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Poem

Mania is...
	
	
	It’s a very sneaky thing, 
	mania is...
	
	I’m humming along, 
	no doubt minding 
	someone else’s business, 
	giving little attention 
	to my own state of being.
	when in it slips, 
	mania does, 
	a message under my door: 
	“I’m here; are you ready?” 
		I never am. 
		I always am.
	
	Many of us who live 
	in a carefully balanced state 
	mourn the loss of our mania
	as if it were a death. 
	
	Oh my God though, 
	what we can do when we’re there — 
		write with Kerouac ferocity;
		touch Pollock’s intensity; 
		persuade the opposite or same sex 
			that an afternoon of play 
			is the best thing 
			that will happen to them this year; 
		find a Maserati’s limits
			(Why are my passengers always terrified?). 
	
	Others of us fly 
		too far,
		too fast, 
	from the tightrope of sanity, 
	melting Icarus-like  
	in the heat of soaring — 
		head in the oven; 
		deft cuts with a Gillette product; 
		an abundance of downers; 
		one blast of a twelve-gauge. 
	
	Don’t misunderstand me... 
	I would fly without hesitation
	at a moment’s notice,
	but I have a fear of melting.

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