I love to be naked
Where nobody cares
About my fashion
Or who cut my hair.
I love being where
Many nudists are at.
They don’t call me names
Like Littledick and Fats.

I enjoy being out there
In the nature of life
Without any kind of
Negative social strife.
Nudists seem to accept
What the other person is
With a face full of scowls
Or some kind of quiz.

And aging for nudists
Is not a thing of shame.
Outside we grow different
But inside we’re the same.
We are still the people
Who enjoy living free.
And often that means
I don’t want clothes on me.

So, I will get naked often,
Really, every chance I get
And it might help you to
Accept that and not forget
That we were born naked;
Clothes may not be needed.
So maybe we can rethink
The rules we’ve always heeded?

We consume big and create little,
we like neat things instead of the mess.
Wake up in the middle of our lives to find
we only thought to buy more and pay less.

Attention to the price tag—Need
the hottest J's, the nicest bags.
Stupidly married to the common cents,  
we divorce from time and meaning spent.

With our friends and families, we are short.
Our support is digital. Our talk is report.
We don’t bother to calculate what they add;
high bandwidth and credit subtract the sad.

Truth is no longer requested offline;
we readily settle with others’ designs.
Two-Day shipping makes us smile,
for happiness we wait no while.

Poetry is opening old wounds
For the sake of healing another's
Poetry is recrying old tears
For the ability to wipe another's

Poetry is revisiting old exes
To help inspire a broken heart
Poetry is writing out of love even though you're alone
So that another love won't fall apart

Poetry is many things
From a hobby, to medicine, to therapy
But to me poetry is passion expressed
And the best kind of healing, one in which you create, and into it others can invest

I am now so old
I only remember things,
Whenever possible,
That please me
From days “back then”,
When my **** was where
It was supposed to be
Now it walks along behind me
Like a lady in waiting.

My **** is like bunting
And my hair is hunting
For new territory
Up my back and shoulders;
It happens when men get older.
The hair on top thins
The stuff below begins
To reupholster my anatomy.
It’s so irritating to me
This whole aging thing,
This “being a senior” stuff.

It’s really rough on someone like me
An eternal teen, new to the scene.
But now I have become
That eccentric old fellow
In plaid pants that looked dumb
In the seventies and before
And forever after.
But I can’t join the laughter.

Because it’s me, you see.
All I need now is to pull them up,
My pants, my belt
Right under my man *****
And I’ll be the guys on YouTube
In the video gag reels.
That’s how it feels.
But, it’s not funny to me.
It is, however, reality.
I will just have to make the best
Of the good and bad, the rest

White man, right man
Seriously uptight man
Black man, whack man,
Cutting him no slack man.
Red man, dead man
Never be the headman.
Brown man, down man.
Treat him like a clown man.

Stereotypes, stereotypes!
Notice how it rhymes with hype?
The habit of the ***-wipes
A bitter fruit that’s always ripe.

Poor man, for sure man,
Can’t afford a ***** man.
Waiting on the shore man,
Sweeping out the store man.
Broke man, stroke man
Too poor to smoke man.
Struggle under yoke man.
**** of every joke man.

Stereotypes, stereotypes!
Notice how it rhymes with hype?
The habit of the ***-wipes
A bitter fruit that’s always ripe.

Fey man, gay man
Nothing more to say man.
Please just go away man.
No equal rights today man.
Liberal man or little man
Nothing but a middle man.
Playing second fiddle man.
Never solve the riddle man.

Stereotypes, stereotypes!
Notice how it rhymes with hype?
The habit of the ***-wipes
A bitter fruit that’s always ripe.

If everybody were naked
Nobody could make fun of my style
I would never be outdated.
I could go to parties with a smile.

Also when I live naked
Laundry bill can never go high.
I go jump into the shower
Suddenly I am a clean living guy.

Of course your clothing
Never gets sunburned
And nobody laughs at your zipper.
If you are the only
Person who’s naked
You look like a mescaline tripper.

But if everyone got naked
We might do away with all war
Because there would be little
That seems worth arguing for.

With all the women naked
There would be an end to their hose.
And girdles out of the question.
They’d be as natural as a spring rose.

But one must be careful.
A park bench can pinch
And hot car seats can burn.
Living **** has problems
But like everything else
It just more lessons one must learn.

But think about politics naked;
All those liars up on a public stage.
Without their expensive suits
Would they still manage to engage?

Olympians played naked.
Soldiers used to fight naked too.
Not sure what point I am making
But I think it means something, don’t you?

