and the child wept
he wept for love and god and for nothing,
he wept till he was soaked and the rain was nothing to him,
he walked under it, dirty, dull nights of it,
the thunder was the song of the soul,
until his skin was tougher than all the knives of the night,
until his voice was harsh from bottles and cigarettes,
he would whisper to stray dogs and the bums from the alleys,
"it's not over yet,
in this shit life."
Grant Mason is a construction worker from South Dakota, though he just moved to Denver where he pretends to be a handyman and an emperor. He gawks in museums. He is grateful he has not yet been sold into sexual slavery, and drinks fantastic quantities of beer and tea. He has been published in Nefarious Ballerina, Admit2, Chopper, Poetry Super Highway, and the Rapid City Journal.