lines written half-way between a lecture theatre and REM sleep

In the 9th row from the front, I might as well be on the ceiling,
or better yet, home in bed.
Peripheral profiteroles float around my cerebral orbit
in slow, creamy ellipses.
I am more than bored;
I am chronically, fatally restless,
semi-aware of the blue ink on my thumbs
inadvertently smudging across my nonplussed visage.
I confess,
while hearing this
banal, rambling, giggly, nodding lecturer speak
in broken French
about Rousseau's Confessions,
I'm hearing her voice echo but its monotone reverberations
are transformed at the eardrum into
tuneful hums of nothingness,
merely buzzing like bees
and
then
reced-
ing.
Only certain words and phrases stick long enough
to impact the brain...
death...la societe...yes?
The bumps in the floor seem to be rising
in gross, lime greenness;
the numerous coffee stains polkadotting the ceiling
become such a captivating distraction that they
almost make sense.
At my wit's absolute dire end,
I almost wish a panda hat would come bobbing in
to save me from drowning in my own inevitable drool