· the cultural society · » Graham Foust

Poem with World

Graham Foust — Mon, 14 May 2007 12:00:48 +0000

Thoughts of it, thought
or not,
are mostly that.

There’s always
been a pointlessness.
Rejoice.

What Woke Me

Graham Foust — Mon, 14 May 2007 12:00:42 +0000

not the minor
quake but

the dissonant
taste

of a paint
chip

Poem with Space

Graham Foust — Mon, 14 May 2007 12:00:18 +0000

At the end of the night, night. Night
again. Another night. Or do I say
that it’s still night, night
continued. Part of me — not quite
my original face — would love to.

And months approach like stones.

Poem for Ezra Pound and Johnny Knoxville

Graham Foust — Mon, 14 May 2007 12:00:17 +0000

Back away from
and so into you —

your every bone
in flames —

as if deep
dim human ruin came

to news you’d want
to freeze.

After Magaret Atwood

Graham Foust — Mon, 14 May 2007 12:00:06 +0000

I fit into you
like a peg into a hole

a tent peg
a donut hole

Form (for Merle Haggard)

Graham Foust — Tue, 12 Sep 2006 16:00:41 +0000

"Long Black
Limousine"

depends so much
upon

mistakes: a missed
turn

"the curve nobody
seen"

For Lack

Graham Foust — Tue, 12 Sep 2006 16:00:15 +0000

of Percocet, dirt
out the window.
Dirt

at the window,
loud
as mirrors.

Dirt out my window.
Dirt at
my window.

That gnawed-on quality
of tickets or
of skin.

Graham Foust, contributor

Graham Foust — Tue, 12 Sep 2006 16:00:10 +0000

Poem with Breakfast and Perjury

Graham Foust — Wed, 29 Mar 2006 16:00:47 +0000

This poem blows

so as to make a building
creak. So as to make
a building sway and maybe break.

A few twigs in the grass that I thought
could be rungs for your ladder:
Here. Words in the mouth
in the way that the mouth
is a thief.

I kneel in prim light
and in giant, in the dumbest of what
I won’t say. Oh,
and I lied before
about being provided for:
I often up and greet
the day with smears of egg.

Comedy Is Timing

Graham Foust — Wed, 29 Mar 2006 16:00:28 +0000

You do blood to return
to meanwhile.

I do
bright nightmare with hand.

Afraid of different
deaths, we wake
in equally sleep-
pocked beds.