novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- fading anchors and painted women at my grandmother's trailer park they have breakfast get-togethers once a month. i went one sunday and the man cooking sausage with the faded sailor tattoos lining his arms like vericose veins kept staring at me. i dished up soggy scrambled eggs onto my grandmother's outheld, wobbling paper plate and felt his eyes on the back of my head, in a pause between frying and flipping. i didn't feel regarded in a sexual way, but as some detail in an old, frayed memory. i found out that his name is minton, same as muffie's old cat. 12:48 am - 07.02.02 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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