TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
Bare feet ache. Low lamplight flickers. Tall thin man shuffles painted paper. Svendhardt's raisin snail aroma slips through window screen. The fingers of a dead man tickle piano keys. Sleepless factory purrs. Star-flecked plane dips. Truck rumbles. At midnight, in West Oakland. Where Jimmy and I fight, fuss, fuck, cook, laugh, write, read, paint, clean, listen, not-listen, set the dream machine to eight a m, shut-eye, dream, wake to do it all again.