1220. STRAIGHT TO CHIRSTMAS HELL

STRAIGHT TO

CHRISTMAS HELL

Doctors treat the world as reality, a system of pumps

and internal levers, the stuff of ties and papers, the

assorted mess of innards and gush. I wish for a

moment we could talk - consciousness has a bearing,

it both wounds and heals, it carries the sublime to

ridiculous ends. Doctors portend an aggression but

they see nothing to lessen. 'Let the system run

itself out, and you'll die. We must interdict this

process, or at least try.' Well, I do suppose, as

interesting a concept as that has its merits.

-

It is Christmas now in every city I go. That rank

and portly overflow - garbage cans littered with

red and green mess, streetlights adorned with

candles and stars. Nothing makes sense. Those

with their wish lists and shopping bags pounce.

They expunge any grace from their booty;

yapping by hand on photos and phones -

phoneys indeed! I sense the end of everything!

-

There isn't a doctor alive who can say

I will live forever. All the rest, lest I

can find that one, they can all go

straight to Christmas Hell.