bald heaven

the idea that a French man speaking about an American man in an Argyle sweater sounds so poetic

a separation of stones and tones

crystals that shimmer widely

eye opening scarves around her neck biking swiftly down the street and bearded men with the kind of voice you might hear on a weekend breeze laying still on your bed in the ebbs of the slow afternoon, hot and sticky from the curtains being pulled down and the cats merging into balls into folds of fabric into your arms into the crevices and folds of your skin into the air which assumes a texture much like your sheets much like the surface of your skin

when you think about it, one of your hands is not much different from the other, one penny not much different from two, and in the moments before you rise from your bed, stillness not much different from movement, and the environment of your room not much different from the sensations spilling out from the internal environment of your body. your skin is not the sort of prison system that shuts everything in. it has holes and chutes and rivers ready to expel shit out.

a space outside a space inside and all your organs on the floor of whose room?
the room of all your inner spaces spills into the room of your outer spaces the one supposed to protect you from yourself and your self's interaction with the outside world.

so many pockets. slivers of rings, empty circles, vacant thoughts that carry weight when you look up at them so close it hurts to breathe, when you step away so far you are above everyone else, a king, an eagle, a master of shit. garbage. earth.

heaven can be held in your hand even with a couple fingers broken off.

these fingers that fell or flew






a drop of blood from sitting on the ground
a drop of heaven in my weighted heart meant to measure sin
a tear drop crystallizes on my palm
a slender fish swimming upstream










"environment to each must be all this isn't me
UNIVERSE to each must be all that isn't me AND me."
- R. Buckminster Fuller