Little-man Nailed to a wooden Cross

A Poem by Craig Shay

It’s too late.

mountains
of buffalo hides

return
to an unseen world

where medicine men
have retreated to their caves
of dreams

Paleface
is alone
on his
conquered surface,

a clown, in his
colorful flag

and corporate logos

dressed to kill
anything that breathes.

The flesh…

The rounded shoulder
The skin, the flash, a joy forever
In her eyes I pass through nothingness
A height from levitating
To leave this body and its day dream
Is to sleep beside a world of silent breathing
But there is darkness in their air
A dissonant music sounds like
the keyboard part in Springsteen’s
“I’m on Fire” or “Boys of Summer”
Those evil keyboard parts
Eating my soul alive as a child.

his insanity
his Christ-myth

his genocidal hands
laughing

his twisted psyche
deciding

the world
dies leisurely

Paleface
wears
his clever masks

on TV
in newspapers
in literature
in medicine
in economics
in history

counting
the stars
in which
he will conquer

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