“Your mother would really like this Christmas Crap”
Overheard comment; spoken by a father to his toddler son at a yard sale.
Since I’ve been doing this site for over three years I now take the liberty of presenting retrospective work at year’s end. As now I offer ten somewhat disturbing views of Santa as seen from past posts.
(My apologies to Wallace Stevens and his far better poetic ways of looking at of blackbirds.)
Among twenty spring yard sales,
The only non selling –thing was the eye of the Santa.
He was of four sidse, like a box In which one could place useless things of the holidays.
The Santa shoots pool in the autumn winds. It was a small part of the assembled clutter.
I do not know which to prefer, the dimness of a basement or the beauty of bad craft, The disfigured Santa leering or just after.
O thin men of Virginia Highlands, Why do you attempt to sell triangular Santas? Do you not see how the Father Christmas cannot have three sides?
I know noble holiday accents and lucid, inescapable decor; But I know, too that the Santa does not carry a gun or kill bulls in a ring.
When the flat Santa was found in the attic, he marked a nautical edge, one of many circles.
At the sight of emaciated Santas bound with masking tape, offered in sacrifice in a bright light, even the bawds of euphony would cry out sharply.
The morning is moving to afternoon. The Santa must be left unsold.
It was seen in an ad in Craiglist that morning. It was on the porch. And it was going to rain. The pointy headed Santa sat on a card table.