Human Contact
He lives like a man compelled to follow an inevitable course.
His face impassive.
His jaw locked.
He has no concern about the movement of his body.
His anatomy exists as erotic compulsion.
He gorged himself sick.
He is less formal, less rooted in language.
His deft choreography of eye contact reveals everything to know about the workings of desire.
His is the most futile kind of poetry.
He is a succession of people who exist only as things to be used.
His huffing, puffing odyssey.
He contains unblinking truth.
His shame is masked in privacy.
He wants no witnesses.
His cross to bear.
He could be a man prepared to commit suicide.
He is melting, dying, fall.
He was the result of an elegant experiment, rigged from the start.
*Found poem created from reviews of the film Shame (2011), found in The Chicago Sun-Times, The New York Times, and The Guardian.
