Little-man Nailed to a wooden Cross

A Poem by Craig Shay

It’s too late.

of buffalo hides

to an unseen world

where medicine men
have retreated to their caves
of dreams

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

his twisted psyche

the world
dies leisurely

his clever masks

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

the stars
in which
he will conquer

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