Dear Christmas

(In memory of Jack Kerouac)

The wallet is flat now,

how many things to spend on

how many gifts!

For me, every day is Christmas

and all food is a pleasure.

10 grams of happiness,

20 grams of smile,

30 grams of love,

always my festive meal.

The system of trembling meat

spins in the night, chasing the man.

Fish, turkey, pork,

somewhere a pigeon or abominable frog.

The weather vane is a holiday in every direction,

the round table, or just a small thing

which we can sit around.

I want to leave.

It is a vast, glossy milky way to the intestines,

and if I could break away from here

I could be a tormented heaven