send me a picture postcard (of you and me by the tumbling sea)

by dschapman

the grandest days of cinema oblitheque have finally eclipsed and been filed away as pleasant memories; the tophatters, and damsels, and how-do-you-dos; the spiritedness of us, practically kids!, and golden (still we gild) and full of ourselves; days when we never really had to worry, and we knew it, and we thought boy these days won’t last long, but boy i hope they last forever, and not long has passed; but the days, as foretold, have passed. they were mighty good days; we have pictures on the wall to remember them. i was always warm and the sun always beat down upon my arms. you couldn’t even see me for the smile. you’d think i’d been born yesterday. money didn’t matter; consumption didn’t matter; the law never mattered; and whatever we needed was always readily procured, cut up, and consumed. remember la madrugada, when we lay in our royal bed, and count the bird chirps in the lightening morning blue; we talked about the future, as though it was something to look forward to… those days when we were lucky; the days of the darling featherlight hands clasped finger to finger; the cameras, the ascots, the watercolor stains, the louis l’amour, the caramel apples, the automobiles, the lavish meals; the hoops, the feathers, the developing chemicals, the crawfish picnics and paddleboats (gone, gone, ever gone, the sunday evening paddleboat rides) and pretzels and humpty dumpty and the gypsy jazz guitarist himself, DJANGO! those days are already behind us. no one listens to django anymore. no listens to me when i stamp and holler and pull out my hair. i get frustrated and chomp my teeth. i play with myself and pee and out the window. i write ghost stories in invisible ink. i’m a dumb little kid, and you better pay attention! i’ll gut you if you don’t. right in the gut, upwards, and with a twist. i will blend into the shadows. i will tapdance across your patio in courtship. bless you, madam; have my handkerchief. would you like a plum for your palate? no, she says; one for her palette, please, and a strawberry, too. i bring them to her. we are laying side to side and watching the sea come crashing in on the rocks. our spirits are high.

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