If Santa Were A Jock

With the lights out, the action-lava of nostalgia smashes into a plateau,

into a grid touched by its jock sun, the firmament encoded into lulz

with the Jedi vibe of Reddit most foul, of gods enamored with my dump. 

I watched Goombas share a sleeping bag and forgiveness wander into gore, 

in the ER, hands on the funky chakras of a football mascot. 

The animated chatter of the reanimated corpse, though –

in the comments – can you feel Yoshi’s castles?

I have … seen things you people wouldn’t believe.

When I close my eyes, I still see stuff … Christmas circling back

to the blaster in a screenshot, glitching from hobo to robo – to bro –

spawning milkshake in its casual death, chiming relative

to its mortal throwback, adorable as jelly latching onto fear.