Saturday Afternoon

A whirlwind of wisdom swirls

as I’m lying on the sunflowers

sewn in my quilt.

Ultraviolet rays saturate my body

kind of like the stuff I got from Riz earlier.

 

I spy my brain slipping away.

I don’t bother to stop him,

confident he will return once the

harmonious wailing subsides.

 

The sponge temporarily taking place

of my cowardly cranium

soaks up each sentiment, sung

by the reflective rectangle in my pocket.

 

The bright blue and white painting

I have been studying all day

melts into

a kaleidoscope of warm hues.

 

You CAN have your cake and eat it too.

Bob Dylan told me. 

Author's Note

What message is getting across to you here?

Is the literal act of what is happening clear here?