Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Happy Halloween Veacey-Veace

And let us never tell of the way the phone's programmed ring shook your features into a weary dismay. Or the way we watched you turn back the sheets each of those fall nights and listened, Youngman, as you whispered into the receiver of your isolation. Youngman, solitary, diminished city. Youngman who wears sackcloth to the market to cover the silkworms as they spin histories wholecloth in the secret (but we know it) corner of his soul. Youngman, we cannot provide erotica for your household anymore. Hold on, Youngman, your sinister dealings stay secreted-away on the inside of our heavy spirits. (So many miles from where anyone who knows you now believes you really reside.) We are sorry to see you this way. Sorry to see you go. Buck up, Youngman, the town's pyromaniacs live for fangs of fire. A garden of witchy light so shiny. Even the heat so welcome in the tepid life of Youngmen and their flax-colored days. Reel ahead, Youngman, the tomorrows to which the flash and flame have petered out. Your home cinders. Every hour ash. There is no revolution afoot. Stumble on.

---A.P. The Day the Babies...


Steph R said...

Are we in a fight?

a-smk said...


Ha! No you and I are not.

I am madly applying for jobs to get closer to where my peeps are. That would be you, Missie Miss. Did you get my instructions for the fellowship I mean for you to apply to?

Also, I have some other stuff to run by you soon. I miss you terribly--that's all.

Steph R said...

We should talk soon. All I do is go to work and come home and pass out. And I barely leave the house on the weekends because I just want to chill and ignore Manhattan. Not writing, not even blogging.

a-smk said...

Soon, Miss Steph-the-Talented, soon.

Also, the scarletina project and others demand our attention. These jobs first and then sigh...some oxygen.

Take care,