by Chris Crittenden
splinters from that devil time
hobble him, millimeters
mark his pace, and he sweats past noon,
desperate to flee
inching shadows.
splinters-shrapnel
of life, of tortured hope, killed prayer,
strewn flesh, they
are his kevlar now, absorbing
hellos-
no smile can breach
the nests of barbed broken trust
under his skin, the exploded
jumbled corpse-heap
of memories-
the bloody hooks of guilt
under his face, ashamed zits
pimpling his cheeks,
temples too.
whiskey made his eyes red-
the rest hails to the cries
of those who had no armor,
no weapon like the hum
of the Blackhawk
under his thighs-
pump pump pump
went the thick strapping gun
mounted on the monster's head,
pump pump pump,
he laughed and painted
cartoons of spread women
on the chassis,
marking his conquests,
fun until those shadows came-
until he felt the hands of the dead,
wet as tears, rigid as teeth,
stuffing him with cold maggots.
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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