Pusillanimous polecats
Practicing perfidy
Plan parties and
Parse probabilities proudly
Partially putting past
The paltry populace
Pornographic postulations
And potboilers
Pointing poisonous
Proclamations publically
Pitting proper people
To pathetic programs
Promising the penurious
More poverty.
Often posthumously.

Pitiful people plead
Putting need over posture
Putting parents out to pasture
Promising, but passing on
Proper placement of
Propriety and parity
Planting nothing for posterity,
Prizing prosperity
Politicizing with polemics
Post-mortems on politeness
Placing pandering
Higher in practice
By perpetrating
Practical party politics.

There is an ancient woman
In the market near my home
Who walks the timeless amble
Of a battered soul alone.
Her pasted orange tresses
A marmalade cascade
Fall so stiffly down to where
Her hand is always laid
Clutching her treasure bag
She goes her way careless
Ignoring chiding glances
At her faded evening dress.

Her story hides in rumors
Whispered by those who work
In the shops and restaurants
Here near McArthur Park.
They say she was a movie queen
Or an extra in the silent days
And an accident at the studio
Made her bald unto this day.
She refused to remove the wig
She ran out crying, in costume
And now she is still wearing it
Hoping he will find her soon.

The woman at the pharmacy
Said her hair caught on fire
At a movie in the twenties
Her boss calls her a liar;
Says the leading man did it
In a fit of rage and jealousy
When she wouldn't marry him
He set fire to the scenery.
Others heard that she was fired,
But she wouldn't leave the set
So deep inside her mind
She really hasn't left it yet.

Some have tried to talk to her
But she never speaks that much
Except inquiring prices and colors
Of the goods she chances to touch.
To direct questions and advances
She turns sadly away and leaves.
You can tell she is sensitive
You can tell by her face she grieves.
It is easy to see she is living
In some world that is not ours
Her world seems a place of gloom
Of thunderstorms and showers.

She caresses with her fingertips
Along the banisters she passes
And she seldom lets her gaze linger
Behind her smoked sunglasses.
Her satin dress has faded,
Like the color of her hair.
She still lingers in each moment
When she walks down the stair.
She never seems to notice those
Who stop and goggle at her
And they are many, these gawkers
But they just don’t' seem to matter.

She seems to have accepted
What her life has now become.
She has been coming to the park
For decades more than some.
This may be a playground
For popeyed urban gnomes.
But this is where she shops
This decaying place her home.
This park is very much like her
Many ages past its prime.
The vestiges of past glory
Have not been erased by time.

Don’t like waking up in the morning
I like to sleep until at least noon.
Breakfast can be any food at all
I drive home under the moon.
My friends are all complaining
They don’t know when to visit
But that never seems to stop me.
That isn’t very balanced is it?

I’m a swing shifter, it’s true
Even if it’s grating on you.
I’m either cooking or cleaning
Or maybe the one waiting on you
So you have your evenings
Free to go out and have fun.
Someone must be there for you
And baby, I’m the very one.

I never see the evening news
Except on my evenings off.
I’m not caught up on politics
To form an opinion or scoff.
I’m not up on television shows
Don’t know about the stars.
But I know the late night spots
And exactly where they are.

I’m a swing shifter, it’s true
Even if it’s grating on you.
I’m either cooking or cleaning
Or maybe the one waiting on you
So you have your evenings
Free to go out and have fun.
Someone must be there for you
And baby, I’m the very one.

Ziggy was named
By his rock and roll dad
His Mama ran off right away.
Ziggy grew up
Almost on his own
Dad didn’t care what he’d say.
A lady next door
Took pity on Zig and his dad
And sometimes cooked them a meal.
All Ziggy knew
Was this was home life
The stuff on TV wasn’t real.

Ziggy, you’re really a half decent guy
If only you’d look with your heart.
Sometimes you have to say no if you’re asked.
Sometimes you can’t let things start.

Ziggy, don’t run around with those girls
They aren’t a good kind of crowd
They only want you for money and drugs
They’re ****** and awfully loud.
Ziggy don’t go play cards with those guys
They’ll take you for all that you’ve got.
I know you think they are all your good friends.
But, I assure you they’re not.

Ziggy, the world can get to be big
Well before you can cope.
There are uncaring people all over the place
Ready with sweet words and dope.
Ziggy, the people who only like you
When you are not flat broke
Those kinds aren’t worth your concern
Not worth a dime from your poke.

Ziggy, you’re really a half decent guy
If only you’d look with your heart.
Sometimes you have to say no if you’re asked.
Sometimes you can’t let things start.