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The stockings were hung by the chimney with care
In hopes that some fruit baskets wouldn’t land there,
Tearing a hole and then dropping clean through
Just to land on the floor in a pile of fruit goo—
Which would hardly provide us distraction enough
From the sight of old Santy Claus, there in the buff,
One mit on a bottle, one clutching a ham;
He’s gnawin’ and swiggin’ and trying to cram
All the silver and technoswag into his sack
While dispensing a view of his ample butt-crack.
There’s nothing like Christmas out here in the sticks
Where the easement’s disputed, the neighbors are hicks,
The basement’s no match for this climate-change rain,
And our blueberry-growing is sadly in vain.
But some holiday cheer is enough for today,
Word With Friends is a game that we all now can play
(Except Artie, because he still lacks a device),
And—wouldn’t you know?—Santy found us all nice.

How can there be only one way to know God?
One temple in which to worship
One path to walk
One place, even, to which we all go
After this --
Life!

If there is one thing God loves
It's diversity

Did God create one kind of
cavern
conifer
cactus
bog

Fashion one type of
feline
jellyfish
forest
deer

Form one sort of
orange
orchestra
orchid
gem

Contemplate one style of
seascape
saltiness
snowflake
reef

Imagine for a nanosecond
This God
Of diversity
Of quadzillions of stars planets microbes thoughts
Arranging one way
To know Me
Hear Me
Worship Me

Imagine that
Imagine that

A fools errand for sure

I'd rather lose myself
Contemplating a
Single coral reef
The colors in a changing sunset
The phosphorescence of a turbulent tide

Yes

That

It’s all about food, you see.
Here are the legs:

they take you to food and run you
away from being food for something else.

And the arms of course:

they gather up food, prepare it for use,
bring it to the mouth—

Pretty obvious, that one:
it’s all built around the mouth;
the whole design is based on a food tunnel—
in one end, out the other.

Oh, and it never stops being food, no!
Once it leaves you, it’s just food for something else.

The hands are a special case
because they not only handle food
directly, intimately, they also do other things
complex things, elegant and violent
and astounding things—

mostly related to the acquisition
and protection of food, of course.

The art-making? Yes, correct! It’s really about food:
isn’t art a form of worship? and what more profound
worship than that of Food, the Life-giver?

Ah! and here in the center, hidden
in darkness and wet mystery: the heart
moving the food throughout, sending it everywhere,
nothing left untouched, unnourished,
so no cell is guiltless, all must buy in,
all complicit in the quest.
Yes, heart—

incubator of motion, marshall of will,
drumbeat of the hunting party,
coxswain of this longboat,
metronome to the unending cause.
Lovely thing.

Well, I’m getting sentimental.
Here, take it. Go ahead, try it on—
give it a whirl, see how it feels;
I’m certain you’ll like it.
And remember this:
though it seems that way,
it’s not really all about food.

Why the hell do we ask why?
And what of it?
Aren't questions just a way
of gaming the old man?
A type of hubris?
And why so damn many questions?
Is that all there is... little brain monkeys
screaming in monkey delight
at all the wonderful words?
Exactly what is it that makes us ask why?
And how are why and what conjoined--
Since, being words, they are random vibrations
To which we attach meaning?
Do the questions stop?
Do the monkeys sleep?
And what about who?

Question for Ms. Stein:
If there is no there there,
Is there a here here?
That is the who for whom we wait
Inside this very moment
No past, no future, only the now
In which we wait
For what or whom we do not know