Trio No. 12
1.
The way I looked in my Seymour Glass swim trunks is the way I wanted everyone to see me.
Not impressive.
Just specific.
The way I looked in my Seymour Glass swim trunks is the way I wanted everyone to see me.
Not impressive.
Just specific.
2.
Well look, I’m not saying that anything ever happened, because it didn’t. I mean nothing physical anyway, and probably nothing emotional on her part, although how do I really know that? We’ve never actually had a conversation about it. It could be that she was waiting the whole time for me to say something, while I was waiting the whole time for her to say something and because neither of us ever said anything nothing ever happened. There were good reasons for neither of us to ever say anything. I mean we were both in other relationships at the time, still are, though she’s in a different one now, but the fact remains that I was otherwise committed all along. And I do mean committed. I really wasn’t looking over my shoulder for something better at all. That’s the truth. Still, it makes you wonder about all those little junctures that you encounter throughout life. Like millions and millions of them. Some seem bigger than others, though my suspicion is that we’ll all be dead in x number of years anyway and why not plan for that by taking as many different roads as possible? What I’m saying is that with all the carbon flying and running and tumbling and blowing around in the universe, somebody’s bound to run into somebody else, bounce off, and keep ricocheting until the conversion starts. We think of death as the end of something but really, it’s just the start of a conversion. You and I are the products of millions and billions of conversions and we’ve got a lot more to undergo before we’re finished. Which, come to think of it, is never. I guess all this is to say that there’s a conversion stage in which I did speak up, and so did she, and we kissed, and made children, and more than likely she eventually got sick of my drinking and staying out late, and hit me in the head with something, and I wound up dead under the bed. Converted, or at least well on my way.
Wonder what’ll become of the kids.
Well look, I’m not saying that anything ever happened, because it didn’t. I mean nothing physical anyway, and probably nothing emotional on her part, although how do I really know that? We’ve never actually had a conversation about it. It could be that she was waiting the whole time for me to say something, while I was waiting the whole time for her to say something and because neither of us ever said anything nothing ever happened. There were good reasons for neither of us to ever say anything. I mean we were both in other relationships at the time, still are, though she’s in a different one now, but the fact remains that I was otherwise committed all along. And I do mean committed. I really wasn’t looking over my shoulder for something better at all. That’s the truth. Still, it makes you wonder about all those little junctures that you encounter throughout life. Like millions and millions of them. Some seem bigger than others, though my suspicion is that we’ll all be dead in x number of years anyway and why not plan for that by taking as many different roads as possible? What I’m saying is that with all the carbon flying and running and tumbling and blowing around in the universe, somebody’s bound to run into somebody else, bounce off, and keep ricocheting until the conversion starts. We think of death as the end of something but really, it’s just the start of a conversion. You and I are the products of millions and billions of conversions and we’ve got a lot more to undergo before we’re finished. Which, come to think of it, is never. I guess all this is to say that there’s a conversion stage in which I did speak up, and so did she, and we kissed, and made children, and more than likely she eventually got sick of my drinking and staying out late, and hit me in the head with something, and I wound up dead under the bed. Converted, or at least well on my way.
Wonder what’ll become of the kids.
3.
A list of objects and compound objects:
A framed photo of a lion on the hunt.
A cardinal, male.
A potato, the smoothest I’ve ever seen.
A roll of masking tape.
A couple of lead wheel weights.
The painting of Billie Jean King under the train bridge.
Five smooth pebbles in a glass jar.
A cow’s tongue, wrapped up in a deli case.
A jaw harp.
A small gear, of unknown machinery.
An adze.
A gift shop butter churn.
A list of ways to leave your lover.
Your lover.
A bent knife in a dirty drawer in a pop-up camper.
Moss, damp.
A plastic shovel.
A straw in a glass of ginger ale.
A sheaf of garden-picked herbs.
A list of objects and compound objects:
A framed photo of a lion on the hunt.
A cardinal, male.
A potato, the smoothest I’ve ever seen.
A roll of masking tape.
A couple of lead wheel weights.
The painting of Billie Jean King under the train bridge.
Five smooth pebbles in a glass jar.
A cow’s tongue, wrapped up in a deli case.
A jaw harp.
A small gear, of unknown machinery.
An adze.
A gift shop butter churn.
A list of ways to leave your lover.
Your lover.
A bent knife in a dirty drawer in a pop-up camper.
Moss, damp.
A plastic shovel.
A straw in a glass of ginger ale.
A sheaf of garden-picked herbs.
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