ceilings

hushed macramé matriarchs 
meddle meticulously,

knotting delicate ecru chain mail menageries,

like wet cement paste, between bricks

that snicker, at the stop watch on the wall

when we call to say hello

and then hang up confused

and lonely at the back door locked automatically behind us

crying like a dog barking from echo puddle London

out to the country, and snowy roads

and brown trucks with no heat

make us say that we are giving up,

absolutely refuse, to move another step 
toward that marching army

of meth-yeti white cult delusions in Nebraska:

raging slop fest jester pests in my back pocket

make me want to masturbate rabidly in a prison cell

because that way, they’ll all stay away,

leave us to fidget widget mobile app for that

in the concrete corner,

frying red ants on the sidewalk 
with a mini magnifying glass,

and laughing hysterically maniacally mayhem madness,

echoing through the Towson parking garage

where someone gets murdered at least once a year:

last year it was an elderly guy, a Professor

got held up at knife point

and whatever happened, they ended up killing him,

so we park right next to the entrance,

mocking ourselves, must be in the front row

of the sticky movie theater

where normal people go to watch

Julia Roberts love herself, unabashed

red confidence blooming vulgarly

as an O’Keefe on Fort Meade,

Janis Joplin and her bush

on the blue rug of the white house oval office,

while Monica hides politely under the desk—