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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


02.18.03, tuesday afternoon

Since Sunday, I've been palming a lil noise-maker, a tuff-kid charm mine since the day when J and I sat on a small hill that lolled toward Dolores Park, drinking beer and counting the helicopters that hovered over downtown. One, two, three.

Earlier at Civic Center, police officers lined in black-suited rows, idly fingering the billy clubs and guns resting in their holsters.

Afterwards he and I, flaneur and flaneuse, wandered through the streets, passing persons toting anti-war signs. They strolled idly, chatting to their companions. A slow-Sunday sight, though not so sure and long-lasting, on what might be the eve of war-bloom.

Now a strange creature occupies formerly girl-body: worker-bee, with a lion's black-maned head and a mouse-tail, rows and rows of sharp tiny teeth where there should be soft heart-meat. In my pocket, the noisemaker jingles, lil angry boy wearing sanguine heart and vermilion boxing gloves; he makes noise as I walk to and from work.




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