TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile
Baring arms, night--summer, finally--rouses wanderlust, rattling awake cans of black spray paint or scratching hearts unto surfaces rough or smooth. After midnight, I hop on my bike and cruise around town, past the closing bars and cafes, the streets finally bereft of insomniacal students, now long-gone for other cities. Drunken men whistle. A lone car defies red light, squealing. An old black man nods, sleepily, as he waits, benched, for his bus. Peddling idly near a bristly barbed-wire field of concrete and yellow weeds, I watch breathlessly as a moth arises drunkenly from the ruins, one life illuminated by stark moonlight.