I like to rag on Robert Lowell. It's fashionable to do so. Like it's fashionable to wear your pants loose and low. And so I like to wear my pants. Following in dinosaur footprints.
Today I had a headache and a neckache so I read some Lowell in the bath.
Once (and if) you get past Lowell's bad bad clothes he is a pleasure. Like a strange and beautiful and very imperfect woman's very perfect tongue.
As I'm reading Lowell the voice I've memorized from Poetry Speaks kicks in and I lie back and shift into cruise control and surrender myself to that perfect tongue.
(It's strange that women, according to popular thinking, use headaches to forgo sex. A big fat orgasm solves everything. Big and fat like a dinosaur.)
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