Paradox

Those whom we can love, we can hate; to others we are indifferent. - Thoreau

I'm a Hannakah Christmas.

Complete with menorahs and wreaths.

Crucifix hanging 'round my neck next to a Star of David.

Both solid gold of course.

Sitting down on pergatory's wall to snack on Matzah and pork.

A licit illigitimacy.

Prone to passion.

A passover parade.

Confettied in pain.

I'm a charter member of the living dead.

Drinking piss and peeing vinegar.

A model of vim and destroyer of vigor.

Walking crippled these punked-out streets.

Awash in spent needles and condoms.

A pregnant abortion.

A mutated, atomic chromosome with no home.

Preached to by a sobering alcoholic.

Every day I eat raw crow.

Things that you don't know.

Seagulls swoop down and stain my soul.

Writing their confessions on a Dead Sea Scroll.

I'm the dish that ran away with the spoon.

Way to soon.

Caught in a cataclysmic catch-22.

I'm the guy with the shovel at cremation's past.

Toting a knife to a gun fight.

Stepping into a down elevator when I have no frown.

Sitting in the corner at fate's funeral, dressed like a clown.

I can't get to Heaven without first passing through Hell.

I hate dysfunction's guts.

Perhaps Freud was just nuts ...

Author's Note

"I saw that, if there was a wall of stone between me and my townsmen, there was still a more difficult one to climb or break through before they could be as free as I was." - Thoreau