Oh what can I do
but settle into this 99 IQ
and
put my head
upward
to the sky
and sit
in my barber's chair
and daydream
I mean
my minds a real blank
made for Sunday school staring
or reclining
upon
the bank of the lake
counting my blessings
that
I have nothing to do
this afternoon
but scratch my eyelids
And listen to the birds exchange their sounds
and feel into
the hollow of my back
where the skin is cooled
and
breathe
softly and deeply and sweetly
and say to myself
there is no tomorrow
and say to myself
let the world
argue with itself
and say to myself
I don't want to be
part of this battle
I was born to lie
on college campuses
and notice the pretty thoughts
battling in my mind
Oh will a
Batia-fly
come by and buzz
around my head
and wake me up
and wake me up
with intellectual tidbits
as to what is good for soul
and every silly moment
afterwards as
I fall into the water of nothingness
and go limp