The Children At Christmas

The lights should be different, as they are.

The children are dead.

The Christmas Tree mocks me, speaking low and deeply of celebration that it knows I cannot

Do or Be.

What of the mothers who cannot be called out “Mom” by their children?

The absurdity of our legislation that protects rights over the slaughter of the innocent

Is beyond words.

It is the insanity of empire and civilization.

So kill the children.

Let them drown today in excrement and mud in the rains in Gaza.

So kill the children.

Let them be mowed down by Automatics in the schoolrooms.

So kill the children.

Let them be used as sex toys for executives who throw money around to try to feel important.

So kill the children.

Just kill them all.

Who needs them.

Do not think our celebrations done in spite of all the desecration are somehow

Redemptive or even Leveling. They are not.

They do not help us cope. They cast aspersions.

All this, this morning, because I had these sad dreams just before waking. Dreams of living in the day after some kind of loss of life and talking to staff the next day of how all were getting on.

I cannot imagine being President Zelenskyy flying around the world trying to recruit bombs and cash so his people might not be sliced to pieces again today.

I do not know this horror and sadness.

How could it be happening? My day calls for a pleasant visit to Nehrling Palm Cottage Gardens.

I did try to go Door to Door today for democracy and justice. I could have tried harder to find a companion.

Is that why I had this dream? Because I could have tried harder?

So now, the dead children are calling out to me.

Can you light a candle and pour me some coffee?

This Christmas is killing me.