Grant Guy is a Winnipeg, Canada, poet, writer and playwright. His writings have been published in Canada, the United States, Wales, India and England. He has five books published. He was the 2004 recipient of the MAC’s Award of Distinction and the 2017 recipient of WAC's Making A Difference Award. She Screamed Into the Cold Night She screamed into the cold night There were no voices to answer her In fear of herself naked to the bones of dread She ran away from herself but the night pulled her in Help me she shouted Why is no one answering her scream Why is no one rescuing her Help me she shouted She cannot rescue herself She looked into the mirror She was a monster to her face in the mirror And In the mirror of no longings No voices reached out to her Scream Help me she shouted She wondered how long she could hang on She falls into the abyss with no recourse or approval Where are the voices that promised they were there for her Where Help me she shouted Voiceless words are brave for the deaf Quiet quiet There are no more voices There are no more rescues She screamed into the cold night She ran out into the cold night Now it did not matter there were no more voices Now it did not matter there were no more rescues What good are voices and rescues to the aligned dead The Caves of Detritus The producers looked down upon their creations, believing they were the masters of slaves. But this too, like shadows dancing on a wall before the producers, was a false projection of their mastery. Confronted with the future outcome of their creations, and the unpredicted consequences, the producers retreated into the cave of their minds and the embrace of their illusionistic shadows. But shadows can only do what shadows do. They leave at the noon hour of our existence, leaving us unprotected – or loom over us, erasing all light and glimpses of a future, replacing the sliver of light with unending dread. And in time, the producers, too fade away like noon hour’s shadows leaving only rubble, the unwanted, the neglected of their debris now erased of our original purposes. We have voice. We have testament of our mastery over our producers. We, the unwanted, have dominion. I Was Greener Than Tall Prairie Grass I was greener than tall prairie grass in July
She was bluer than a porn movie At the age of 12 after her daddy kicked her in the belly The doctor told her she would never have children She hated her daddy Wanted to kill the bastard But after a while after she thought about it Children did and did not make the woman Who she was was making the woman She liked boys the way her momma liked men Her momma stopped loving her husband after the first beating And started to take up with men and cared not what her husband thought When she was 9 her momma told her Momma's leaving your daddy Momma kissed her on her cheek picked up her suitcase and was gone out the door Since daddy had no one else to beat up and his daughter was there Well . . . When she was 13 she had 50 boys to her name She was 14 when she met me She had patience Took her time to teach me the ways of a woman Took her time to teach me the ways of a man Took her time to teach me the ways of love and tomorrow When she was 15 she was dead Her daddy wanted her the way she gave herself without condition to the boys Her daddy was not going to get anything and hit back for the first time It felt good although it would be the last time When you live on the other side of the tracks it is easy to avenge When I was 16 I found the road of leveling making things equal Vengeance is mine said the 16 year old
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Mark J. Mitchell’s latest novel, The Magic War just appeared from Loose Leaves Publishing. He studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver and George Hitchcock. His work has appeared in the several anthologies and hundreds of periodicals. Three of his chapbooks— Three Visitors, Lent, 1999, and Artifacts and Relics—and the novel, Knight Prisonerare available through Amazon and Barnes and Noble.. He lives with his wife the activist and documentarian, Joan Juster and makes a living pointing out pretty things in San Francisco. A meager online presence can be found at https://www.facebook.com/MarkJMitchellwriter/ LATE MORNING INNINGS |