I watched The Last Jedi last night, and if that deters you from reading further, I poured a cup of coffee for myself this morning. Now we are in this together. Text their spouse and drive, have that one extra glass of wine, rescind unconditional love, fear strangers and forget to greet them. I read once that no one writes about money in poems because of inflation: my children may not understand how three dollars could buy a cup of coffee, or why, though we never went hungry, I have to count every dollar I spend. And as for The Last Jedi— I let someone take me and forgot about the past, which is something else my mother taught me, the self lost in cinema, so every week, I go alone and find her. She is there, and she is in the next empty seat; she is the driver, or the passenger, and we have both seen the bobcat down the road at the same time, wait for the curtain of unbelievable rain to hammer us, both gasp the shimmered beauty of an April blizzard before I grow up, make money, become my own parent.
Search results for 'broken glass'
Coffee-House Poetry : Troubadour Poetry Prize
Mistah Kurtz—he dead. Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us—if at all—not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. II Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer— Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom III This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man's hand Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death's other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone. IV The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death's twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men.
Homes of Loss (spoken-word poetry by Maheen Hyder)
This place a palace of light drawn with shade Of silence and pretence a token of our trade And here you and I lie wreathed in flames All over a life lived by making up new games Of gazes and whispers. I want you to know I still love you When I walk down the memory lane Where the night swears its love to the stars There will be no more tears today, hey hey. Making waves and diving under Lightning to the sound of thunder My dark disquiet singing such haunting melodies. So I want to run to your shelter tonight Run to the shelter tonight United in silent resistance Of bowing to false kings.
Bad Jobs is an anthology of tales--both humorous and tragic--about the worst jobs people have ever held. This collection of stories, comics, and photographs depict, in gory true-life detail, examples of bad jobs. We all shudder at the thought of our own worst jobs-waiter, cashier, parking lot attendant-but these take the cake, demonstrating just how bad bad jobs can be. Bad Jobs is full of wry, subversive tales, comics, and assorted miscellany from the trenches of the working world.