Random Acts of Poetry

Advice from Fred

To dance
on the ceiling
is a normal thing
when you're in
hilarity's red zone.

The dance, here,
means besotted ants
in your pants,
35-millimeter
feet calling up

fantasy's dervish,
(one-two-three,
one-two-three,
and turn)
to churn

the hysterical
elation
of a mutual
electrical shock
secretly cherished

but unrequitable.
A zap of desire
provides the interior
ignition
that leads to

this pseudo-
sexual writhing--
arms wheeling,
legs giddy
whips of rubber--

till the tiles
begin to fall,
one-two-three,
turn, slip,
crash!

and you wake up
wounded,
head once again
banged up against
the concrete.