Archive for January, 2008


Here is a poem that doesn’t seem quite good enough to send out, but still I think it deserves a home. So I hope you like it.

late Afternoon

Cigar shop and I’m thinking
of you when I should be working
on something that might get published.

But your hair is something
of a coolness on my mind.
And I can picture you, I think,
without obsessing over the curve
of your waist, or the shape of your ass.

I am not nervous that you haven’t called
me in three days and my cigar doesn’t taste
very good. I think there is something wrong
with the humidor in this place. More often
than not, the cigars don’t burn right.
Old guys on the couch are talking
each other through the evening news.

But I hope that you will call me again
because the idea of your voice
makes me rise like the smoke rises;
slowly and not too high.

I will rise from this place and return
home where I will drink gin drinks
and I might hear the sound
of your voice on my answering machine

Or maybe I’ll take the dogs for a walk,
watch as the rain slowly turns to snow
and obliterates the roads and the sidewalk
making everything quiet and still.


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Sunset Over Snow

Here is a neat poem I wrote while I was at my brother’s farm in Michigan. Enjoy.

Matthew Fouts

        Sunset Over Snow

Let me think of you now quickly.
        In this light, the snow outside
is the sandy color of your skin.
        In this now, the bare trees are
the dark brown of your hair,
        your lovely upturned eyes.

Hurry. Kiss me while the clouds
        are on fire. Quick, let me hold you
now, and now, before the changing light
        darks my window once again.

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The Cock Block draft I

The Cock Block

Since you told me what a great guy I am,
I have found that the walk from my front
door to the empty garbage can on the curb
is a great deal longer than I remember.

Since you have taken to reminding me
of how nice it is to have me around,
I have found myself staying up late at night
drinking vodka and soda pop, watching
the goddamn discovery channel.

Since you decided not to let me fuck you
six ways to sunday I find my future turning
slowly, like a retarded child, like a fever
dream, into something it wasn’t. Tomorrow
is another country, as far away as the empty
garbage can at the far end of my driveway.

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Here is a first draft of a poem I’m working on for a very special girl

    Le Quattro Stagioni

Come and see the lovely fawns
frisk and play, for it is their first
spring as well. Their dark eyes
shine like your dark hair with
a peculiar light, a young light.
raucous with a rush of life,
awkward with a sudden force.

your lips are parted, panting
in the heavy air. These days
are long like a vowel, like a moan.
The curve of you neck is smooth.
wet and shining, you look to me.
The glow in your eye burns
like the refiner’s fire.

The fire we tended last night
has settled to a bed of coals.
Stay here in this bed with me,
I will hold you. Stay warm
here while the leaves turn
outside. The cool air will blow
them into our open window.

This snow is all we have.
come with me and walk
once more into the drifting.
You see it isn’t cold. Hold me
now, before you once again
become the sky and I
return as the blowing sand.

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