The First Wish of Winshel

Beckon, Christ. There’s an anchor in my stomach. You were a sailor, I know, and you walked on the water; I know this too, and you have a way of diving down the throat of all those whom you’ve pleased since your birth. Oh come, Elijah, the one you were most like. Come and clutch the hands of privileged and the plain and the clamped, the clasped, the naked, the forced, the obsessed and most of all, eject the anchor from my stomach, and send it out of my mouth across the ocean to the ice on the other side of the world. And can you be like Apple? Can you inscribe a note on the anchor that you’ll swing from your camel hair belt on the stern the Galleon of Grace you champion like a pirate? Specifically, I would enjoy a Chirstmas list to be written on the anchor. Give it to the first new born you see on the Pacific. Read the anchor to him very slowly and make sure the parents of the new born tattoo this inscription Christmas list onto his left clavicle. They’ll listen. They always have, right? This list will state clearly the steps I will take to fame, each step a new way up instead of down, and each step becomes the means to the end.

I’m sure you’ve heard this two thousand and eight times. Or since you walked and suffered and died for the reason, a reason to stand up and live and make Mary run away shrieking at the sight of your ghost.

Help me. I’m just some Joseph looking for a manger.

-Become a half-Jew
-Love a half-Jew
-Stand in the face of persecution
-Wave a covenant
-Cast it off into the a sea
-Make it a gentle stream
-Remember
-Over Speculate
-Buy a new Car
-Sign off
-Teach my son to use a computer

Make sure the infant gets back to me with an answer to this question:

Which way through what snow to which star on what morning?

Thanks, Jesus
I’m blowing out the candle.

P.S.

I’ve crushed the glass with my hand, and it’s bleeding over light socket burn on my hand. This is a tradition. I was never good with lighting candles. Wax was expensive, I heard.