Recently, going around the country, meeting people,
talking to people, I become--
it seems to me that we're in danger of losing affect.
People are actually almost ashamed of feeling
both in schools and in the outside world.
They have emotions from the older brain, the old brain
at the back of the head, which is filled with anger, and fear,
and aggression.
But the modern brain is in trouble, I think.
We always assume that various kinds of love
are natural or genetic.
But it's not that easy, not that safe.
A lot of scholars are saying that there
is no evidence in ancient Greek culture
or ancient Roman culture of romantic love.
There's a lot of sexual love, pride love, power love,
but not what we think of this romantic love, which
they say for Europe probably was invented about the 12th century.
So I'd like to read some poems about love,
various kinds of love.
The first poem was actually about Don Giovanni,
after the opera is over, after the Commendatore reaches
up and pulls him down into the underworld.
And I imagine him going along a path in Italy, dirt path,
and singing an aria to explain himself.
You know, because he was handsome.
He was rich.
He was educated.
And why did he spend all his time on women?
This poem is not about that directly.
It's about a different kind of love.
It's about a street person.
A person was looking for a place to lie down in the woods,
in the park, and he comes upon a murdered body.
I still haven't decided on where to put the microphone.
It's called "Guilty."
The man certainly looked guilty, ugly, ragged, and not clean.
Not to mention, they're finding him there
in the woods with her body.
Neighbors told how he was always playing with dead squirrels,
mangled dogs, even snakes.
He said those were the only things that
would allow him to get close.
Look at me, the old man said with uncomplaining simplicity.
I am already one of the dead among the dead.
It's hard to watch things humiliated the way death does
it, possum smeared on the road, birds
with ants eating out their eyes.
Even dying rats want privacy for their disgrace.
It's true I washed the dirt from her face and the blood
off the body, combed her hair.
I slept beside her, at her feet for two days the way
my dog used to.
I got the dress.
I got the dress back on the best I could.
She looked so neglected, like garbage thrown in the weeds,
like nobody cared because he had done that to her.
I kept thinking about how long she is going to be alone now.
I knew the police would take pictures and put them
in the papers naked and open so people eating breakfast
could look at her.
I wanted to give her spirit enough time to get ready.