Bah, Humbug

Ah, the glorious damned winter and the inviting gray chill in the air. I meander ever so slowly past lawns strewn with a cluttered array of pagan snow zombies - staring blankly, as I obliterate pint-sized snow angels failing to don halos that could have easily been brush stroked with da Vinci's golden teardrops. (Impoverished attention-getters) "I suggest you peruse Alighieri’s 'Inferno' – it may, at least, promote heat - if not hope!" (Simpletons) Frost continues to cloud my spectacles - thick and relentless eagerly permeating the glass - endeavoring to dance a feverish Fantasia foxtrot upon the skins of my pupils. My heavy feet scuffle past these endearing peasants. Bleak…frozen… forgotten Mt. Everest tombstones. Disgraced outcasts of embarrassment - smashed against a stark white canvas hands cut off – sticking out their parched tongues begging for alms. Click and count. Their fragile bodies so much alive their dark, hallowed eyes so much dead. (So be it) They stealthily huddle alone - (Hah! I’ve created my own personal oxymoron!) These gruesome street urchin waifs - Dumber than a sackful of hammers and frostier than a Maine Christmas morn, convulsing and shivering ‘neath lampposts without snow shoes or socks, bawling and boo-hooing... “Clutching weather-worn copies of James Hilton’s 'Lost Horizon' and littering the virgin snow with salty saline discharge – igniting street corner bonfires without the faintest hint of smoke." (Wasteful) Ah, the glorious damned winter and that magnificent gray chill in the air. My arctic thighs carry me home now where I am safe. Where I can slam my door and shut my eyes. My cavernous domicile whereas I can privately converse with Mr. Dickens and Mr. O’Neill and read “A Christmas Carol” or “The Iceman Cometh” - without a snaggle-toothed interruption... Listen to the haunting strains of L’Inverno from Vivaldi’s “Le Quattro Staggioni” and cackle wildly as I burn first editions of Clement Clark Moore’s most infamous penning - pour myself a tall glass of ice cubes - devour a heaping bowl of vichyssoise - scarf down a fudgcicle and just... turn the air conditioner ON.