Merry Christmas, Don't Let the Door Hit You...

Everyone was a skull on a suitcollar. HR people flossed smiles the size of stars. Giant spoons coddled infants in the courtyard. Kids banged chins on the guardrail, bit through tongues. If a plane crashed through the breakroom, the rules posted would have been smashed.

The boss was pretty anesthesia. She let scalpels muscle lungs, laugh down spoon-pressed tongues. Monsters lived underground, crushing cans on motherboards. Ever wonder why housekeeping buys vertical blinds like prison bars?

I literally punched the clock. The place left on lights, stared out its face-manicured fountain. The cheese smelled Halloween Wal-Mart. Sexy little elves, black-rose mischief. People multiplied and popped like spam. Severance was Mary Magdelene in silver bells. My god she's laughing.

Santa Claus hid in automated speedtraps. The signs all said: "Are you paying attention? We are!" Someone had screwed red hats to their tops. The police here are as crazy as I am.

A raggedy old woman dragged her dead husband. No impatience crossed either of their faces. Disgust couldn't have been a factor in years. They shuffled, one in front of the other, sloshy galoshes browning the snow.

I saw a wooden manger scene on the grill of a car. I couldn't tell if the driver was destructive or cautious. Sideburns like gunbutts grew his ears. He'd be a good guy for putting toys together. I know people prefer eggnog, but man, happiness is a Santa Claus scalpel you get from your mother.

About the author:

Derek Telliers work has appeared in, Poetry Motel,, The Blue Earth Review and Small Spiral He is a recent graduate of the Minnesota State University, Mankato MFA Creative Writing Program. He currently teaches in the Twin Cities.