It scared the shit out of me, the thought of running

my fingers across the crass abs of those Greek gods straight

out of 1970, with their pornstaches and tight pants, scared

me so much I backed away, not me I thought, let

someone else be the guinea pig. Oh come on, the jackass

called, this jackass was the one with the tattoo, come

on, dive in, the water’s fine. And indeed, if you looked

past all that simmering man flesh, the ocean was blue

as lapis, blue as balls.

The other jackass, the quiet one, smiled like an idiot

and nodded like a fetish doll, I expected his fucking head

was going to fall off.

All right, I said, okay, shut your mouth, and I backed up some

more but this time just to get a running start and then took off

and threw myself against the painting, half expecting

to collide and bounce off into the asphalt street, but instead

sailed through like an archangel onto the beach, into

the mass of suntanned male bodies and sand and heat, my

arms flailing bird-like into their midst.

I landed with a roll and looked up at them staring aghast at

this apparition at their feet. Hi, I said, hi from the future.

The sun was bright, intensity magnified. I got to my feet,

brushed grit out of my hair and pushed out my chest. I smiled.

They milled around me, fascinated. The air was perfumed,

ocean, sweat, semen. From the future, they asked

wonderingly? Really? Their voices were like cellos,

deep and tuneful.

Painting by Len Paoletti, 1978

Photogtapher unknown