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
