Cardinal Kuharić at 9827

It’s Christmas Eveand a gang of drunks is tasting bottles of Šiponand Silvanac at the illegal winery at the cemeteryfilling plastic and glass flasks of all sizesCars rush over the edges of pavementTonight when glassy bones of old men are hummingthere’s a draft in the church as someone leftthe door openGrannies are protesting angrily and justifiably socounting who lit up more of those tiny candlesI would also be lighting tiny candlesand playing dumbif I were oldThey say this pre-holiday shopping frenzyhas been imported from the materialistic Westand that gradually every sense has been lostof that sacred day when the Word became fleshbut if you ask me it is the poultry that fared the worsthaving been decapitatedeach and every one of themSix years ago they fed us ox roastand now they’re staging mass spectacles for uswith free sausagesand cheap pop starsTito fed us a pig’s headthat he stole from the atticand our stomachs ached afterwardsfor decades on endNow it’s starting to snow and I am also drunk

like the other honestCroatsOur path to the future is callednational-humanism—still lifewith a pig’s headwhile the Pharaohbreathes deeplytucked inside his winter palaceperhaps contemplating another revenge

while Cardinal Kuharić is at tel number 9872—just a recorded Christmas message—giving no answers.