ceilings dis way and dat

The ceiling predicts winter for you-

an ice summer twist,
carving splotches
that cover a death smell.
a moment for the arriving thoughts,
served unprepared
sitting uncooked in a microwave.

I mustve looked up at fans that spin
in cycles that dull time.
Board game awards
must copy the economic state.
Hang the potted flowers
to show you aren’t a void,
and it must hurt to be a toy.

Mouth options persist
but I must resist the ceiling myths-
grumble at the shackles,
hang heads of lettuce from the beams,
and my fingers could squish an entire light bulb.

Pull apart the light system.
Let the maze find its own way home.
Capture me in a beer tasting event.
Sing when I’m dead and decomposing
my first masterpiece called “peace master”-

March Sadness

He collected happy endings in his spare time,
though the sentiment of defeat haunted the spine of every book he had read.
Humiliating moments, obscured in testimonies of love and peace.

While everyone quickly adapted to the facets of a new era
he filed complaints for incongruent speech
blaming dog and baby jargon.

“Magic is inevitable, like God’s ultimate jurisdiction.”
“What matters most is that I have you, consistency.”
he might say.

Imgaine his thoughts parading a jacket cover: unicorns carousing under mystic waterfalls.