At the New York Review of Books, a poem by Polish Nobel Prize-winner Czeslaw Milosz, translated with the former poet laureate Robert Hass: it's called "An Honest Description of Myself with a Glass of Whiskey at an Airport, Let Us Say, in Minneapolis."
My ears catch less and less of conversations, and my eyes have weakened, though they are still insatiable.
I see their legs in miniskirts, slacks, wavy fabrics.
Peep at each one separately, at their buttocks and thighs, lulled by the imaginings of porn.
Old lecher, it’s time for you to the grave, not to the games and amusements of youth.
But I do what I have [...]
Seven months ago, I moved to Buenos Aires without a job because I’ve always wanted to learn Spanish. So here I am now, learning Spanish while teaching English and translating Chinese on the side. (Yes, it is weird.) In any case, this summer, my Argentine boyfriend and I went up to the States to visit family and friends. What was supposed to be a two-week-ish vacation quickly turned into a three-week-ish one (and/or limbo of the hellish kind) when we got stuck in the airport for four days, voluntarily, in exchange for something like money.
If you, too, would like to make nearly $6,000 of “money” for “free” in four days, [...]
"You try to make it as best you can for that child to come through. If you can come up with some kind of a game to play with a child, it makes it a lot easier." Because kids love games that involve adult strangers touching them. Jesus christ, TSA.