Inhoudsopgave:
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\u003cdiv\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"The most potent ingredient in virtually every one of Bob Hicok's compact, well-turned poems is a laughter as old as humanity itself.\"\u0026#151;\u003cI\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c/I\u003e\u003c/P\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Hicok's poems are like boomerangs; they jut out in wild, associative directions, yet find their way back to the root of the matter, often in sincere and heartbreaking ways.\"\u0026#151;\u003cI\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c/I\u003e\u003c/P\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn \u003cI\u003eSex \u0026 Love \u0026\u003c/I\u003e, Bob Hicok attempts the impossible task of confronting love and its consequences, in which \"everything is allowed, minus forever.\" Switching gracefully between witty confessions and blunt confrontations, Hicok muses on age, distance, secret messages, and, of course, sex. Throughout, poetry is discovered to be among our most effective tools to examine the delirium of making contact.\u003c/P\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cB\u003e\"Hot\":\u003c/B\u003e\u003c/P\u003e\u003cI\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe sexiest thing a woman has ever done\u003cBR\u003eto or with or for me\u0026#151;while wearing the loose breeze\u003cbr\u003eof a dress or standing inside its red zero on the floor\u0026#151;\u003cbr\u003ewhile bending over and pulling her shorts down\u003cbr\u003eon a racquetball court or to reach the water\u003cbr\u003eshutoff valve behind the fridge\u0026#151;as Satie\u003cbr\u003ewhispers against our thighs or humming\u003cBR\u003eher brain's native tune as we touch\u003cbr\u003ethe smudged glass protecting extinct beetles\u003cbr\u003ein a museum\u0026#151;with her lips swaddling my tongue\u003cBR\u003eor finger up my ass\u0026#151;is tell the truth\u0026#151;\u003cbr\u003ewhich makes my wife the hottest woman\u003cBR\u003eI've ever known\u0026#151;her mouth erotic every time\u003cbr\u003eshe speaks\u0026#151;she is an animal when it comes to sex\u003cbr\u003eand love\u0026#151;comes to us\u0026#151;in that she doesn't primp\u003cbr\u003ein front of the mirror of what she thinks I want\u003cBR\u003eher to say or be\u0026#151;the only real flesh\u0026#151;only naked\u003cBR\u003ethat matters\u0026#150;\u0026#150;how she looks at me\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/I\u003e\u003c/P\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cB\u003eBob Hicok\u003c/B\u003e's poems have appeared in the\u003cI\u003e New Yorker\u003c/I\u003e, \u003cI\u003ePoetry\u003c/I\u003e, and the \u003cI\u003eAmerican Poetry Review\u003c/I\u003e. His books have been awarded the Bobbitt Prize from the Library of Congress and named a \"Notable Book of the Year\" by \u003cI\u003eBooklist\u003c/I\u003e. Hicok has worked as an automotive die designer and a computer system administrator. He is currently teaching at Purdue University.\u003cBR\u003e\u003c/div\u003e |
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