I Am Kurious Oranj Rar < Plus · FIX >

My mother was a tree in a concrete yard. My father was the smog from a nearby rubber factory. I was conceived in a cough. The other fruits on my branch grew round and fat, dreaming of the juice bar, dreaming of the breakfast plate. They whispered of sweetness, of the simple, solar joy of being squeezed.

This is the story you wanted, isn’t it? The deep one. The one about the fruit that achieved enlightenment through entropy. I Am Kurious Oranj Rar

I am Kurious Oranj Rar. The name is a misprint, a scar left by a drunken typesetter in a forgotten punk zine. Or perhaps it is the truest thing about me. I am a curiosity. An orange. A rarity. My mother was a tree in a concrete yard

She was right. I was. My peel was the crust, cracked and tectonic. The blue-gray mold was my atmosphere, a poisonous, beautiful sky. The tiny, wriggling larvae of a fruit fly were my first citizens. They had no politics, only hunger. It was a perfect anarchist society. The other fruits on my branch grew round

The silence after the Harvest was the first true music I ever heard. The wind sounded different. It sounded like a cello being played with a hacksaw.