|
|
|
And Words Are All I Have
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Those raised blanched scars along your arms
|
|
Are beacons impossible to ignore.
|
|
You trace each in turn with a fingertip,
|
|
remembering how every new cut
|
|
seemed like a victory then,
|
|
its own perfect row of tiny scarlet beads
|
|
triumphant tattoos propelling you a step forward
|
|
along the endless forbidding corridors,
|
|
lending you a voice to cry out
|
|
These thin welts proclaim your story now,
|
|
Stalwart, they proved your true north.
|
|
Offering proof that you endured,
|
|
celebrating how you carved your way
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
News at 11 Warren Beatty will now be remembered as the old guy who screwed up at the Oscars. Forget his landmark films, his dangerous Clyde Barrow looks. That scene in Reds where he and Keaton reunite at the train station, The one that left you breathless: I saw it in a commercial the other day for Citibank. All of …
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
No More Rust Now that scientists in Beijing have discovered how to slow down aging in monkeys, will we learn how to stop all of nature next? Think. No more showers of autumn leaves. Gone, the soulful, wrinkled hands, Happy Retirement cards. Bid goodbye to old faithful dogs, plastic surgeons, Lens Crafter stores, Gone, too, those gloriously aged porpoises, wizened …
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
