August 17, 2009
Graham Foust & Eric BausSunday, August 16
Concordia Coffee House
2909 NE Alberta
$5.00 suggested donation
Eric Baus is the author of The To Sound (Wave Books) and Tuned Droves (Octopus Books). He edits Minus House chapbooks and writes about poetry audio recordings on the site To The Sound. He lives in Denver.
Graham Foust lives in Oakland and works at Saint Mary's College of California. His fourth book, A Mouth in California, will be published by Flood Editions in September.
If eels lie vertically inside the statue or old bees coat its surface,
a needle will point to the center of my hide. Owls murmured up a piece
of green cloth. Hard ash topped me. The birds it entailed peopled the
treetops, stripped me of my coos. Un-tuned doves flew elsewhere,
worried their drones would shrink inside my ears. A second split
occurred when its eyes bloomed red. Votive scores pushed open the
view. Here, the street was both omen and throat. The swarming sky
sparrowed until day withered, until the statue punched out of its
skin. He was wearing his own arms. His house showed. Ants formed and
he scorched their trails. Sing rendered, he trilled, Sing posed.
To the Writer
Another cloud spun to nothing, one
of nature's more manageable kills.
Another borderline-meaningless morning save
for everything. You claim you kissed
a certain picture with such patience
you became it. So who hasn't?
You're of one long weary trouble;
you wear your hard mind on your hand.
Thus, your dumb touch, your clunky
fuss, your little millions. Your stomach
newly stuffed with amputations. Quiet
and furious dots of distant rooms -- rooms,
I would add, through which you'll never move
or sleep -- begin to mean. In one of them,
humor, collapsed in a painful curl, an odd
head at the back of its throat. It's what's to bleed about.