A Letter on the Merits of Christmas
December 27, 2007
India, an Ode
January 9, 2008

Grafted, they line the skies with columnic Rome
And turn about to find the whole of modern America
Tilted at the face of a summer’s day.

Once there was a poet, who, being tired of his house
Spoke of what it meant to reside on earth, and nothing more.
He did not live, before, but on rotten wood and dreams.

It came about in the course of living on the outside
He was not welcome anywhere, and everywhere there cried
The handsome women clad in monuments of suburbia.

He was deeply pitied by the earnest and retired,
Whose lives had given up the vaunt of work.
There was no glory for them in the struggling street.

But this is America, he said, and walked his course
Over asphalt, the skin which splintered crown to crown.
When nighttimes came, he rested with the sewage.

For many dire spirits wander the corridors of hell,
He reasoned. And they are still alive, and they are walking.
So why not I, if I am human, equally as they?

He asked within his mind, but outloud in his wile:
Which is a man better for his earth:

He who roams in idleness the unforgiving roads,
Who comes by unknown means to spirits he may guide
And in gladness turn their way to gladness;

Or the carrions that rest protected by their walls
And incorrigible view the strangers on their roads
With pity and with tired angst?

I carry with me my belongings; I rest at times beneath a tree
But God will have me lost to worlds of hope
If I rest forever in a home American.

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