I find it more than troubling that we're back again at this,
but I think it's like all things that are really important.
There are small ways that you change them.
One thing you do, if somebody talks about how rape is funny,
you say, no, it isn't.
That's the start of a conversation that you can have.
Or at least it locates you, and the person
knows not to be an idiot in your presence, you know?
One of my favorite athletes is Greg Louganis.
You remember him?
He competed in the Olympics in the diving competition,
and he was a winner of so many gold medals.
It's almost impossible to tally it up.
He's just an amazing athlete, so I wrote a poem for him.
Praxiteles is a very famous sculptor
of the great classical period, and he
did many statues of what we now see as depictions
of old-time Olympic athletes.
So I'm using his name in this poem.
"If Praxiteles had been an animator,
this form is the one he would have set in motion--
a spinning diver hurtling down toward the surface
of a pool, its smooth skin raised to ripples
by an automatic wind machine.
He'd sculpt Louganis like a beautiful machine poised
against the cloudless sky, then charge his form with action--
the rippling muscles of the torso
tensing with explosive motion as the diver vaults,
kicks out, and plunges into the pool
where cameras follow him down, a sheath of bubbles wrapping him,
down where applause is a watery blur, the machine of celebrity
waiting above him, the press pool eager to surround,
touch his form--
a boy-god, perfect in stasis or motion,
an athlete who could ignite any crowd,
send ripples of excitement around an arena, ripples of awe
around the globe, even after he stepped down from competition.
I saw him once, pure emotion in a dog show ring, his Great Dane
puppy not yet machined into perfection.
Greg was the one all form, perfectly balanced on his toes,
emerging from a pool of dog handlers as the star.
Outside a swimming pool, nobody recognized him at first,
but ripples of applause picked up,
formed a little cup of sound, then settled down again
as he was just one of us, a guy and his dog in motion.
No machine of glory, just a guy and his dog in motion.
That was before rumors of HIV set chaos in motion and sports
shows ran films of his infected blood coloring the pool.
Predictably, the story fed into the tabloid machine,
and the customary scornful ripple
of reaction to anybody gay threatened
to drive his name down from Olympus.
But no bigotry could change the form of his achievement.
No machine of hate or ripple of fear for his life
could alter the timeless motion into a pool
of a beautiful boy falling down from heaven into perfect form."
For those who are fans of form, that was a sestina in case
you were checking to see if I knew anything about form.
It's funny.
I sent this poem to a friend of mine.
He was actually the editor of my first book.
His name is Jim Krusoe, and you might know him
as a kind of slightly deranged writer of fiction.
And he sent it back, and he said, I really like this poem.
But you're repeating some words a little too often.
So I wrote him back, and I said, Jim, it's a sestina.
And he was so embarrassed, he could barely contain himself.
But I thought it was good because it was disguised.