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

Looking to the Devil for Kindness

A Poem by Craig Shay

Uncomforting talk,
spoils gala festivities –

Every age
is a landscape overflowing with savagery.

Look away!
Wrapped in the comfort of consumerism –

It costs a fortune to keep
the devils at bay.

Petrified voices sound
so truly apathetic.

Dissent burns away,
to fine ashy dust –

Safely we sleep,
as sycamores surrender
to summers hostage situations –

Cherry trees grow tall
through wooden bedposts –

While the dead march on,
chanting
through paper megaphones,
under the disguise
of moonlight in disarray.

Look on!
Don’t look away.
Don’t look anywhere for answers.

Junior Murvin said:

“Police and thieves
in the street (oh yeah)
Fighting the nation with their
guns and ammunition

Police and thieves
in the street (oh yeah)
Scaring the nation with their
guns and ammunition

From Genesis to Revelation
And next generation will hear me.”

Going to War to Preserve Peace

A Poem by Craig Shay

Bengali tigers,
transformed
into humans
with bowie knives and political ties.

There are so many guerillas
hidden among the trees.

What does the world look like
out the window of that white mansion?

Tens of thousands of lambs
walk along the mountainside.

What the analysts don’t tell you
is that there are ten coyotes
to every lamb.

Each coyote unafraid of death.

Each one fighting
with nothing to lose.

Eating every lamb.

It is as though
they are lambs
sacrificed for a black mass

to bring some incarnation
of Satan
through a gateway,

chiefs and generals
gather to proliferate death –

A great beast returns
to his throne
atop of hill of skulls and bones,

ready to take the reigns
of an empire built by destruction –

Peace caused by a thousand years of war.

The real terrorists
work in Wall Street.