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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


05.31.01

Baring arms, night--summer, finally--rouses wanderlust, rattling awake cans of black spray paint or scratching hearts unto surfaces rough or smooth. After midnight, I hop on my bike and cruise around town, past the closing bars and cafes, the streets finally bereft of insomniacal students, now long-gone for other cities. Drunken men whistle. A lone car defies red light, squealing. An old black man nods, sleepily, as he waits, benched, for his bus.

Peddling idly near a bristly barbed-wire field of concrete and yellow weeds, I watch breathlessly as a moth arises drunkenly from the ruins, one life illuminated by stark moonlight.





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