WAXING PATHETIC

Today, in celebration and anouncement of my new poetry blog, Vowel Movements, I will leave your addled minds with a piece of holiday anticheer.

For those who don't know, I've been carrying on in private with this endeavor for about a week or so. I wanted to see what sort of traffic word-of-mouth alone brought. Alas, the word "alone" would come into play more than once that week.

The point of it all is this, really: over time, THE AMEN CORNER has evolved. It has a following, however miniscule, who have come to expect a certain sort of beast each week. Whether it be a gonzo-style alliterative memoir, piece of obscene fiction, or a hyperlink-ridden satirical rant, most of what I do here makes people laugh or twitch. As great as this is, it also means that I must keep upping the dose. As such, I have reached a point where I realize that I can never really be taken seriously here. No one comes here to read about my day, or my emotional damage. Nor should they. Rather, they come here to read words like "wigglepit," "cuntmuffin," and "meathammer."

Thus, I have branched out a bit. THE AMEN CORNER remains forever open, and obscene. Meanwhile, all the melodrama will be partitioned off, and swept into little Auchswitz piles on the other site. (Which, ironically, has a similar web address as a religious site I found out today).

In other words, you all now have TWO websites to bookmark/flag, and TWO buttons to affix to your sidebars. I'm sure you'll all be thrilled. (But then, I was sure everyone would love the Squid and Andrew series. Go figure.)

This week, I'm featuring a series of poems dealing with my forsaken religious background; it's been going for awhile, so scroll down to the bottom of the page when you begin. As for the corner? Nothing changes here. We'll go back to making the readers twitch bright Wednesday morning.

Caveat emptor, or is that empty?

***

JACK FROST

I'm feeling overshadowed...
It's holiday time again.
An ungodly cold's outside.
An ungodly cold's within.
There is no snow on the ground,
And no presents to be found--
But a presence all around.
Whatever tapped my window
Must have found it's own way in.

I will not sing any carols.
I've got a stocking full of coal.
The man in red is here;
It's not Santa...it wants my soul.
It's humming "Carol Of The Bells."
It's not jolly, but laughs as well.
It likes that roasted chestnut smell.
By the chimney are dead sparrows.
"God's eye is on them," it consoles.

Something arrived for me today;
I don't mean in the mail.
It brushed past my shoulder.
It flew. It soared. It sailed.
That's not Frosty waiting for me outside.
That's not Rudolph, but it glows just as bright.
It's not St. Nick, though it offers gifts at night...
It did not come here on a sleigh,
But like Jack Frost, it's pale.


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(PS, Fuck Christmas).