Saturday, May 24, 2014

Passiflora



In the dusk it looks like a pulsing, fuzzy haystack rising up in the middle of the vacant lot where the City of Roses Motel once stood. Peering closer, one can see that it’s a machine of some sort made of live ferrets wired together by their legs, necks, tails. It starts to rain and the heap of writhing weasels begins to move, slowly, dragging its bulk along on hundreds of tiny paws across the cracked concrete, screeching and squealing as it inches through the weeds, past the piles of debris, seeking shelter but finding only a chain link fence linterlaced with vines thick with passion flowers.

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