There’s absolutely nothing left to do.
Two thousand thirteen’s over. Done. Finis.
I’m satisfied, completely. How ’bout you?
Are you as satisfactorized as me?
Does your year’s score have chords left unresolved?
Plot threads unknotted? Crunchy bits unchewed?
Will you regret not being more involved
When looking back from ’14? Dude, you’re screwed.
It’s too late now. What’s done is done. Move on.
Regret’s a waste of energy. Let go.
Dress up the past like guests at Comic-Con
And act as if it’s someone you don’t know.
The future’s where it’s at! And now it’s here!
Don’t screw it up. Or, do. It’s just a year.
I’m going nowhere! Follow me!
I’m racing straight around this tree
And back again to plant my bones
Right here amongst the roots and stones.
Come with me, quick! We’re here! We’re there!
Don’t hurry: There’s no time to spare
But starting at the finish means
We skip the awkward in-betweens.
There’s Noplace–where I’d rather be–
But here with you’s okay with me
If you don’t mind my company
Beside you underneath this tree.
I’d like to learn to take it slow,
Enjoy the journey as I go,
But knowing that my destination’s
Home screws up my best vacations.
Hold my hand, we’ll fly together
Down here underneath the weather
Plunging toward infinity,
This stationary tree and we.
December 29th? Yeah, right.
You almost had me, there! I might
Have fallen for it if you’d said
November, but you went instead
For something so absurdly wrong
You can’t have hoped to fool me long.
December 29th? That’s cute.
It’s barely Thanksgiv–
I used to think donkeys were devils. They’re not.
I mean…what was the question? I guess I forgot.
Despite the mortal danger, there’s
A place for teaching grizzly bears
Humility. If that’s your calling,
Bear in mind that savage mauling
Often leads to loss of face,
So that’s a win in any case.
Awake, the voice is calling us:
“Weep, lament, fear, hesitate,
The Oratorio is done!”
Ich hätte viel Bekümmernis…
We slept right through? Oh, great. No, wait–
Coffee Cantata’s just begun!
Christmas morning tots
Not allowed to leave their rooms
Because of Jesus
Baking cookies till we’re weak and pale
Adorning doors with decorated shoes
Incinerating undelivered mail
Traditions are the chores we daren’t refuse
Cold or wet, or even better,
Cold and wet,
We hate the weather.
Carp, complain, inveigh in vain,
However, ’cause it ever was
As it shall ever be:
The rain will come.
I’m blaming Mr. Twain.
The spines on my forehead and nose stand up straight
When I’m startled, or frightened by something I ate
Or woke up in, but mostly you won’t know they’re there,
Like a worm in an apple or mice in a bear.
The reason I’m telling you this is in case
You seduce me and wind up with pricks on your face
From protrusions that sprang forth from north of my smile.
Embarrassing, yes, but it’s been a wee while.