Christian Haikus

If I meet you for the first time and tell you my Dad died when I was twelve, I’m trying to rob you.

Fermentation kills shit like me. Would this bottle of wine taste as good if he was still around? Who’s to say, but there’s definitely something romantic about sucking down a bottle of wine outside, meandering, whistling and taking swigs like I’m in some sad movie. I find drunken happiness can often turn a two-buck chuck into an elegant vintage. These old houses and their red and blue and yellow and green lights keep telling me so. They’re blinking it, morse code-ing it to me, that everyone’s sucking it down. I’m special though, the lights tell me, I’m sucking outside instead of inside. The world blushes at my daring advances.

“Get fucked up in here like the rest of us!” Is what they would yell at me.

“Fuck off!” I yell back, but I actually do yell this and I yell it loud. I scream and laugh my ass all the way down the clean streets of this clean suburb. “Fuck off, and a Merry Christmas to you!” I might add.

Here’s a haiku I just thought of:

caw caw caw caw caw,

caw caw caw caw caw caw caw,

I don’t understand.

It’s a conversation I just had with the crow on that telephone wire over there. It doesn’t mean anything. The best haikus usually don’t. Why are people so starved for meaning anyway? As if it's not meaningful enough that this crow’s on that wire and I’m on this street drinking red wine and yelling merry obscenities at elderly couples from behind their windows and that the crow and I are both too dumb to understand what the other’s going on about. 

And that every decision I’ve ever made and everything that crow has ever done and everything the linemen and the contractors and the road builders and the wine bottlers of this little town have ever done has all culminated into one magnificent, embarrassing moment, and that’s pretty special. That’s what Christmas is all about, the magic.

Here’s another one:

Fuck. That’s a bad word.

Shit. That’s another bad word.

You want to hear more?

But it’s all so fun. I like the way this makes me feel, I mean to say, and not just the alcohol, and not just the crow and I. It’s the feeling of having an excuse. I like that I have a “big-boy problem” to fall back on.

I’m a piece of shit, but my father died when he wasn’t supposed to, so it’s fine.

I am Christ, I am the Son of God.

I’m one lucky sonofagun if you think about it. 

Most people never get to do things like this. I get to piss on walls and eat from dumpsters and I get to lay down in the middle of a highway to see what roadkill feels like and I get to eat rats. I could do those things everyday if I wanted to. I think it’s sad that most people on this planet will die never knowing the taste of fire-roasted rat meat. 

They’ll look at people like me and think of something gross like vomit or cockroaches or parasitic insects. Or they think of something sad like stray dogs with matted fur that would actually look quite handsome if only someone just gave them a bath and a hot meal. but they never consider what we think of all this, of how much fun it may all be for us. 

For them, All of their fathers die when they’re supposed to and all of their mothers are perfectly sane, and they go to school and get jobs, fall in love and make babies, get fat, lose weight, put it on again and all that jazz. 

That’s the life. 

But that’s also not fair. That’s as good a way of living as any. It’s respectable. Besides, If there weren’t players in this game, it wouldn’t be nearly as fun not to play.

I’m not the only person on this planet with a sad story. No, not even the whole story, it's a sad sentence spoken quietly on page 16 before the damn 1200 page thing even gets going and I’m treating it like it’s happening every paragraph. 

I imagine that could be somewhat annoying to anyone reading.

And my Mother has every right to be as insane as she is. She played the game to a “T” and got a dead husband out of it. 

The game said “Thank you for playing, now scurry off”. 

She thought if she went to school and got a job, got married and had kids, got fat, lost weight, gained some back and all that jazz she’d feel like a winner. But she lost big time.

Being a loser gives you an opportunity to stop playing with yourself. Being a loser lets you fancy yourself an eclectic. 

I fancy myself a writer. 

I say I fancy because I’ve never written anything. Not on paper. I do all my writing up in the brain. Up in the mush. I’m lazy and don’t like using my fingers.

Here’s a section from my newest story:

Lillith drives six hours in her dinged-up sedan on December 22nd to visit her family for Christmas. She does this every year. 

Lillith’s brain likes making pictures. During the drive home, her brain makes eighteen separate pictures of her steering into oncoming traffic. Lillith does nothing to stop her brain. She’s gotten used to such violent pictures and finds a strange comfort in them. 

When brought to the attention of friends and family, Lillith’s brain had been deemed dangerous, defective, and in need of treatment. 

Why else would anyone find comfort in something so clearly harmful?

            I think I’ll end that story with Lillith being lobotomized.

I’d been walking through the night for some time. It started to rain a few minutes ago. I was in an old trainyard. This is where we all used to get off. It was pouring now and no one had gotten off here in years. I like getting poured on. You can drool and spill wine and nobody cares.   

Nobody really ever does, not in any way that doesn’t end in a lobotomy, but at least, in this rain, I can drool and spill wine and curse and be merry and be wild and no one will be out here to see or to hear me. When the rain stops I’ll still be doing it just as well, but in the rain I am unperturbed. A truer celebration never was had in this railyard on Christmas Eve night.

I am Christ, I am the Son of God. 

Here’s one more Haiku:

Super duper me

Big old triceratops shoes

Do you understand?