TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations & other curiosities :: profile
05.07.05, saturday afternoon
oh how the wind keens its sorrow awake and silver on a cold May morning guitar creaks on the bookstore PA system pigeon-tails fan during futile tangos a hundred grey brooms sweep back and fro and back again across the gummy sidewalk the old woman cries I am Moses! to port waters speaking in bottled secrets kept to themselves
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