Archive for August, 2011


This photograph by Oleg Kosirev is entitled Sphere of Her Wishes.  It is the most tasteful, yet most arousing nude photograph I have ever seen.  The model’s name is unknown, but she is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.  I normally don’t display nude pictures on my blog.  But it would be selfish of me not to share this one.


To write the following music-impression poem, I used a CD entitled, Sarangi: The Music of India (UPC 0 14431-01042 2).  It’s a beautiful recording, and I highly recommend it.

The first part of my poem uses actual dreams I’ve had.  And the second poem uses real-life experience.

Sarangi: The Music of India

Scott ____

Rag Bageshree

She meows as she wakes, time to feed her.  Yet then she’s my wife, time to feed me.  I roll over to touch her, and she’s gone.  No, this is reality–don’t wake me to my daily nightmare.  And I’m back in the surreal life I love.  My sister, Elaine, is Mary–holding our infant, Jesus, as I watch for thieves in the Egyptian sand.  Then I’m in a grocery store, eating cookies off a shelf, as a banquet of wealthy families looks at me with indifference.  And I step outside, into a 1950’s darkness.  I approach a group of rebels who welcome me in their stance, near a street sign.  When they ask my name, I reply, “I was freedom, before they modeled you.”  And though I’m as clueless as they, as to what I meant, they smile and offer me a beer.  Now I’m back in a classroom at Mobile Christian School.  My fellow students fill the room, yet there are no teachers–indeed no adults at all.  I turn to Jamie, and ask her to go home with me.  She agrees.  When we return, I ask Denise the same, and she agrees.  I take home and bring back one girl after another, until I hear a gavel.  I am forty-five again, yet at the U.S. Capitol.  Senators from West-Coast states declare secession from the Union.  But before I can ask why, a senator smiles, and shows me to a window.  He opens the curtains to an Ireland-green land, and I am there.  The prehistoric people seem to say I’m related to them.  And when I motion that I cannot understand their words, they direct me to a golden wall adorned with alphabetic characters unlike any I’ve seen on Earth.  I’ll be here long enough to learn their language, to choose a wife, and hopefully to remember them.


A rooster calls dusk into dawn, as I watch a train below in Brownsville.  I walk on.  I speak to no one on Cervantes, but the buried in the Jewish cemetery, to whom I say, “Shalom.”  And as I pass the projects, I pray for the poor.  Yet as I pass mansions on Scenic Highway, I scoff at the thought of praying for the rich–until I realize they have problems too, beyond the financial facade.  And I pray the same prayer for them.  Upon returning, I stop beneath an oak overlooking Escambia Bay.  I stretch my arms skyward, and pray for myself.  Then I breathe the knowledge that my waking life isn’t such a nightmare, after all.


I’ve neglected my blog for a while, and am trying to get back to it (I’ve got alot of things going on offline that are interfering).  But here’s a quick pic of another gorgeous classic actress, Phyllis Thaxter.  What turns me on most about this woman is her lips.  Though I’m not a lip-man, but a hip-man (the most important physical feature on a woman, for me, is her hips–I like them large, it obviously goes back to human evolution), a good set of lips is a plus.  And my favorite kind is the permanent pout, as exemplified by Phyllis Thaxter.  Notice that even when she smiles, her lips look as if she’s pouting.  I think the reason I like lips like hers is that they seem to convey a sense of need.  And everyone–especially every man–needs to be needed.