Graham Foust Secret Rerun Even unthreatened, you're a goner, singer. Say this and your face goes under. We're of the same dark ages, same flashes, but my mouth is more a cause-effect flower. There's a room—Hello!—full of everything we've ever out- grown, and not a bit of it is money. The creatures there were killed for so much less than their obvious sweetness. The barely dreamt-of alarm's the more frequent alarm. I make us explain—A passing machine shines missing.—the screen, a slice of lecture dire with color. Calculable—Got it.—and radiant cuts, that's the policy. The world was always yours, you. The dead are fine. The dead are fine. The dead are fine. Retarded Artifact Give me reasons not to be oblivion, irony. Like something in Wisconsin, I am all the dirt I know. Having come to in someone else's boredom, I'm alive— and it's an all-new boredom, a boredom of cathedral proportion. Empty as folk, I just make up, make over everything. Lately, I don't even want a piece of me. about Graham Foust