Carin's Song: An Epic Poem

One of my favorite commenters was a bit gloomy earlier. With Ace checking out for the day, she was left adrift in a sea of ennui. (Damn..that rhyme is poppin'!)

Fortunately, as she was about to be overcome by a riptide of despair, rescue was only a blog post away! For Carin did what so few of you have the taste or refinement to do: she called out to me to be her personal lifeguard. Her flotation device? An epic poem.

And so, leaving my new-found lover Joanie eagerly awaiting the application of more suntan lotion to her alabaster back, I proceeded to, Baywatch-style, rescue my dear Carin. Only with words, and not those red floaty thingies.

So here you go, my dear Carin. May your poem bring you safely back to shore.

There's something about the way
Christmas comes
and
goes.

It's like a Hurricane of Love, really.
Boxes, once neatly wrapped, lay shredded.
A tree, once proud and majestic, stands
fallen and browning.

Losers like Allah brag about their
new Iphones
While others
spent the holiday
painfully
awkwardly
alone.
Where's the love in that?

That's sort of a bummer, isn't it?
That's not what Norman Rockwell would
say about Christmas.
But who the hell cares what Norman Rockwell says?
He's a painter for God's sake.
"Shut Up and Paint!", Norman.

I know what you are thinking.
"Jack...why so grumpy?
Did the Grinch steal your presents?
Did you not get what you wanted?
Did you and Suzanne Sena break up?"

No, my friends. None of the above!
Quite the opposite really.
I'm just a method poet.
I need to feel the despair, so I can write the despair.
And in writing, ease it.
Because I write not for me.
But as a gift.
To
Carin.

For Carin, she of the 3 sons,
(and at this point I wonder,
"is she married to Fred MacMurry?
Are they named Chip, Douglas and Ernie?"
but I digress)
misses the only important man on this blog.
Her star, shimmering in the Eastern Sky.
Her Mr. O'Spades.
She mourns his absence.
While I do my best to remind her,
that you can't spell "solace"
without
"A-C-E."

Solace is a strange word now that I mention it.
It's prefix makes you think it has something to do with
the sun.
Does it?
I dunno.
I'm too lazy to look it up.
I'm like Fred Thompson that way.
OK, that's a cheap shot.
I'm just trying to stay topical.
Anyway, solace.
I could see how it could be related to the sun.
"Bringing light/comfort to one afflicted by darkness/sadness."
But what do I know.
I'm pretty much a moron.

So, what do I know about Carin.
Do I know that with each step the grasses
curses her shoes as they want nothing more
than to massage her feet?
Nope, I don't know that.

Do I know that with each smile,
she brightens the world of those around her
like the Neon sign
under Caesar's Palace
where the hooker I had my eye on
puked last New Year's eve?
No, I can't say I know that either.

I'll have to think on this some.

So, while I'm thinking, I'll do
some
free
association.
Harness some of that right-brain
power.
Or is it left-brain?
No.
I think it's the right brain that is all artsy-fartsy.
Again, I can't be bothered to look it up.

How many of you have ever
experienced the
pure, unadulterated joy
of
Rocking someone's fucking socks off?
I have.
An unleashed G-chord
is a powerful, powerful thing.
Rivalled in it's power
principally
only by an
unleashed
G-string.

They seem to be connected, anyway.
One goes with the other.
Also?
Booze.

So I've thought about Carin some more.
I bet she's a pretty good mom.
When she isn't dicking around on moronblogs
and
ignoring her children.
I'll give her the benefit
of
the
doubt.
She does like my poetry, after all.

I noticed that she
is buying her
kids
ammo for their
b.b. guns.
I respect that.
Kids should have the
2nd amendment instilled in them
at an early age.
And also
the Hobo's are exceedingly
migratory this year.
A good culling never hurt anyone.

Except for the hobos, I guess.
But you know the truth about hobo's?
They like being hunted.
It brings them pleasure.
It
is
their
secret shame.

Speaking of secrets, did you ever have
to be someone's Secret Santa?
And the person you got assigned to
just sucks
7 ways to Sunday.
And you find them revolting on
every level.
And the fact that you are expected as a
good office mate to buy them
a present
from your hard-earned money
makes you vomit?
Well now you know
how my Secret Santa felt.

Thank's for the cheese log. Fucktard.
You know I'm lactose intolerant!
Bitch.

I'm not really lactose intolerant.
I just hate Hickory Farms.

I had an aunt once.
And every year for Christmas she gave me the same fucking
present.
from the age of 6 to the age of 16
I got a "Hickory Farms Variety Pack".
It was a big circular platter of
processed cheese
and processed sausage.
And some of it was even processed "smoky flavored."

I suppose I should have been grateful.
But I wasn't.
She knew I hated the stuff.
After about the 3rd year
she started giving me the presents out of spite.
My Mom told me that.
Because my Dad told his sister (my aunt)
that I would give the Hickory Farms Platter things to
him.

I saw my aunt the Christmas before she died.
And she asked me what i wanted.
I said "for the love of all that is good and holy,
could I please have something that isn't
a Hickory Farms
Platter thingy. I don't care! I'll take
an 'I went to teh Grand Canyon
and all I got was this stupid T-Shirt'...I'll let you
donate to your favorite charity in my name...
I just cant bear another Hickory farms platter."

And my Aunt smiled and said "Sure thing. I'm really gonna surprise you this year."
And she did.
By dying three weeks before Christmas.
And what did I get anyway?
A fucking Hickory Farms platter that the bitch had ordered
prior to her death.

That's a true story, by the way.

So, I asked my Dad what I should do with it.
I miss my Dad.
And he said "I'm sorry my Sister has been such a bitch to you."
And he told me why she was like that, which I won't go into here.
Because this is Carin's poem. Not mine.
But he made me laugh when he suggested we do
something together.
You see, my aunt loved cats.

I hate them.
My dad hated them.

Do you know who loves hickory farms cheese platters?

Stray cats.

And do you know what you get when you cross me, stray cats, hickory farms cheese pellets, and a bb gun?
Saturday night.
But also
a
lot
of
"wounded"
cats.

And everytime I squeezed off a round,
I said "This is for my aunt".
It's what she wouldn't have wanted.

But I bet you that Carin got everything she wanted for Christmas.
Happy Kids.
Healthy Kids.
Wholesome family time.
Good food and good conversation.
Joyous occasions.
The continuation of
some holiday traditions.
And the
beginnings of some
new ones.

She even got her
very own epic poem.
Which hardly ever happens.
It's quite rare, actually.
Most people don't like them.
Bah.
Most people are idiots.
But we knew that already
didn't we
Carin?

So, as this Hurricane of Love
recedes into the Tropical Storm of Joy
in the New Year
let me be the first to wish you
a Happy New Year.

The best I can hope for
is a Happy Ending
to this one.
Where did
Joanie
go?

(Happy New Year, Carin!)

posted by Jack M. at 04:51 PM

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