Mania Is
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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