Sunday, March 4, 2007
The Hand
There’s a million stories in the naked city, and they always start with a dame. Getting molested by a greased up turkey douche with a giant, creepy hand.
That swollen appendage haunts me. It tasks my hope. It appears to be moving. Morphing. Mutating. Reaching out not just to grab hottie’s beanbag bebops. Not just reaching out to grope her dueling banjos. Her hand warmers, honeydews, headlamps, hills, honkers, hottentots and humdingers.
But to rend the garments of ideology. To cast aspersions on futurism. To render moot all the progress that has come before. The Hand says “Feh to you, humanity.” And with one grope, an angel dies.
