Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

      A penny for the Old Guy

      I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
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 ***** 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.

      V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
                                Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Dear reader,


Reno doesn't smoke and it's a relief because I'd rather my smile stop her heart than a Malboro. I told her that and she considered never talking to me again because of how corny I was being. If anything, I'm glad she doesn't smoke because her teeth are as white as the snow suffocating the landscape. She asked me if I ever smoked a cigarette and I said no, because my hands would start to tremble at the idea of picking up another of one my father's habits.

We walked in the snow and, three steps and two breaths in, she asked me to stop. Reno bleeds other's blood, and it showed when she dug her hands into the snow to reveal a dog's frozen carcass.

"I saw the tip of his tail sticking out of the snow." She studied the dog's body and brushed some snow off of it's side. There was a wound, the size of a child's fist. Frozen blood stained matted fur, as the front and back legs seemed miles part. "He must have been so cold."

"Someone shot him," I looked at her, as a strand of blond hair cut her face in half when she turned to me.

"He doesn't have a collar...  I know what it's like to not have a home, too," she whispered to him.

I watched her, with her knees in the snow, cry. The tears slid down her cheek when she asked me if I thought that the dog's owner killed him.

"I don't know, Reno. I hope not."

She took off her left glove and wiped her face with a pinkish hand.  She turned to me,"Do you think my dad would **** me, if he could?"



The tree branches hung over the blanketed path, as clumps would fall off and plop frostbitten kisses on the bright, eggshell ground. Eventually we reached the grave of Hilary.

Hilary Natasha Drake
Born October 12, 2001
Died December 8, 2007
May God grant you access into his kingdom
as easily as he granted you access into our hearts.

"She was beautiful," Reno smiled, before she looked away. "My mother would always say, 'Hilary, don't you know how pretty you'll be?' ...She had these lily green eyes that lit up a room-I could have swore that she stole them from the garden of Eden. She was sweet, too. Too sweet. Too kind-hearted."

I felt my hand tighten, as I looked down to see Reno's fingers wrapped around me. Her eyes were holding hostage a flood, as her lip quivered as much as her voice.

"In nine minutes, it will be the anniversary of when we lost her. It was just too much for her and I understand, Hilary. I do.

"It ate her body and wouldn't stop. Every day she seemed thinner and thinner. I remember when she lost her hair. Hilary didn't want to wear a bandana or a cap. I asked her why and she said, 'There's nothing wrong with not having hair, pappy does it all the time.'

"She was so strong, Josh. Stronger than me. Stronger than my dad. When she died, the hospital bills and funeral expenses were too much. We lost everything. My dad lost himself.

"Then, my mother left when his drinking got bad... It was the night before Valentine's day. I remember because I was given so many flowers. I didn't understand why because flowers die, too.

"My mother didn't even say goodbye. She left the photo albums. I never got to say goodbye to her or Hilary and it's not fair because I love them so much. I love them more than anything."

Reno couldn't erupt into tears like they could in the movies. This was the scene where she was supposed to cry uncontrollably or have an epiphany that could alleviate the loss, but neither occurred.

"There's one thing I want you to know, Josh: You can't save me. Don't try, okay? Please, do not try to fix the broken pieces because you'll only cut yourself.

"But there's also another thing I want you to know: You can be there, as I fix myself. I want you to be there."

I looked at her and told her I wanted to be there too.

I think I understand why Reno doesn't smoke, now. The idea of possibly giving herself cancer, when it already has taken away everyone she loves, would take something away from Hilary's fight and only add to Reno's loss.

"I can cry over a dog, but not my sister," she whispered. Reno wiped her nose, looked at me and said, "Am I too much yet?"

"Of course not."



Sincerely,

Joshua Haines

To awake rested, yawn and
get up on the
completely right side
of the bed.

a full, healthy breakfast,
quality coffee.
good news headlining
the paper.

the smell of a bathroom after
a woman has spent time
getting ready for a
night out.

words of kindness from a friend.
such things I adore.
...but I love
poetry more.

a fully comprehensible manual.
a love letter post-it note,
or a book on something
hysterically interesting,

like psychology or history.
music of the kind that you welcome
sticking to your mind for a
whole day.

these things make my day for sure.
...but I love
poetry more.

her hands on me, warm with
sleep as she reaches over and
sighs between dreams.
yes. he's still here...

waking up with her hair in
my face, falling asleep on the
sofa with my head on her legs
the way a dog warms its owner's

feet with itself while resting.
not feeling like myself when
she's further away than the
next room.

hard to not shake
when she cries.
impossible not to laugh when
she laughs,

and to not want her
when she
wants me
to.

****. it's plain to see.
...I love her
more than poetry...

We are all into this together
Yet, thoughts are fragmented
Creating innumerable islands
No one willing to extend support
Bound with invisible constraints
After years, unable to move
Cloistered, with deformed soul
There is an eternal drought
When devoid of emotions

there,
on the vanity it sits—
a perfect smile 'cross perfect lips,
different from the rest
though no less the same.
smooth silk wrapped to tie
in a ritual ignorant of shame,
to fasten in place our lie
a knot most meticulous in design.

hand in hand unwittingly we dance
together in this mingling mystery,
with partners of mutual secrecy.
fingers interlaced,
feigned honesty embraced,
swinging twirling maneuvering,
dancing to the tune of
hearts sobbing souls crying,
unabashed by singing despairing.

carefully painted,
adorned by most beautiful deceit.
flawless—pristine
milk white composure,
hiding beneath
the honest human
in orchestrated illusion.

a mask to hide truth, our
vulnerabilities, insecurities, showing
instead
the face of who we wish to be,
who we deem ourselves to be,
how society demands we be.
by shame or guilt
unfulfilled ambition to become
our dishonest rendition.

so convincing our lies even teller be fooled,
the truth to surface only by dream,
casting reality to realm of fantasy;
stealing from world a uniqueness of beauty.

a mask
belonging to a person—
to each person;
lies not worth living.
there it sits on the vanity—a
perfect smile across perfect lips.

THREE tailors of Tooley Street wrote: We, the People.
The names are forgotten. It is a joke in ghosts.
  
Cutters or bushelmen or armhole basters, they sat
cross-legged stitching, snatched at scissors, stole each
other thimbles.
  
Cross-legged, working for wages, joking each other
as misfits cut from the cloth of a Master Tailor,
they sat and spoke their thoughts of the glory of
The People, they met after work and drank beer to
The People.
  
Faded off into the twilights the names are forgotten.
It is a joke in ghosts. Let it ride. They wrote: We,
The People.