Monday, April 20, 2015
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Monday, April 6, 2015
believe our renunciations.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
to the water's edge
and across to the other side.
Some exit this life in a similar way
the place they have turned their backs.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Thursday, April 26, 2012
unutterable words . . .
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
The only thing you know for sure
is that Orszag is not a chopstick man,
and this knowledge is a tugboat
down the widening mouth of foreign policy.
watching the senator perch atop his chair
there was the car ride through this city of forests.
Taken from chair to chair I saw in the window
The ephermeral rectangle; the small glass doorway;
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Friday, April 20, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Pulling her now, by the throat, from whatever
may distract her — squirrels, runners, a ball
bouncing, birds in the grass — a clean jerk
of the leather loop, buckle and chain,
tethered shortly to his side,
if that's anything like
what we need from each other — loyalty, or
the right kind of focus — to anchor the leash
in his left, the other to grip more gently
for slack, should she need it,
to nose in the dirt,
or to yank her from another, more fierce, who
would end her — to know a jump or the faintest
growl means another quick snap — Hey, that's not
how you say hello . . . him saying, as if she were a child.
Some people post pictures of themselves on the internet
posing over the speckled carcass of a kudu
they’ve killed in Tanzania.
It’s usual to dig the uncocked rifle butt
into the ground and grip the spiral horns
like ski poles, for people love a virile huntsman with a viral smile.
Fathers and sons
bond by hunting. Husbands and wives bond by holding
opposite ends of a gun.
Hunting game, if you are gay, probably bores and horrifies you. Write this
down in your diary: What a sad, proud lion lying there in the dust
between the khaki musculature, jugular-struck, mane-pulled
like a passed-out frat boy
having his hair held back. What a miserable zebra with a hole in its throat.
What a wildebeest running
red from nostril and ear.
the cape buffalo crumpled next to a folding chair, a bottle of grey goose
under the fuzzy groin of the thorn acacia,
under the jackalberry tree, under the baobab, under
the jarrah tree, the candelabra
pulling all its shade back into itself.
No quarter given, no quarter sought. We are most ourselves
forgiving what we’ve written of the human heart, though most Americans
report they’d rather post pornographic pictures of themselves
than excerpts from their high school diaries.