by Chris Crittenden
flayed yet fierce,
trident-like hands
stab up a cliff, hoist
a wretched soldier
to the top;
and he cries out
as if granite
clawed his soul,
spurred it to shriek-
hating god or light
or whatever mother
birthed the miracle
allowing this torture-
to see but not know,
to feel but not answer
questions riddled
with bomb and maggot,
depravity and pus.
why
you sick originator,
slaughter toddlers
for bankers' gain?
why hate against hate
while arensals rage,
employing steelworkers?
why,
bloody Gabriel,
perch blue-green hope
on the pinhead of war?
Chris Crittenden is an anguished hermit, all that crying in the wilderness crap. It means something to him, but there are lots of ignored prophets out there in the wilds of Maine. Some recent publications are from: Offcourse, Drunken Boat, Barnwood and Merge Poetry.
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