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Come, Come Thou Bleak December Wind

December 1, 2010 - by Mr. Shay Tasaday, Editor in Chief

This month’s pomes: As you no doubt are, having perused even just the titles of our retinue of belletristic verse for this issue, I myself am disappointed in the dearth of Kwanzaa poems here and elsewhere. Hanukkah poems you can come across almost anywhere, given who owns the media, and while we do not feature one here, we do throw the Jews a (kosher) bone with a piece by Mr. Emmons. As for atheists, as always there seems not to be any room at the inn. Indeed, our selection, dear readers, is frighteningly Christian, but then again what Christian thing isn’t? In our first poem, Mr. Fenway Parker delivers his usual gift of puissant holiday analysis, in this case including a puppy. Doggedly, Mr. Suet Go opens up about his dipsomaniacal Cyber Monday habits. As noted previously, Mr. Scott Emmons wraps up an ironic etiological investigation re: popular musical standards displaying religious hegemonics. Correspondingly, The Bare-Fanged Contessa herself regifts the famous “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” ditty, albeit emphasizing the protagonist’s more demonic cohort (by which I do not refer to Rudolph, or Chris the Christmas Mouse). Traumatically, Mr. Jeff Iorio unwraps the truth behind parental units’ theistic deceptiveness re: their progeny. Apropos of almost nothing, often we hear the question asked, in panels and symposia, “Are those your children?” Getting off topic, but still festively filling our pages, Mr. Larry Lawrence‘s package of poetics may be seen as an entrée  into the worldview of the beleaguered shopper. Perhaps similarly, Mr. John Muth uncovers a universe of wonders while enjoying the upward motion of a moving staircase. Dissimilarly, Mr. Caustic Casey‘s poem does not seem to be about anything.

In our asinine prose section, Soccer Mom to the Stars Judy Maitland Reggio gift-returns with an cultural examination of the often-deadly distaff department store customer. Meanwhile, Mr. Daniel Thomas Moran, former Poet Laureate of Suffolk County, scrolls out his own Genesis, by which I am not referring to the band with whom Phil Collins used to kill people with his singing. And, finality of finalities, Ms. Creeley Piker finally finishes her (monkey)fishy fairy tale. Thank Christmas, that is over. Please write in to tell her how much you hated it.

And, finally, in our classic asinine section, Mr. Ogden Nash, one of the early inspirations for this steamed journal, contributes his own story about a neophyte and St. Nick.

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