A Minor Elegy On The Death Of Saint Clyde by Mark J. Mitchell

“I was raised on kiddie matinees where a guy would come out and say, ‘Okay Clyde, don’t start the movie until these kids are quiet.’.”
       –Meg McSweeney

Who will weep for Saint Clyde?
          He is dead, dead at man’s hand.
Like the trumpeter at Krakow, Tartar beset
          whose broken note still hangs in the air,
          he died, murdered as the reels flapped.

How many times had he witnessed the scene,
          the bullet sprung blood bursting
from a neck to a celluloid floor?
Who will weep for Saint Clyde?

Projectionists local, post 511.

Mark J. Mitchell
Mark J. Mitchell studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver, George Hitchcock and Barbara Hull. His work has appeared in various periodicals over the last thirty five years, as well as the anthologies Good Poems, American Places, Hunger Enough, Retail Woes and Line Drives. It has also been nominated for both Pushcart Prizes and The Best of the Net. He is the author of two full-length collections, Lent 1999 (Leaf Garden Press) and Soren Kierkegaard Witnesses an Execution (Local Gems) as well as two chapbooks, Three Visitors (Negative Capability Press) and Artifacts and Relics, (Folded Word). His novel, Knight Prisoner, is available from Vagabondage Press and a new novel is forthcoming: The Magic War (Loose Leaves Publishing). He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the documentarian and filmmaker Joan Juster where he makes a living showing people pretty things in his city.
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