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    Haven’t posted anything in here in ages, but was recently approached by an old friend, asking if I had any new work under 600 words that I’d consider submitting to his lit mag. Alas, no. The only writing I’ve done in the past several years has been plays for 14/48. But it got me to thinking about some of my old stuff. And I’ve also been playing guitar more since the eruption of the pandemic, but haven’t written any new songs in years and years and years. That combo of thoughts led me back to this piece, which was originally published in the long-since defunct Insolent Rudder. Wrote it 30+ years ago, and used to even use it as an audition piece. Dunno if I’ll ever put strings to this, but I’ve always liked this piece. So… here it is.



    Lemon carved caverns in the fleshy pink parts of my mouth, seeking open sores where it could twist and play, making me wonder what it is I like about citrus fruits.

    She… had lemony eyes, which sounds odd, but think on it, really think, thought I.

    Their flavor drew me in until I was immersed in their acidity, eyes finding fault, eyes finding open sores to twist and play in.

    The pyramids, I thought, were built by men with lemony eyes. Eyes seeing all, seeing large, eyes finding open sores on slaves to twist and play in.

    When I first opened. The door? My eyes? A book? I smelled a lemony scent and I should have known then that things would be clean, no grease. Mr. Kleen ruled all in her world of lemony-freshness.

    But I need my Vitamin C, thought I; perhaps, I reasoned, I need this relationship, acidic though it is. Perhaps this will be good for me. And, if not, I can make lemonade.

    So I thanked the spirits that sent this lemony person into my world of open sores, a world that needed cleaning, a world I wanted to twist and play in…

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