Dear Santa,

First of all, I know this is probably the billionth letter like this you’ve ever received. I want you to know that I’m not another cloying fan trying to butter you up to get more presents. I’m writing to you because I’m genuine and I respect you. J Honestly, if we met, I think we’d be friends. I’m sure you’ve heard that one before, too. This isn’t about presents, and it isn’t about me trying to show you how much I care. I mean I do care, but that’s not the point. I hope that’s as clear to you as it was in my head J.
Now that all of that stuff is out of the way, let me just say that I think you do great work. Last Christmas, you brought me a couple of books and the whole second season of Lost on DVD. That was totally rad J. What I appreciate most is the wrapping. Do you do that or do the elves? I’d assume that it’s the elves, but I’d also like to assume that you’re the sort of hands-on manager who would get down there on the line with your workers. But I don’t want to make an ass out of you and me. J
Here’s a question: do you wear goggles on the sleigh? In the pictures I’ve seen of you, you’re never wearing any sort of aviator goggles, but I think it would probably be safer for everyone if you did J. Don’t you worry about dry eyes L?
Have you ever caught someone being naughty and totally let them off the hook? Have you caught any of the naughty things I’ve done? I have to assume that, because I got presents anyway, you’re sort of cool with my particular naughty interests. Is it pure benevolence? Or a grace period? If so, please let me know so that I can start reining the naughtiness in before it affects my gift revenue.
Do you ever get sick of cookies and milk? I sure get sick of Peeps.
Love,The Easter Bunny


Joe Giovannetti

SUNSHINE AND PUPPIES

Contact Information

First Name: Katalin
Last Name: Bernath
Email: bernathart@dslextreme.com
Phone: 323-656-0753
Comments:
On dec.17. 2007 I placed an order over the telephone with Christina, #109 I.D. or extention number.She was to send me an Email to confirm the order. As of today i did not a confirmation from her, so I called. Nobody could fund the order. Furthermore, for the replacement of the order Nicole, a new person on the telephone wanted to charge me $60. At this point I requested to get a courtesy overnight delivery fee, which she was able to get me, allegedly, the same price as it was quoted to me at the first place, $30.
Now, I made it to her very clear, if this gift box, the pink champagne and the troufles will not get there by the 24th of Dec. I will cancell the order. You have to make sure, you'll be able to ship this by the 24th. Also, reprimand Christna. She should not work with customers, she is not inteligent enough to be able to handle it. Also, if you going to make mistakes as such, you will loose lots of bussiness, and good customers. Who needs this agravation?

The Great Wall

Tyra has engineered her own Beauty

Out of toothpaste and the glare of a light

Shined into your eyes for too long and too bright.

Come on, girls, show me what you’ve got.

Tyra has seen your Great Wall.

She is not impressed.

Please try again next time, China.

Further Epistolary

Dear Santa
Give me peace on earth or a shot glass
A hand to hold or a cigarette
At least stop this smoking ban

Last Christmas I knew
What I wanted

This year it is viciously inflicted

To be visible beyond
The edible latte girl
And less seen on stage

A way to alleviate

Proposition to
The dance floor
Sparkly pink leg warmers

I accept re-gifts

Or I could look at the betters of last year

An affectionate walk on the Cornish
A Surkis romp with a blue eyed Viking
A bite of crumble rhubarb crisp
My elder say he loved me for the last time

Next year better be
You and I
Jolly man
A night out

And our walk home
Will have lavender, emerald and yellow
Blast ribbons descending from winter sky
Gradually casing us from head to foot

