Brother Jake

the page i write upon is folded at the corner i think i'll pick up a book and read the t.v. is off notes clear a path through the air to my earlobes fancy that i'm not going anywhere it's late...or rather early my eyes grow weary the smoke from the incense forces them to do so a poet at heart at a loss for words unusual i suppose my pen writes my thoughts though i have none i am dumbfounded and braindead it's a good thing no one is making a movie about this... (laughter overlaps the notes)