It’s a very sneaky thing, mania is.
I’m humming along,
probably minding someone else’s business,
giving little attention to my own state of being
when it slides in, mania does,
a message slipped under the door saying,
“Here I come. Are you ready?”
But I never am,
or, to tell the truth,
I always am.
I know… I’ll go to the airport and buy a ticket to Las Vegas gamble that’s what I want to do there’s a Rolex and a fat gold ring with diamonds that I really must have I‘ll buy a Ferrari when I get there driving very fast will be great fun I love blackjack don’t you the last time I played I lost my house pizza I need pizza drinks for everyone sleep oh no there’s far too much to do what color do you want to paint the kitchen I’m going to write a novel like Jack Kerouac on a roll of paper towels where are the paper towels that woman over there I’m sure she knows that being in bed with me is the best thing that will happen to her this year more pizza no I had some yesterday or was it the day before besides that who has time to eat I’m talking so fast that you can’t understand what I’m saying and that it doesn’t make sense anyway so it doesn’t matter you’re just not listening and I don’t care anyway no I’m not tired…
I live in a carefully balanced state,
mourning the loss of my mania.
The trick I’ve learned
is to vibrate just enough
to feel the edge, perhaps even
touch it for a minute or two,
but pull back before there’s blood,
before I fly.