For Christ's Sake

Painting by Marc Chagall

For Christ’s Sake

The wind whispers it wistfully
to empty pueblos, to the shadow tribe,
from tundra to timberline, forming
the words in ice crystal and lichen--
billboards herald it on buses
and on the side of buildings,
on iphones, ipods, and kindles;
force feeding us counterfeit cheer
and carols from venues untolled,
bombarding every orifice
with electronic compositions,
bright tinsel, plastic wreathes,
and Obama chia-pets--
the unemployed engineer mumbles it
to his landlord, the store managers,
his doctors, the pharmacist and mechanic,
and his children who know much too soon
that there is no Santa Claus--
to the career criminals who will be set free
during the holidays because we can no
longer afford to incarcerate them--
to the mentally ill who find the doors
to the asylum locked, and their demons
run ahead of them through the throngs
of shoppers, commuters, and clogged traffic--
the administrator droned it
to his robotic staff
on a taped message, with the proviso
it only be shared during break time--
our sons and daughters in the military
mouth the words while
sitting in a ditch holding their severed limb
under one arm like a holiday ham,
staring at the severed head of the soldier
who had been standing behind them
a moment before bitching about missing
their skype call home that morning;
dry lips moving mechanically, the words
suddenly rushing out in a barely audible
hiss, then repeated three times
until the volume becomes wailing:
“For Christ’s sake, it’s Christmas-- rejoice.”

Glenn Buttkus December 2010

Listed as #44 over on Magpie Tales 45

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