Here is a poetry submission I wrote for the college paper's December issue. It is a very existentialist type of writing. However, I don't hate Christmas. I just don't like all the commercialism and bogusness the superficials attach to it.

Reality on the Twenty-Fifth

Tonight, a yuletide

I would be contemplating in silence

The valances of ruby plush

And strings of cluttered disco bulbs

Hugging the polluted gutters

Of pretentious urban residences.

The socialite next door

In rhinestones and chiffon

Would freshen her molasses-spiced august kitchen

With bargain-counter perfume.

She would then proceed to scolding

Under-aged girls in sullied plaid uniforms

Pointing out to them

Their so-called imbecilic tendencies.

A matron with a stiff beehive

Supposedly sublime with her stitched-up face

Hurries to the door

Clicking her holiday pumps

Chasing the cathedral bells

Distant and melancholic.

Re-united with her Cupid

Under the moonlit mirror ball hall

Once again twenty two

And not alone.

Hidden away like soiled and forgotten teacups

In the cobwebbed corners of the cupboard

Are the alleys with no names

Crammed with the starved and the shunned.

The graffiti wall bearing piss and the writings of the anonymous

Becomes a repository of impossible wishes

Whispered and thought up

Together with the crisp sound of tearing paper gift-wraps

Enjoyed at two past twelve

In some white house somewhere.

Tomorrow, post yuletide

Silk bathroom robes would be soiled dirty

From left over hors d'oeuvres.

The ruby plush draperies would be overlooked

For the first time in twenty-four days.

The manufactured pine would be nothing then

But some cheap, decorated eyesore.

The presents would be stashed away in a basement broom closet.

The paper gift-wraps would be thrown away and burned.

"Jesus told me the desserts are coming."

~A Pentecostal church fanatic talking about the much-awaited desserts to her co-fanatics in a party she is hosting.

This is a true story. I was there, biting the cuticles off my right hand and holding my cup of four seasons on the other. Afterwards, after the prayers have begun and people started lurking all over the church floor, I sat on my little white monoblock chair, more insane and panicked than ever.

"I can't forget you; but I can't remember"