11/10/2013 - A BALD JEWISH MAN

A bald Jewish man with a tidy zip comes along every Thursday to blow on the brain and tickle the blood that seeps out of it onto the Parliament gates. It makes a pressure cooker sound, a noise which more often than not interferes with his ability to differentiate greyscale from white. The nasal faculties can and do often distort the carnival data, like it mattered or something. Gold drops from the bald Jewish man to tell his feet and sensible shoes that the shoreline isn’t quite as surrendered as it should be, that it’s wrought and fraught with metal detectors that never seem to lose their shape no matter how much they get called up by police for scientific matters. Someone did something to a shell but that’s all he knew beforehand.

 

Good little spirals can electrocute his ability to be unable with a cause; it can turn him right on his back and throw off his circuit board with nimble treads of the flintlock pistol. The bald Jewish man can taste the stickiness of this line of thinking all the way from over his own hat and there is absolutely nothing his fingertips can do to threaten the situation into tidying itself up. They’ll tell him to come back and come away with hotel listings and sore t-shirts covered with leopard print vomit. Right then they’ll tell him to examine the thankful computer with bulging phosphorescent eyes and foyer voyeurism. Can the language and you’ll reduce the powder into a distinct warp in the lens of some sucker’s second eye, the one that covers his original one without the aid of conversation. There might be new evidence circa major contribution that would re-establish a golden rectangle with storybook potential. That’s the goal of naturalism as found in milky fingerprints and dissolving focus.

 

It would be built from spirals, infused with the thought process of the bald Jewish man and his personal note. He would usually step out onto a limb to let it happen with home market gusto, he would find himself a Hebrew character to muse over and trap with asterisk pinholes. Why would hyphenation affect a man with a blanket tie such as him? The paranoia is tremendous, tremulous and fairly nice as an aphrodisiac. It deserves a mask of treatment, a grimace of light and perhaps a quick and spurious version of the happy birthday song. The lines and dots and curls are courteous enough to supplant themselves in gross return via a pulsing beep. Rubbing the knees might accelerate the process but then what would the wires be for in the big, blue ending? It’s a drawn-out selfish moan in the unshaven face of scientific discovery. Follow the arrows.

 

There is so much to binary, the bald Jewish man surmised, there is so much to eat and repeat and bump uglies about it. It drives me into usurious technology but that’s not so bad. I’ll live as the wailing goes on and scrapes the fuck.