Poem: Monk With Gasoline

Below is a poem about war, originally published in Barnwood Magazine. To see some of my other Barnwood poems, go here:

http://web.mac.com/tomkoontz/Site_30/Crittenden.html

I'm so sick of war and all the dunderheads everywhere who support and advance war. Humanity is an idiot savant with a great knack for technology, immature animal desires, and a dismally low moral IQ.


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Monk With Gasoline

heaviness hounds his steps,
an uncertain massacre of thoughts
inherited from the slain.
it would be hard to be less certain,
more disconsolate. to have worries more
like strings on puppets
in unheard plays on spectral stages.

he is wind without a crag to howl off,
or rain that can’t find mud to hug.
once there were idylls
of tryst and peach flower,
but who’s going there now?
as if such things could dwell
in a crossroads of land mines,
tar and rut stenciling hate.

all that’s green
has been herbicide-cooked and napalm-spiced.
nothing left
but a greyblack underbelly of sins.
he’s going there now, to the throne,
ready to sit cross-legged
within a chrysanthemum of craters.
soldiers, their sad jail cell of guns,
will glow like fresh dawn
as fire blooms up his spine.