Nudity Is

beautiful nude woman

I flipped through the pictures until I came across the one I saw before.

In all the vividness and splendor of black and white, I peered at a woman on the edge.

There, in a moment, she is nude, rear facing the camera, front facing danger and destruction, turning away from the tantalizing passion and desire of man at the risk of the free fall below.

The girl with her arms stretched above her head; her hands are in the “salute” pose I’d often seen in gymnastics.

Those beautiful, slight, fragile hands are pointed toward the heavens in much the same way as thousands who had been tied to crosses before, but these ropes seem gone, cast away, if just for a moment, and now these two features—the features that give us so much advantage in this world and that cause so much pain—are positioned to cut through the air and thus the water in desperate hope to limit impact.

In a moment, her long hair is wild and free, as is her body.

Free of clothing, free of the concept of nudity, evil, and humiliation. Her mane pours over her shoulders not in an attempt to hide her nakedness but rather to highlight her natural beauty.

I saw her dark wet hair kiss her spine. The two are glued in matrimony of being.

The spine slowly crawls to the buttocks. They are firm, muscular but feminine. I felt elated. I felt good. Looking at her made me love being human, and I think the human body is beautiful. The hips join in to create a beautiful harmony.

I can still recall the diamond-shaped light sifting between her legs, where the buttocks, thighs and crotch meet. Dark skin against the light of the sun; water, the giver of life, running down the flesh; the woman, in the moment, and the viewer moved in time.

There, in a moment, my eyes moved further down to see the form of her legs, her hamstrings, the back of her knees—that are so fun to tickle—and her wonderfully shaped calf muscles.

It finishes with the soles of her feet blinking at me, “dirty” but not so and even so, I would not mind them dirty at all, for all of her is so beautiful in this moment. She brings me into her experience and I forget all about the photograph.

Everything becomes one: I, her, and nature.

A Snippet: How Media’s Construction of Fear and Rage Creates Our Life-Myth

Poverty is pulling the Trigger

Fearing People are Never Free

We want truth.
The truth scares us, generates fear.
So we create a life-myth that is perpetuated by fear and rage.
Those that challenge the myth are called out as dangerous.
Myth reinforced.

General Example:

Just scroll through CNN or Fox News or just about any news media outlet in the U.S. There you see it, fear and rage. What is missing? Actual facts of the event. Just enough information is given to keep us all in a state of emotional chaos.

Even the “good” media outlets like the Washington Post and New York Times are tightly controlled by gatekeepers of this myth. We see almost nothing of the real world. Big social media platforms, often quoted by these “creditable” news outlets, spread fake news or fear and rage that is often absent of factual information. The war on “fake news” may actually be a war on real facts. Have you been following the kids in red hats and the Native American story? What’s the truth? How many assumptions do we make? Are we a free people?

Outrage first, death threats second, actual facts may never happen.

Specific Example:

I looked at CNN a few months ago and scrolled down. There were three “mass” shooting stories (not all were actually mass shootings), then just underneath was an advertisement for a horror film. The woman actor was covered in blood!

Is anyone actually seeing this?

What Really Matters:

In sum, whether you believe in God or a spiritual being, we cannot know ourselves or a higher power if fear keeps us in a constant state of fight or flight. We cannot be happy. We can only be in emotional and psychological slavery.

Dying in Artificial Coolers

Blue and purple nebula
Blue and purple nebula on black space background (depositphotos.com)

What if your life was at the bottom of that dude’s cooler?

Your eternity, that bit of liquid there;

You see it, rolling around the Styrofoam seams

Lost, wandering, this way and that way

Until it dries up, or the dog licks it

In hopes of something better.

You, YOUR life and dreams,

What then?


What does 10, 20, 30, 40, 50, 60

Or 70 matter … a century even?

Some live a week, maybe only a day;

Others lose count or don’t count.


They simply stop working.


It could be worse, right?

It could be maybe that muddy hole instead?

You know, the one your bare-child foot got stuck in

Back when you had hope and dreams?

No, better than plastic-type white;

This one dark, warm and dirty — the primordial soup

— A mommy’s womb — ;

The other bright, artificial and painfully clean.


What we all seem to want but do not want.


What we want to be but are not.

But critters lie there

Or do they lay?

Often hard on the outside, soft on the inside;

We, all wrong, soft on the outside and hard on the inside.

What if we are like bugs, too?


What if God is the squished bug you see over there

On that old book that no one reads

But you keep for no reason?

You like its oldness but don’t care about the inside.

Books are not like people with God’s innards smashed on the outside.


Maybe he, no her, yes, her

Those girls don’t need us.

They clone themselves and make a better you-me.


Because they cannot find love anyway.


But did you ever look close enough?

To stare at the dark eyes, all chocolate chip,

And see what 120 million years sees?

What does she see in thee and thee see in she?


What if a bug is more than a bug?

What if they are significant — in years —

And prophesied that they flew around the sun?

That they are the center?

How many have you killed

Like the dog that licked you up

Or the half-eaten chicken wing that you cannot finish?


It died for that.


Its whole life to be “lick’in” or bitten only once

And tossed aside,

The creator mushed on a book;

Your life a pang of indigestion;

What if you could see you like others see you?

What a legacy in thee?


Are humans that important?

But how many have fallen in coolers, in mud pits,

Or down a nose and throat

And were swallowed?

No worries, they are healthy, much protein

Even spiders and houseflies.


Even you, with some extra fat and sugar though.


She made us all wrong.

Too big to be eaten


And too small to save the world.


Maybe we are just a mistake — the experiment that won’t go away — only 4-million years

And for all of this?


Maybe that is eternity? Chocolate chip eyes,

Or little black beads of pearl …


Black holes are where we find them.


No, it’s all wrong, the agnostic prophesy, of the once priest-like

Boy

That loved to love others that did not love back.


I’ve learned that God harbors in dark spaces:

Crouches, lurks, where no “good” soul wants to go.

We run from nature … from the natural

And drown and die in artificial coolers


All the while, believing that we are important.


Look up at the sky

When it’s very dark

Drive out to red-neck country

And get a good view of what lurks above.

It looks just like a chocolate chip eye, the sky,

Only so much bigger than you

Staring back at you.

What is better?

When it’s dark?

Or if it’s white?


Does death know the difference?


Hear the podcast of this poem here.