Mischa Barton
Was given a headstart
On Dolly Parton
In a sackrace


And Won.

A man saw the whole world as a grinning skull and
cross-bones. The rose flesh of life shriveled from all
faces. Nothing counts. Everything is a fake. Dust to
dust and ashes to ashes and then an old darkness and a
useless silence. So he saw it all. Then he went to a
Mischa Elman concert. Two hours waves of sound beat
on his eardrums. Music washed something or other
inside him. Music broke down and rebuilt something or
other in his head and heart. He joined in five encores
for the young Russian Jew with the fiddle. When he
got outside his heels hit the sidewalk a new way. He
was the same man in the same world as before. Only
there was a singing fire and a climb of roses everlastingly
over the world he looked on.

The smoke of his cigar brews quietly of sour tobacco in the dark. Mischa took the liberty of the next drag, their nimble fingers trace against his coarse hand in a language Aradia knows so well of temptation.

The smoke of his cigar brews again in silence when it left their mouth with a pop. The tip of their lips curled ever so slightly, as “Aradia,” whispered like a spell.

The once unnamed man answered with a kiss.

His kiss was heavy with aftertastes after aftertastes, of kisses that longs to be undone, of Nina Simone’s sultry voice in late summer night, and of newfound ranklings that rung under the sway of his tongue.

He spoke no love of Mischa anymore, and how feeble he is.