dana is choking Blaise with his new Christmas tie and little Chase enters into a violent passion all his own, grimacing, squirming, begging to leave the pew, and for what? For his father in the cry-room with Carter? For poop? For his own kindergarten sabbatical? Oh, take me with you young man, I will follow where you lead, from the blessed gathering, here on Christmas Eve. I am dancing on the white-hot stage of heresy while God is stuck inside of me like old shrapnel that's lodged too close to my heart. It cannot be removed...

DATELINE: HARARE- 12/25/08- Maybe I'll just go sit in the slush and wait for hypothermia. I try to picture the church, the beautiful church, all riddled with bullets, her colorful panes laying in shards on the wrecked floor under a gaping hole in the roof where a bomb finally let the light in. The pews are all gone, ripped out for firewood, as is the altar, the heavy wooden doors, and the cross of Christ himself. In their place- a void, a tragic, unnecessary void, sprinkled with the scattered coughs of those crying out to the God of Zimbabwe as cholera ravages the faithful, awaiting a savior. Oily black clouds of burning lectern blow throw the sanctuary like shadows at dusk. It could happen. It did happen. It will happen