Dancing on the ceiling,

while down here there's an abundance, a surplus, a fecund wealth of rage. This morning, as most mornings, I was assisted from my slumber with the sometimes pitter-pattering, sometimes gymnast’s-dismount-sounding booms of the family that lives over my head. This morning, however, was different in that the booms did not, and have yet to, diminish. A few possibilities as to what the tripartite triple-rhythm of squeaks and thumps could mean:

o a three-step jumping jack;
o a rigorous bout of sex, but then the “ONE-TWO-THREE [pause]” rhythm to the din doesn’t make sense, because why the pause? What kind of coitus has a rest beat?
o a regular Romper Room of tots obeying the massed, Sun-Yung-Moonish orders of Barney or the Teletubbies to scamper at random with much glee.

Upshot of all of this is that it’s hard indeed to write a poem. Its effect on the writing of fiction is TBA.

& calls with emotionally-gone-awry tenors from recently-ex girlfriends in the AM, well, that’s another bad thing entirely.