prose

Bottoms up

Pretty certain I’m evil.

I enjoy my flaws

far too much…

in fact, I revel in them.

Someday

they will rise up

and pull me down.

Someday…

just not

this day.

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Old elf

So,

I’m holding onto Santa,

all 13 inches

of his animatronic self,

and I realize

i have no connection

with him….

When,

I implore,

did I stop believing?

(I

Do

Not

Know.)

Santa, in a way, is like religion:

Nobody believes, anymore…

But everyone functions

as though we do……

It may be a fallacy,

but,

does it function

for better,

or worse?

Merry Christmas.

Christmas, my boy.

I look at the face

of my six-year old son

and I’m overcome

by the saddest dichotomy…

I will not say

exactly what…

but the notion

that so much joy

and potential despair

lie within one tiny soul

drives me deep into melancholy;

safe passage,

I ask,

of the fates

when these thoughts mount

like so many thieves

looking to rob me

of my foundation.

I am not a productive soul,

but this beautiful boy

is my masterwork,

and i cannot contemplate

any path forward

wherein he does not

exceed me.

Daddy is not in

It’s a chore…

and I try to do my best,

(thank god I love him).

The reward is often

a glance

at a precious photo

or a moment when

he says my name….

It doesn’t matter…

It makes the day

priceless.

These kids can only throttle us

with the rope we’ve given them…

this crazy helix of promise

that only bears fruit

if we don’t kill them

first.