Archive for the ‘Naked’ Category

“42, wow! Being a prostitute agrees with you!” he exclaimed, eyes wide, genuine vibe, no trace of irony.

“You look awesome, beautiful.”

Lyuba, 42.





Shtange, Irina Dmitrievna (1906-1992) - Tri Gracii


I ask him why men like looking at naked women,

the more,

the better.

“It’s primal…” his slurred reply,

jaw gaping,

“and inspiring.”




I stare into the abyss,

and down my leg I piss.

In my dream I am naked,

not nude, alas.


not composed.

Yet, it is an artificial construct,

suiting the other’s agenda.


and misrepresented,

decisions and derisions already made,

I know discussion is futile.




Internal exile.

Domestic abuse.




Altai, Belukha, Panthera…

Between the wars

and naked terror.

Power plays,

assertions, suggestions.

Insults fester,

sting forever.

Everyone knows best,

the enemy less.

Between the wars,

between the lines,

generations battle,


wisdom slides,



Humiliation is the key.




Naked I stand before them…

They gawk, smirk and laugh,

sensing humiliation, they salivate.

Nothing (much) left to lose, I feel

exposed and strangely liberated,

arms akimbo, I laugh back.

Sensing crazy, they walk away.




Rabbi taught on the tabernacle and the importance of an attitude of gratitude.

He emphasized how the children of Israel were brought closer to God by the process of stripping, out in the wilderness, humbled.



The essential and elemental.

We must strip away the vestiges,

wannabe idols of human construct.

Modesty as a form of self-righteousness…

Adam and Eva in the Garden,


fig leaves and a legacy of bullshit,

my mind got to thinking.

I agree.

It’s what we want to see.

It’s what we want to be.

Something about it, just *feels* so *right*.

I am naked, therefore I am.

What more do we need?



I imagine myself completely naked,

walking along a pristine beach.

I’m holding the hand of a man,

he too is naked.

We aren’t talking,

we have no need to speak out loud,

we are communing silently,

it is a deep and pure connection,

as we walk along the beach.

I feel safe and secure.

I feel enlightened.

I no longer feel afraid.

The scene is beautiful.

We are beautiful.

We are made in the image of God.


Today I bought myself a Birthday card,

a road cyclist on the front.

Through the watercolor, kinetic hues,

I could see that it was Lance Armstrong,

Team RadioShack days.

The card wasn’t trying to be ironic,

nor was it discounted in price.

That I would buy the Birthday card,

or even want to,

says something about me,


and society.


No money to feed the children.

No money to treat the sick.

No money to help the poor, the homeless, the fatherless, the elderly, the hard-up, hard-luck, screw-up who’s about to kill himself and as many others as he can take with him, already in hell.

But money to pay for Monster Jam Trucks

(Coming to a city near you…)

… That’s entertainment,

the true opiate of the masses.

The Art Model raised her eyebrows and grimaced as she thought about these things.


Everybody has a story worth listening to, said the asshole on the beach.

I was gazing fondly at the young woman’s derriere, nothing was hidden, and I heard the words, the story, as she stretched forward, her lips parted. Faces I could see beyond her, a young girl, so innocent and sweet (yeah, right). Juxtaposition imposed. Pink lips and a cute little kitten’s tongue, barely sticking out.

Everybody has a story worth listening to. You just have to listen and be patient, ask the right questions, in the right way.

Everybody has a story worth listening to: that includes me, it includes you, but it probably doesn’t include the dork who lives next door (right?).

Everybody has a story worth telling. Like the guy in the minivan from Dulles, returned from a long stay in Romania, going home, whatever that means, and how he talks: how backward and corrupt, dirty and banal, it seems here and now in the USA, compared to beautiful Romania.

Again, I see her lips.