E = NUDE∞
I’m nude, because I’m not wearing any clothes. They were stripped off me, after work, by a marauding pack of strippers. Now I’m free, though not because I’m not wearing any clothes, but because I’ve figured out the formula, and somewhere in that damn laboratory, or perhaps it was some time—some swirling, quantum toilet—something dawned, a morning, or a morning on a night, a night filled with full moons and laughter and convertibles, a tripped-out black-light erasure on a basement wall, something by Bill Blake maybe, all the kids sitting cross-legged on the indoor/outdoor carpet, arms locked, fingers interlocked, heads knocked back, and all of them all knowing, and nude, like me, because yes, they were, for certain, not wearing any clothes at all. Such was my beginning, long before my funding for Antarctica, long before those strippers grazed my sagging skin with their chests, breasts, and hearts. I told them, “This is happening now,” and since their painted lips were splashed between worlds they could not think to otherwise mutter, or spark.
Check out five more pieces from Mel Bosworth and Ryan Ridge’s Camouflage Country at Big Lucks.