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David with the Head of Goliath, 1609–10? No bronze, paraphernalia, or feathers. No euphoric cheers or parade. Simply The slayer and his prey. The boy’s body Shines horrific as a candle. Without Tenderness, the light cuts his skin Across the arm; around a nipple; his chest And neck; across the wrinkles of his brow, His…
According to her housemate, she is out with Bob tonight, and when she’s out with Bob you never know when she’ll get in. Bob is an English professor. Bob used to be in a motorcycle gang, or something, or maybe Bob rides a motorcycle now. How radical of you, Bob— I wish I could ride…
Rick had been searching for the Pillings’ address for over twenty minutes, and the hungrier he became, the harder it was to concentrate on the dimly lit street signs, the six-digit numbers stenciled on curbs. Westgate Village was a planned community an hour away from the downtown loft where Rick lived, and its street names…
Exalt me into flesh, each nerve feathering at your right touch. Odd cannibal, incarnate me in you. Touch what’s made expressly to be touched, tap as on a sugar maple, when I say tongue, I mean that quick conjunction of flesh and flame—in excelsis—Deo, Deo,
After the party ends another party begins and the survivors of the first party climb into the second one as if it were a lifeboat to carry them away from their slowly sinking ship. Behind me now my friend Richard is getting a fresh drink, putting on more music, moving from group to group—smiles and…
What I knew was that part of my body was leaving. A pinch of it on the flow out through a bare arm surrendered to the fluorescent scrutiny the clinic. Like a bite, I was told, this tearing into, and yet I did not look, did not care to see the thickening in the vial,…
The Man with the Spotted Dog I was sitting at an outdoor café across from the ocean in Florida when I spotted the man with the spotted dog. I thought it was interesting. Me at a seaside resort and a man with a spotted dog. It reminded me of the famous story where a man…
The air turns red: rumors of sex, death rumors, rumors of rumors, offering their feigned collective sympathy. So sad she dumped her latest husband . . . Tragic that he showed up sloshed (again!)— at the wedding reception, staggered into the cake, face-down at the tiny feet of the sugar couple . . . Poets’…
Tim O’Brien, Tomcat in Love, a novel: In his seventh novel, O’Brien makes a brave and hilarious turn with Thomas Chippering, a professor of linguistics, Vietnam vet, spurned husband, and unrivaled womanizer. (Broadway)
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