Holidays is a mixed bag. And I’m not talking about a fun mixed bag, like the kind with a bunch of different shapes of gummy critters or flavored nuts inside. I’m talking about the kind in which most of the bag is made up of razor blades and AIDS needles, with a couple of Sour Patch Kids tossed in for good measure.

Here’s a poem. It too is a mixed bag.



Love can be messy.
Blood pumps through the heart, you know.
Broken, it may spray.


Sibilant whispers
A forked tongue tickles the earlobe;
He slithers inside


Basket brimming with eggs
Disguised in vivid beauty
Death hiding inside


Pushed into the soil
Feasting as it spreads its roots
It grows inside her


Sweet daughter
I held you and let you go
You fell, but not far


Did Kevin Smith try?
I really don’t think he did.
So, neither did I.


‘Tis the season for
Giving in, for indulging
Both wants and desires


My slate’s been wiped clean
Sins swirl like blood down a drain
I begin anew