Yeah so, I’m naked here. Yes, and you can see me, the real me, sitting here bare ass to all and then read some words about that, or you can choose to just read what comes, or possibly not. Here, naked I sit under a great big tree. My ass on the grass , I sit and look out to green fields and blue skies. I say blue, but understand that within the blues are a myriad of colors including gray, black, pinks and purples, and any that a rainbow would care to mention after that. My hairs curl tighter from the cool breeze floating ‘round them. I’m thinking of cheese and garlic on a shit load of pasta and wondering if Francesco would like a loaf of fresh bread with it. Taking out the bowl, I run warm water in it and let it sit. “We’ve a lesson this week,” I think aloud. Lutes in the corner beg playing and dare you to go boxing the weather. That of course meaning the peg box won’t sit still for your nakedness, regardless of intent. Fingers wait: four on the left, and four on the right.
Here, in a fisticuffs of prose, sits idle the writer. Sometime across the page a note sings, but mostly they sit waiting perusal. A big tree grows up my naked behind, the grass itches, and whatever I see, I do. This cannot be helped and is what has taken my life to grow to an enriched place upon the grass, itching, green, and crawling against me.
An interruption of the day crawls up behind my butt in traffic, and, with her cell phone in hand says to the air, “I really don’t care if he sits butt naked under the Goddamn tree, he’s got to go!” Slamming my ass, the car comes to a stop, and I sigh, thinking about her conversation. Sitting back to relax my spine, I hear the medics come. In heat and light there is an Angel of a man that approaches, too young, in dark blue paramedic garb, white smile and calming voice. “Sir, sir, can you hear me?”
“No, not unless I’m naked: the tree should be tall against my back, and the grass should tickle my butt and thighs; do you know if the strings are still strung?”
Yup, real words are like that_ this hallucination of life: calling, and answering, and just doing their thing against blue. So naked, against white, write this and that, and sit thinking about warm pasta and lute strings. Naked with you, the words march on too, naked and itching, while thinking about another cool color.
Here, in a fisticuffs of prose, sits idle the writer. Sometime across the page a note sings, but mostly they sit waiting perusal. A big tree grows up my naked behind, the grass itches, and whatever I see, I do. This cannot be helped and is what has taken my life to grow to an enriched place upon the grass, itching, green, and crawling against me.
An interruption of the day crawls up behind my butt in traffic, and, with her cell phone in hand says to the air, “I really don’t care if he sits butt naked under the Goddamn tree, he’s got to go!” Slamming my ass, the car comes to a stop, and I sigh, thinking about her conversation. Sitting back to relax my spine, I hear the medics come. In heat and light there is an Angel of a man that approaches, too young, in dark blue paramedic garb, white smile and calming voice. “Sir, sir, can you hear me?”
“No, not unless I’m naked: the tree should be tall against my back, and the grass should tickle my butt and thighs; do you know if the strings are still strung?”
Yup, real words are like that_ this hallucination of life: calling, and answering, and just doing their thing against blue. So naked, against white, write this and that, and sit thinking about warm pasta and lute strings. Naked with you, the words march on too, naked and itching, while thinking about another cool color.
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