Critic Cal

A 1st of January oh-no-the-gym-is-closed early morning walk has become something of a tradition for me since writing this. It doesn't always rain. NEW YEAR'S DAY   At 6 a.m. on New Year's Day While next door's lengthy Hogmanay Was resolutely still in play I wearily arose. My brain was buzzing, anyway, Too much to much doze.  I dressed, and found an old cagoule (Remembering the forecast squall) And stuffed it — an ungainly ball — In my fleece pocket. Then crept down to the downstairs hall And made my exit.  The streets were dark; it felt like night The more so for the frequent sight Of homeward-headed revellers, tight And waxing verbal. One stopped, and asked me for a light For something ‘herbal’…  I drew the odd uncivil jest From trendy cliques in party best Who were distinctly unimpressed By my appearance; I scowled, and scorned “such shallowness " With silent vehemence.  Towards the centre of the town Were several nightclubs

There must have been evensong here long before the news of Christ. Surely for as long as there have been nights bad as this one---something to raise the possibility of another night that could actually, with love and cockcrows, light the path home, banish the Adversary, destroy the boundaries between our lands, our bodies, our stories, all false, about who we are: for the one night, leaving only the clear way home and the memory of the infant you saw, almost too frail, there's too much shit in these streets, camels and other beasts stir heavily outside, each hoof a chance to wipe him out, make him only another Messiah, and sure somebody's around already taking bets on that one, while here in this town the Jewish collaborators are selling useful gossip to Imperial Intelligence, and the local hookers are keeping the foreskinned invaders happy, charging whatever the traffic will bear, just like the innkeepers who're naturally delighted with this registration thing, and up in