the girl i don’t know at all is here and she is my nemesis and wouldn’t you know it but she has that golden down snap neck coat just like i’ve always coveted

i think i’m manic
again, i think i think
i think i think
too much
and i think i’m
manic again.
not psychotic, no
not that, i think
i’m manic again.

two women walk
by, both beautiful
and me
manic and on
a bike and
two women walk
by and both
beautiful and both
cutting the air
with such
appropriate dexterity,
clad in bodies
and bodies clad in
wool and down and
just the right amount of
mess to their hair,
and me in all black and
unshowered on a bicycle
and manic again
and how dare they
lack the courage to
suffer in solitude,
what cowardice,
to talk gently
with a friend
on a kindly cool
Summer evening,
how dare they have
their needs met.

and this town is like a
miniature in a basement
at some retired military man’s home,
he goes down there
with his ghosts
and sets his miniature town
to spinning, he
dictatorial over it,
the two women there
by the lake, beautiful
and walking in wool
and lithe flesh and down,
and i am on a bike and
manic again and
this town is like
a miniature.

i stick to roads
with speed limits posted
to 25, 20, 15,
and i can ride manic
on this bike in this
miniature town
next to a great seething
ocean with the dictatorial
military man over my shoulder,
and pump my wiggling
legs in cadence and watts
enough to propel me
at speed limited speeds.

i think i’m manic again
and i can burn off some
of his juice, it doesn’t
take much as i don’t have much
juice these days and i can
arrive still on a bike and
still in all black to my floating
home down at the docks and
i can breathe heavy
heavy like the 20 pounds
of weight i put on over
this last year, this last year
when i no longer drink
alcohol to intoxication
so instead
eat too often and too much
and buy things that i don’t
need and i think
i am manic again.

my poor mother who is
so rich in her wrinkled skin,
the genius of her ability
to always find kindness
even amidst her manic son
expectorating his manic mind
all over her well-ordered living
room. tomorrow
is trash day and she will
breathe a relieved sigh
for the few minutes her kitchen
under-sink cabinet will be
free of her waste,
and her son,
in her living room
with the books and the art
and the swaddling humming
home of it all.
her son, me, i
think i’m manic again.

i am not depressed,
not acutely
not actively,
not depressedly,
and so my only other option
is manic.
no not psychotic
and no not totally
delusional, just enough
to feel briefly aflame
in a world that so often
feels bludgeoned
by the dull exhalations of
gray sodden souls flummoxed
by fear and perverted
to boasting and braying
their unkindnesses.

yesterday my man encouraged me,
“consider chemical aids”,
and today i think i may be
again manic and just to my left,
a sea lion wetly exhorts me
in the channel that supports
my floating home:
“slow down, miniature
friend”, the sea lion
tells me. “you race
about this planet and yes this planet
is indeed built for racing.
but slow down small friend,
the dictator at your shoulder
never has had a firm grasp
on the patterns of your winding.
and the chemicals in your mind
are less torrential than you might
think. and you think
too much, yes,
and you likely are
manic right now, yes,
and your mom, she
likes a hug when you leave
her home for the evening,
so give her a hug.”

the harbor is quiet
and my body smells
like a body.
tide is high right now,
but it will go back to low
as it always does.
there isn’t really any rush
now, is there.