Poetry by Grant Mason

Everywhere I’ve lived I’ve had

a shrine of writing.
never pictures of esteemed poets,
nowhere to pray, really,
just a raggedy place for doing it.
some wine stains, paint stains,
put out cigarettes, a knife stuck in-
when I looked at her and said
“I want to fuck you on my writing desk.”
she knew that I loved her.

it was always sacred.

Home.

I moved from placed to place:
evicted, kicked out, jailed.
a ragged desk, broken drawers
burn spots, cum stains
(I was always scared pornography
would destroy my computer
but I did it
anyway.)

sometimes the desk would go
to moms
and the shrine was just my lap
in some street while I waited for
the next poem, the next place,
job,
lover,
fight,
waiting for anything.
wasted time
as time wasted me
and the booze wasted me
and the clocks went round their hours
till I broke them.

today
I have no computer.
got drunk and dropped it
too many times.
the desk is in the landfill.

now the shrine is in me,

dirty as ever, maybe toxic
but here

and I carry my notebook
around,
sometimes in the hot sun,
cigarette ashes snow down on it,

sometimes inside. I wander around and
wondering where to write, lost
until I sit down HAVING to, it
feels good.

sometimes I shit and write.
sometime I push the book on the barn walls and scribble.
sometimes on the back of a horse mid-ride
a hawk flies by.
my blasphemous grandfather gets home.
the trees are still.

it never really mattered.

the shrine is in me.

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About Grant Mason

Grant Mason is an unemployed construction worker from South Dakota, though currently living in Denver, where he gawks in museums and pretends to be a handyman to pay the bills.  He has been published in Nefarious Ballerina, Admit2, Chopper, and the Rapid City Journal.