TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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06.29.04, tuesday morning
I cannot sleep straight these days. My body wants to curl up fetus-style & when I wake up intermittently, as it is my wont these (broke, unemployed, disowned) nights, I can sense the past coiled in the net of darkness surrounding our bed: years & years, from 1977 to 2003, colossal glinty-scaled serpents of memory that would strangle me if I don't re-crook. This morning I woke up with a sore back & remembered my dream: mother knifed me, screeched & then resumed her attack with a poker, a slender bloody startlingly black affair of steel in the otherwise white furniture-less room. I screamed; father ran out.