The Triangular Man

A man’s face can be made of triangles—and my proof is that I’ve seen this man with my own eyes. His eyes and lips are uneven and obtuse, the nose and face are isosceles answers to the question of what would happen if dinosaurs evolved into bipeds?—all of these triangles jut forward from his little moai cranium as boldly and awkwardly as he himself does when conversing with others, thumbing his belt loops and thrusting his false belly left and right from crowd to crowd. Light greenish eyes, lips so bright and red they seem to have been smeared with crayon-wax, and pallid rubbery flesh stretched over his chicken’s neck, his adam’s apple, which shrinks and swells and vibrates when he sings Ave Maria for a crowd of hundreds of his fellow grotesqueries—poorly.

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