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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


11.25.02, monday night

After hunting taco trucks in Fruitvale, we bike along Foothill. In a neighborhood of ancient houses adorned with briar rose and weed, two gigantic oak trees bow and brush against each other across separate sidewalks, creating a canopy within which beasts titter, rustle, cry. The embrace frames the city beyond, dark buildings, tall florescent lamps, night noir, the orange half-moon.

...

While the Heron sleeps, I resist the urge to slit open his skin and slip fortune under collarbone. Shhhhh! No one would ever know. I'd sew the wound up so tight that the fortune could never escape; he (and others) would never know how it lies there every day, for the rest of his life, wherever he may go.






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