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Santa Clump

Dreamed 2009/9/16 by Wayan

I clutch a clod of chocolate clad
in purple glitterfoil.
I love true bitterpure cacao,
but this is a milked and sugared
jag-asteroid of oil.

But I peel & gnaw this crag too sweet
and settle by Tale-Teller's feet
with her disciples up on stage--well,
a hilly model landscape, veined
by tiny living rails.

We unavoidably block a few trains,
for they bottleneck hooting through our dell
like a snaggle of yarn through a fist:
a snowy pass through Siberian hills

just a meter high. Well, not true snows,
just glued fine-shredded memos--
it's far too warm, the air's too stuffy
for truth in this corporate lobby.

The Teller stretches her rangy legs
and starts a shivery tale I know
I'm just going to hate. Brrr! Snow.
Never my favorite flavor.

She speaks of a newly minted clutch
of mall-bound Santas in truly botched
outsourced outfits from a firm infirm
on the concept. The unsuitable suits
are furry white, as if Claus-in-Boots
were a bigger Puss with a seasonal coat.

Sketch of a dream by Wayan: storyteller and listeners sit on a miniature landscape of hills, pines, fake snow and an HO train track.
Our endangered polar pack
of secular saints now chillily stands
--glum ol' clump o' chumps!--
in a blizzard on a white-out curb
in some megalopolic Yankee slurb.

Forepaws flail, through sleet they bellow,
Kringle their bells, and hail (through hail)
for a nice warm cab, poor hairy fellows!

But cabbies all figger these shivering buggers
are bleached-out ursine charity beggars
so cabs farewell! Bear warily others...

You know their tale will end in froze.
For haven't we heard this hoary story?
Or Little Match Girl, its grandforemother.
Although these corporate waifs have more

insulation--sans thumbs or toes,
they'll hobble, crudely ambulatory--
polypro furball amputees
like veteran bears from the Polar War...

Feh. They're stories. Can't say I care.
Cornered, cold the contractors be?
Let 'em contract! No skin off me.

Sketch of a dream by Wayan: guys in Santa Claus beards and hats (but furry and white, not red) in a blizzard, ringing Santa bells and waving their arms.


WHO WHAT WHY?

Inept guys, stage/dais, climate: Last night I saw a comedy trio at the tiny Climate Theater in San Francisco. The rest of the audience apparently loved them, but I had trouble with the play's structure. The climax (admittedly funny--a heckler in the audience takes over the plot) wasn't worth the long setup where they turn bad enough to justify that heckling--they weren't bad enough to be good.

Cleverly portrayed dullness is still dull. I mean, I can see stupid on the street for free. It's intelligent I long to see.

Adulterated chocolate, when I want the real thing: the play's humor felt as calculatedly adulterated as cheap chocolate. Since I'd prepaid, I just sat and consumed filler and sweetener...

Miniature railroads: I admit the comedians did Shy Male Geek quite well. The kind of geek who builds miniature railroads into whole empires in the basement. I should know; I was one. Did their humor hit too close to home? Could be. Or it was just too familiar to me. I learn more from other types of craziness than my own. I know my own.

Stuffy corporate lobby: the theater really was hot and airless. Maybe the real reason I couldn't work up a laugh was CO2 poisoning. Maybe those guys were profoundly original.

Yeah, and maybe I'm a polar bear.

This is Poem #54 in the Dreamverse Project.



LISTS AND LINKS: food and drugs - trains - masks and disguises - holidays - a Santa nightmare: Rasputin Claus - snow and ice - bears - dream humor - poetry - the Dreamverse Project - the next Dreamverse: The Dog King

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