Funeral
A pickaxe and a spade, a spade,
For and a shrouding sheet.
O, a pit of clay for to be made,
For such a quest is meet.
Shakespeare
Life has been a thankless dream,
and I the only thing real,
embrace a whore-some cloud filled sky,
with genocide and Cossack zeal.
A consciousness, never black or white,
nonetheless ponders the extremes,
then greys mid heaps of smoked dead skin,
laments the apathy of seems.
Confronting fears and sins of limbo
like suicide at Aceldama,
the monster lava casket seers the land
commences age old melodramas.
The rancid gutted ooze of Judas bowels
stench this scented hedonist forever.
The tomb of pearl and guilded room
house his insignificance forever.
Craig Kirchner thinks of poetry as hobo art, loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. Craig houses 500 books in his office and about 400 poems in a folder on a laptop. These words tend to keep him straight.
After a hiatus he was recently published in Decadent Review, Chiron Review, The Main Street Rag, and several dozen other journals.
Grand Little Things 