Laura Smith

A Dockers© Christmas

One side of the story is this: Jenna used her neighbor’s oven to bake me what she called an apple pancake—this was really more of a coffee cake with syrup on top than any pancake I’ve ever heard of—and there’s little evidence to suggest that this apple breakfast/dessert would have existed at all if I hadn’t come over with a good face to have a slice. In other words, she baked it for me.
Considering this, I sat down at the table and told her it was the most handsome piece of breakfast I had ever been served. She looked over at me with a turn of her hips that offered answers to all sorts of questions I didn’t even know I wanted to ask. I probably didn’t look at her face—I probably couldn’t, and I certainly don’t remember it—but her apron was a solid bright blue that made me feel as though I was looking into next week, or the following month—some other time.
The fact that this was my second breakfast was not a problem—at least, I hadn't counted on it being one. Despite a full stomach, I was confident I could hold down at least one more full plate, and I knew Jenna couldn’t have known the truth: Sally was waiting for me in the front passenger seat of my '91 Grand Cherokee, parked down the block and left running. She was probably getting a little cold. I know that in every way this deception is a gross thing—it seems disgusting to me, even slovenly: it is nothing but lies—but I can't take it any other way. I just won’t.
Every Christmas I eat so much that my eyes hurt. Maybe you’ll tell me that this is another way of saying that I like a good nap after a large meal, but I’ll tell you that there is a specific pain in the white part of my eyes after a Christmas dinner that I’ve never heard anyone else speak of. Maybe it is exhaustion. That’s what my grandmother would likely say. She always thinks I’m tired, and she thinks it’s lovely to tell me so, as if it’s a favor on her part, a way of telling me I am doing good things with my life and it is wearing me down with a virtuous grind. She has no idea what I do with my days.
Jenna hung up her apron and sat down to tell me that she was thinking of buying a new car, something more compact and in an orange or a red, and would I help her look? She has always wanted an orange or red car, I know this, so I told her yes, and that I’d have some time after the holidays to help her get started. I didn’t think she’d be pleased with that response—she doesn’t like anyone delaying her plans—but she smiled and seemed contented. The way she buys and sells, the way she can’t be predicted or argued with—that’s what keeps the hooks in. I began to wish I had come in with more of an appetite.
I told her I had to leave, and she jumped up to wrap the rest of the apple pancake, which she handed over to me bundled in tinfoil with a small Tupperware container of syrup. Real maple syrup, the good kind. The true kind.
“A kiss on the forehead?” she said. It was a question. I said yes, and she gave me one, telling me Merry Christmas and that I always looked handsome when there was snow on the ground, when it was cold outside. I'll tell you, these days it always seems to be cold outside.
The car was still running when I got back and handed Sally the leftover breakfast, and I realized when I got behind the wheel that I had a thin ribbon of syrup running down the lap of my khakis. I moistened two fingers with a bit of saliva and did my best to remove it. It came right off, and tasted sweet on my fingers.
Sally looked over at me. “Hey,” she said. “Nice pants.” She paused for a minute. “Let’s get out of here.”
They were nice pants. And we left.


Erick Nordenson

Hey Santa, it’s me, Christine

I know it’s been a long time since I last talked to you. You probably don’t even remember me. You probably have forgotten all about me. I don’t know why I stopped writing. The days just slipped cautiously into other days and suddenly here I am. It’s been like, what, 15 years?

You didn’t eat the cookies I left out for you.

I don’t even have a chimney. I have a cold apartment. No radiator. I lock the doors. I live in the city.

No, I’m not blaming you. You could’ve tried harder though, you know?

Part of me doesn’t want you to exist, but the other part of me depends on the very possibility of your existence.

Maybe you are all one big lie started by the government to make us all good little boys and girls.

Maybe you will redefine my life.

It’s dark here. All my friends have left. They are singing Christmas Carols. They are wearing festive sweaters. They are drinking eggnog. They are powerful in red and green. They are tinsel and flashing lights. They are the Virgin Mary in the manger standing over the baby Jesus. They have heard your reindeer click.

I don’t know why I’m still here.

I hoped that if I stare at the Christmas tree long enough it would start to make sense. Little blinking lights. Candy canes.

All I want for Christmas is you. Fuck world peace.

Is it all a lie?

Santa Claus is dead.

