Twinkling lights
hanging on storefront
windows built
upon industrially
cement. Smell
the aroma of a
half dozen
nearby catering
to the needs of
broken families
and other empty
lives: People
hoping busboys
dropping dishes
and waitresses
asking if the
food is okay will
fill the spaces of loud
nothings within their

Who can see
the twinkling lights
in the heavens? The
Western world
lost sight of them
when Edison
plugged in his
light bulb and the
Wrights flew their
plane and Sputnik
sputtered and a
nation lost in humanism
uses the heavens
as a means to deify Darwin.

Late December
reeks of impersonal
Catholics shouting
praise to Jesus
instead of whispering
prayers to Mary; the
whole of Christianity
finds contentment
within a blanket
of fragile tranquility
and unity. But
snow still falls and
December still burns
cold and on the morrow
Luther and Calvin will
continue their devilish
spurning of an
(in)fallible Pope
from their graves.

Post modernity
in late December
reeks of impersonal
relationships like the
homeless man begging
for anything charitable
down in New York
City’s subway labyrinth.

Originally written
12 December 2006


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