Naked Music

 Naked music of a Tuesday morning (after a cup of coffee thinking about all the saffron that grows all around growing hatred planting seeds of hate trees haittrees if you will, after the rain of the night before thinking about not thinking and sentimental states of vacuum in the minds of the thinker who creepily thinks about reading science fiction books quotes about which reach him immediately in a minute or two more before or after the end of the works inside brown glass bottles of cough-syrup worn around your eyes watching the world in the brown diffraction of light bending to prove a point like a little thin slim blade of grass in the woods right outside the doors of wooden log cabins built by recluse philosophers) plays nice and slow and comfortably loud while yet another batch of coffee brews inside my mind in the shape of you because the music is naked this morning of this Tuesday