TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Under nearly night sky, its chin cleft'd by a thick slice of moon, we three turn gold with dusk, all knees and arms simply lolling languid on a damp grassy hill. Lampposts twinkle. Balding trees bend low, crones mourning over the fall-out of their youth's crowns: we were young once. Now look at us.
Countenance pink streaked with almost-night, Boy keeps quiet as his eyes follow paths, rambling and Saturday-idle, of wanderers and the dogs of wanderers who sniff and snarl and whine their pleasure. His best friend BJ, a tall lanky boy, inky hair quirky and restless under worn brown fedora, peer at me through taped-framed glasses. When did you know you were a woman?//When do we know we are men and women? //Maybe we're adults when we bleat sounds like Charlie Brown's parents, dinner conversations all gibberish and Jabberwocky for children, who have no use for talk of dish patterns, dental insurance and pension plans.