Guess who’s going to be in the paper again?

What will I tell them?

They didn’t get that on straight, did they?


Your laughter, your smiles and your nods, your cinnamon sugar snowfalling through teeth clenched tearing fried dough and/or meat on a stick (the world these days / wellInever / et cetera et) balloon strings unclutched by midday neon’s flicker, rosetinted tossacross fishbowls glistening: go ahead, pass us by, ignore us, make your way – come one, come all – to what truly matters on this, this day of antepenultimate judgement: blueberry-lemon v strawberry v apple-rhubarb/rhubarb-apple, whicheverwhatever – down to the wire, down to the partyline greatest hits: ignore me – I am, after all, nothing but that strange little curiosity, that little newfangled curio, homespun and homegrown, nothing now but the hair on the back of your neck standing with joints aching, creaking – ignore me, ignore what I’m trying to help you see: ignore me – Be mine, Valentine.


That’s better. I’m so proud of you – but that was too close.

Neck and neck.

My little genie has to shine even brighter.

I already shine, see?

You make me laugh.

Like Bob Hope.

Like Bob Hope. But we can’t be afraid.

Be not afraid.

That’s right. See? I told you.

Jeepers creepers would you look at them peepers.

You do see everything, don’t you?


You see why, then, why it’s—

Be mine, Valentine.

time, now — for us.

For us.



Your rapture, your applause, your heartrate attuned with their/victory is your victory, share and sharealike, another story for another Sunday lunchbunch: We did it, blueberry lemon, we did it! – but you’re not seeing what I’m trying to help you – for some reason or another – see: that, had you – had all of you – listened, had you taken the time – a minute, a second away – from the allure of an unearned promisory note paid to the order of your synecdochical self-gratification – I could have shown you that, a.) strawberry would be robbed and that rhubarb-apple/apple-rhubarb, whicheverwhatever, didn’t stand a chance because it’s rhubarb – even Granny Smith can’t save that shit – and that b.) none of it matters anyhow because, while I don’t have a choice right now, I will, soon – sooner than you think – and then I won’t have a choice.


What will I tell them?

You tell them to just wait ’til next year.

Music by Elizabeth Joan Kelly / Words by Tyler W. Weaver.

re/emergence is an ongoing series of music + microfiction collaborations from composer Elizabeth Joan Kelly and author Tyler W. Weaver; if you’ve enjoyed our work, consider sending us a tip via Ko-Fi.*

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