FAT MAN
- May 29
- 1 min read
By Robert Lipton
The geometries surround us, the drunk boys on the frat house steps, industrially incapable
of irony, are still morose about losing something, to someone, this has parallelogram written all over
their pusses. Two infinite lines of frat houses on Euclid, an equilaterally elaborate taco truck with no
outside angles, squats on the corner, gravity dripping off it like liquid gerbils, Seurat painted a pear the
size of a hot air balloon, but I measure all human distances and detours by the tin sphere spot welded
and unseen in the visible light spectrum, usually it’s found just beyond the Solberg’s redwood fence,
next door to the boarded up rectory, all variations of 90 degrees and not the last pedophile
ring(sphere) that could never be solved within the constraints of imaginary numbers, from the air, you
see an imperfect cul-de-sac, no houses, no street, trees and peat moss, sometimes rain falls in square
meter cubes, every street or so, the woodshed, Ms. Swanson’s cat, choir practice, will all,
intimately be acquainted with geometry, the sphere is not a sphere in a street of mild children cradled
by a local gravity sticking every child to the soft serve playground, the sphere will obstinately appear
as the metallic squeal of a tiny merry go round, centripetal force dulling the abstraction of a desert
floor erupting in sun.