My Graham Foust

Gone's the imposter. And gone's
his gawky cross. Gone's
his tweaked legacy's hit list--Hooray!--
and gone's his waste of song.

Gone's his civilized wrist. Gone's
his long-exploded gut. Gone's his cruel joy,
his humbling drunk, his good tired.
Gone's his one and every clod of common sense.

Gone's the water from under his mumble.
Gone's his mumble from up in the room.
Yet to go are his books and his bloodless clothes
and shoes. Gone's his broken oven and its beef.

Gone's his wet secret. Gone's
his pillar and what it let fall.
Gone's his excellent source of nothing,
his kick-ass pettiness, his premium harm.

Gone's the bite of you he spit. Gone's
his vague sense of what's to be done.
Gone's the dream that likely scraped at him
for more and more and more and gone's his walk.

Gone's his crass commiseration. Gone's
his shack of gauze and ice. Gone's
his tiny fountain. And gone
is his gluttoned-up light.

Gone's his want-to-need basis.
Gone's his happy plastic stain.
Gone's his glass wolf, his lazy sperm, his pack of exactness.
Gone's his played-through lack of played-through games of pain.

Gone's his fleshy shovel. Gone's
his ticket, gone's his train.
Gone's the friend who stepped away
and almost saved him. Gone's the blame.

Gone's his sister. Gone's his doctor.
Gone's his transom. Gone's his view.
He's nobody's autobiography.
Whose are you.

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