The Glow of Tree Lights and the Prick of the Needles

"If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash"

Earlier tonight, we went last minute holiday shopping. It's such a weird feeling. Families and couples are out and about getting wrapping paper and stocking stuffers. We were running around getting Legos for a 3 year old and some house warming stuff for the 3 year old's adults.

But, deliciously, now:

It's late, but not too late.
I'm excited.
My home is warm, my guests are gone, the living room smells like fir and eucalyptus and there is a fire going next to me.
The presents are wrapped.
The house is silent.
I'm content and cozy and grateful.

The blend of holiday and bliss, reading and warmth, the annual meet ups of the family-less faggots in the gay bars and actually-open donut shops is what I look forward to most. Family, family, family jewels. There is a warmth in the connection of what we have seen growing up and in what we have seen in the world as it has changed back and forth. Every year on these nights the taunt and playful chant is the same for a thousand different reasons of both dark and light:

Boot the grime of this world in the crotch, dear
And don't go home tonight
Come out and find the one that you love and who loves you
The one that you love and who loves you


See you over the next two days and nights and we will show the world why Christmas is always better with warmth of heart and a Santa in assless chaps,

be well; be loved

k.
(bolded words: Lyrics from Shelia Take a Bow by The Smiths)
(image: Leonard Cohen quote)