Read: Walker Pfost

Walker Pfost는 2년간의 한국에서의 생활 이후,  Irvine에 있는 California 대학에서 크리에이티브라이팅 과정의 석사 학위를 따기 위해 본국으로 돌아갔다. 그의 작품들은  McSweeney's Quarterly Concern에  게재되었다.

After two years of living in Korea, Walker Pfost has repatriated in order to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of California, Irvine. His poems have also been published in McSweeney's Quarterly Concern.


We’ve lived in this room for a year now,
one room, folded in a thousand other concrete rooms
like an air pocket in bread dough, sleeping
geometrically to fit on the bed and keeping the TV
on the balcony to make space. Even so,
we rescued a green vinyl couch from the garbage
and Jenny has decorated the walls with paintings and
photographs and we’re like grape nuts in oat cereal.
My walk to work is as small as the apartment, and
it earns our rent plus airfare to the rest of Asia.

This room is a stone on the beach, clacking with
the thousand other stones as the water recedes.


Cats as Rats

Like what Paris must have been like
between June uprisings and July monarchies
Korea squishes its cats under its buildings
with wet rubber shoes, like sliding hay along floor tiles
into a pile. These cats
are the lint in the shower traps,
the fuzzy shocks on your TV.


As Seen From Inside an Apartment

Inside these apartments are sponge cakes
and waffles,
inside the inside of the apartments, if everything
were sort of x-rayed
soft tissue removed, anything familial or
aesthetic, inside
the dressings and cases and colored papers.
these apartments of five, six, twenty-two stories, eggshell
on custard skin,
gelatinous and yielding to the poke of a spoon, inside
the only framework standing,

there are long chains of DNA, steel, stuffed like straw
down concrete blocks.
There are long rows of uneven mortar gingerbread icing
squished out and hardened
frowning at their permanence, inside these apartments

of tented-out mercy rhymes
where people are transluscent gray and walls are white
and the naked building
is what it will look like a hundred years from now after
some imaginative calamity
guts the sovereign peninsula, inside where
electricity pisses in
onto computers and ceiling lights
that are all gone in this special rough bread vision,
scraped clean
with a knife
and a dry, burnt sound.