Sanskrit painted on her soft gyrating flesh.

Skimpy costume decorated with ancient metals.

A sensual yogi… of the Kama Sutra.

To be with her, like being under the bodhi tree.

Her eyes as green as the Himalayan valley.

Look into them, see Lhassa before the Chinese.

Waist length curls.  Bury your face in it.

Feel like a child with no urge to kill anything

no matter how advanced or primitive.

Her holistic hands can heal mortal flesh

And make you realize god is in you.

She dances at a club on Tuesday at 11 pm.

The strung out truckers and drunken yuppies

Just want to see a naked woman.

She slinks on the stage.

Her eyes tell testosterone infested men

To be silent as she peels off her dress

Revealing messages for the mind and soul

As well as the penis.

Her bra jangles as she tosses into the crowd.

The man who receives it feels like Ranma

Just got him in the groin.

She twists into superhuman positions.

She proceeds to wrap her legs around a sitar.

The way her dainty toes pluck away at it,

Seven Pillars of Heaven quake and quake.

She’ll definitely be hanging out with Ganesha

and Buddha after she leaves her lovely flesh ship

In which she travels this life.

Everyone’s life flashes before them.

Tens, twenties, fifties, hundreds hit the stage at her feet.

The girls backstage really want to know her secrets.

The classic blonde dancer complains

“Why can’t I be ethnic, instead?”

The show ends. Just silence.

I don’t know I feel enlightened but I do feel

some inner peace.

                                          -Nathan P. Smith

                                         from PRINTS,  2nd Saturday Poets Anthology