What’s that? Do I hear sleigh bells? No, it’s just the breaking of my heart.

Dear Santa

Yeah I am a believer. It's hard being a believer in today's world. So much persecution, so much! But my walk with Santa is strong. Despite the fact that letters to Santa still play a pivotal role in winter curriculum, and Christmas is the most important moment in the Western world, I am oppressed, daily. Every time I have to say "holidays" instead of Christmas, or pretend to care for one second about Kwanzaa, I die a little. Don't get me started with the Muslims, and how they won't eat at my Christmas party. I don't care if it is the month of holy fasting, drink some egg nog or get out of my apartment. Is that insensitive? Off track, the point is I'm a victim, every day.
But Santa, O Santa. What a kind kind soul. He gives me everything I ask. Every day I make it my goal to be as nice as possible. Naughtiness separates me from Santa, and that is the last thing I want to do. O Santa, he is like my big overweight Caucasian dad. Dressed in fiery flamboyant crimson. Sporting a threatening belt that says "YOU BETTA SHAPE UP!" just like papa. I know that my daddy-Santa loves me so much, wishes the nicest behavior for me, will give me everything on my list, and wants to hear every aspect of what is going on in my life. I love talking to Santa, and boy does he listen. In fact I think I want to talk to him right now.


Dear Santa,

The world is full of hardened hearts.

It is a dark world flooded with liars and false prophets

who claim you don't even exist. How do I get my presents

each Christmas morning? Infidels!

And besides, if Santa – you – weren't here, weren't real, weren't present

My mommy – mother would be liar

I believe in Christmas, the holiday almighty

And in Kris Kringle, his only Son, our Santa

Who was wed to Mrs. Claus, true Santa to true Santa

Who circles the globe all in one night

And on the third hour of the 26th day of December

Ascends back into the frigid north

And sitteth on the right hand of the work elves

Whence he cometh to judge the naughty and the nice.

And in Holy Sugar Plum Fairies

The North Pole

The reception of gifts

The resurrection of the spring.

Christmas everlasting.


Amen



by joseph schüpbach

An Invitation From Murakami Sound Machine to You

Dear Sir or Madame,

On this night, December 7th, 2007, we would like to cordially invite you, dear reader, to make out with us.

Please RSVP.

Sincerely,

Murakami Sound Machine

SIDE PROJECT

A Very Murakami Holiday

From all corners of the globe, the members of the Murakami Sound Machine wish you and yours a blissful holiday. But, fret not, after this Thanksgiving weekend is over we shall reconvene to produce, new, seasonal material to enliven already lively poetry readings from here to Evanston!

So check back for new shows, dates, locations, times, etc.

Murakami Sound Machine Sings!

Pictures from our publicity event last month or whatever.

Attn: Cousins Bone Here: The Murakamite Manifesto

1. We are making poetry readings less boring or, at the very least, louder.

2. We are firmly Post-Ironic.

3. We are the wine reduction of poetry world.

4. We are not so much about performing poetically as we are about presenting poems performatively. Henceforth, we are not performance artists. Not mimes, either. We are writers who aren't afraid of people.

5. We will continue to be "an assemblage of Kristy's students who proceeded to hilariously conflate the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers with the lonely vagaries of poetry-making. You kind of had to be there." -Joshua Corey
http://joshcorey.blogspot.com/2007/10/little-more-middle-aged.html

6. We are Crazy, Sexy, Cool.

7. We will Bop to the Top.

8. We are process over product.

9. We want to keep poetry adaptive and fluid, not stagnant in form or presentation.

10. We still respect the intelligence of the audience.

11. We believe that poetry readings should always involve drinking and laughing or at least nodding a lot. Like football games.



12. Poetry is to be shouted and sung and danced, but not for the sake of the actor.


13. The audience, the reader, the public, our friends, web surfers, poets, and anti-poets are all essential.

14. Poetry is relevant and essential to contemporary life.