Taking Care of Futurism, #1 (Heliotrope)

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March 23, 2023 by tsk2001

Jen and Stef are cavorting in the surf in the distance, splashing each other like kids, and laughing. I’m glad to see Jen carrying on like nothing’s wrong. I hope she doesn’t swim for the coast, but if she does she’ll likely come back—eventually. “You go, girl,” I go, slapping Vick on the shoulder as I stare in awe at the bare expanse of her chest, stiff nipples silhouetted in the impending dusk like this was a photo from a Thai sex tourism brochure for Pattaya’s Sunset Boob Cruise, where Lonnie liked to tell the story about how he got seasick and had to nurse on a lactating waitress to control his nausea. “Don’t worry about the fish, V-babe. Don’t worry about anything.” She grins lopsidedly and lopes off across the beach to skirt the die-off before heading down to the water, her long strides kicking up little sand trails like she was a flesh engine.

G says, “Frank O’Hara has a line, I can’t think of the name of the poem: ‘The fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism.’ That’s what Vicki makes me think of.”

“Fucking A, G. She’s Unique Forms of Mega-titted Continuity in Space.” It’s the best intellectual comeback I can manage since I can’t think of anything about Frank O’Hara at the moment, I’m drawing a total blank on him, nor can I think of the name of the sculptor I’m referencing. As G grins, apparently liking my line, I stop to admire the smears of cirrus cloud shot with orange-red as the sunset starts its striptease. Or are those cumulus clouds? No, the smeary ones are cirrus, cumulus are the big puffy ones, right? Oh, fuck. And isn’t there a third kind? There was a time when I knew this. Like, last week. I’m not gonna ask G, though, she’s in a LUX AETERNA-bursting squat now, busy studying the dead fish as I study her very live haunches.

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