Saturday, July 31, 2010


The legless man birched his way up the sideways, his pushcart wobbling from side to side. As today he had decided to be contumelious (to a fault) he veered and caromed trying to knock over as many passerby’s as he could, a munificent grin widening his already wide face. He barreled over a man wearing a Zuckerstätter cap, the poor man toppling head over heel to the pavement. Next he rammed into a woman in a Burgtheater wig, the wig leaping from her head and flying down the sideways like a hirsute kite. ‘Nestbeschmutzer!’ hollered the now hatless man, his face as red as a crushed rose. ‘scoundrel!’ yelled the wigless woman, ‘you’ve made a fool of me!’ hollered the once Zuckerstätter capped man. He upended a woman walking her dog, sending them crashing into the Seder grocer’s storefront window, both woman and dog tinseled in broken glass. ‘cocksucker!’ screamed the woman at the top of her lungs, ‘Nestbeschmutzer!’ hollered the hatless man ‘scoundrel!’ yelled the wigless woman, ‘kill the legless cunt!’ shouted a man with one eye ‘freak!’ Smiling from ear-to-ear the legless man punted across the medium, ‘not a cloud in the sky’ he said to himself ‘what a beautiful day’.

The day began and ended and ended and began until beginning and ending were indistinguishable from one another. The man in the hat sat on a bench thinking of ways to sit that didn’t hurt his back, moving his buttocks from side to side, sliding across the wooden top of the green splintered bench. He did things (to a fault), either sitting or pretending to sit but slouching, which he did when sitting hurt his back, preferring to slouch rather than sit thinking of ways to sit that didn’t effect his back, which hurt more often than not. He thought perhaps sitting on his hands, raising his body up like a gallows, might lessen the pain; but it simply redistributed the pain to his lower back and arms.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

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