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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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08.16.04, monday morning

At night a cemetary is one of the quietest places in the world. Except at the very top where the crickets like to gather for their music conferences. I was drunk & tired but glad, climbing over fences in witch shoes & unaware that soon I'd be raking my name in the sandpits of the local country club's golf course, the tall eucalypti bending toward each other &, with their enmeshed leafy arms, creating portals of sky for wanderers like us. We were three, hiking to the top of a hill, where we caught downtown Oakland's crooked red crown while a grand cricket chorus chirrupped a great din.






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