TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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05.22.05, late sunday night
At dusk, three cars parked on the bridge leading into the port. Through binoculars, I noted flowers entwined in the fence where some catastrophe had bent the chainlink. Long black streaks punctuated the concrete underneath. The black-hooded men shook hands, stood with their heads bowed before the chainlink shrine, laid flowers at the base of the streetlamp on the lane divider. Then they got into their cars and drove off.
Later, cars roaring down the street. Police sirens in pursuit. The factory stirring awake, flue pipes screaming steam loose.