Mania feels good when it battles the sadness, gives me the strength to get off of this mattress

My hair gets a wash and my make up gets done, I can giggle and laugh and look forward to fun

What project to do? How can I change my room? Maybe I'll cut my hair or get a new tattoo

Shopping! That'll be fun, need some new outfits to wear in the sun, or even the moon
I'm feeling manic I won't be sleeping anytime soon

Wait now- slow down
I need to process
I need to feel these feelings, not go on a distracting side quest

But my thoughts are poems and my legs are restless
Maybe one distraction won't hurt, maybe it'll pull me out of this mess

My hair is unruly,
I don't like my teeth.
I haven't seen my debit card
in three ******* weeks.

If I'm not early,
I'll be ******* late.
"Just be on time"—
my brain doesn't work that way.

I did three loads of laundry,
yet have four to fold.
I planned to make a salad
but the lettuce has mold.

The lettuce has mold?
The lettuce has mold.
I swear I just bought it,
I didn't think it was old.

What day is it?
Do you know the time?
I can't find my keys
but I'm thinking in rhymes.

Did you tell me the date?
I'm sorry—I forget.
I'm sure that you did.
I just haven’t remembered it yet.

A mile a minute
is how my mind goes.
Do you want to rearrange the living room?
Should we go to Lowe’s?

These boxes I found
haven’t been opened in ages.
I found an old journal
and sped through the pages.

I should throw it away
but I think I might keep it.
It’s treasured this way,
and no one learns my secrets.

I’m sorry I’m on a tangent,
did we have plans?
I’m sorry to abandon,
I live in my head man

I’ve got so much to do,
I couldn’t possibly go out.
Have you seen my bathroom?
I must clean the grout.

You can stay if you want,
in fact, I’d like that very much,
if you don’t mind my gibberish
and constant running amuck.

— Am I old? — I asked the youths.
— That depends. How old are you?
— Sixty-two.
— Then I guess you’re old. It’s true.
Have you seen old Lenin’s face?
— Of course. I stood beside him there,
On an armored car, in pride and grace,
Waving banners in the air.

I walk home like a dinosaur.
From the window Lena cries:
— Buy some apples from the market!
Check they have no bruised sides!

And suddenly, I’m young again,
A girl who cannot pick good fruit.
Lena’s ninety-six — and then,
Still thinks I’m young and cute.

The policeman shakes his head:
— Is Lena strong and still alive?
— Yes, — I nod. —  She’s not yet dead.
And marvel how we yet survive.

If you want to be young and bold,
And not feel like a dinosaur,
Be with slow and with the old —
Not just the age you fit before.

11.04.2025

Words activate something in me
even if I’m just thinking, not writing.
So I soon find myself back at the keyboard.
It seems that my life’s been a series of keyboards.

My motor’s always running—I idle fast.
But I’ve been untying my intellectual shoe-strings recently.
Dissociatively avoiding intellective pursuits,
and embracing entropy (since school ended).
It’s been relaxing—I’ve felt new to my body.

There’ve been happenings lately,
particularly in the nocturnal theater of romantic nights.
My bf Peter’s here—trying to look impressed by an under-grad degree. He’s a pretty good actor—for an amateur.

We’ve been interrogating the richer aspects of love,
testing it’s configurations you might say,
with constant motions and lush indulgences.
We’re savoring this temporary freedom,
devouring it, like mindless carnivores.

Peter lives in Geneva, you see, while I’ve been in New Haven.
If I’ve learned anything, in my ivy league, senior year,
it’s that you can’t cheat closeness with virtuality.
He may have a new job in New Jersey and I'll be in Boston.
I've already calculated a year’s travel expenses from
Logan to Liberty and back 52 times = ~$62k. Make it so.

I'm an enumerator, I count everything
—the left facing croissants on a tray,
the days Peter and I have been apart,
and the modicum of hours we’ve had together.
I’m somewhere on that obsessive-compulsive bell curve,
and I’m a Libra, uncomfortable in an uneven world.
Perhaps there's no shame in this.

I wonder sometimes, when we’re separated, if we’ll still work, when
we’re reunited, and then, like sunlight can suddenly define shadow,
we can see that it does.
That love is more potent than wine.

I dream of things I can’t have—yet,
like the life I’d like to live—someday.
Hey, I’ve something to look forward to.
.
.
Songs for this:
Love Train by The O'Jays
Easy by The Commodores

The time will arrive soon
to pick a new pope
and here is where I am confused
I had no idea an American Baseball team
chooses the next pope
the St Louis Cardinals though
will have a tough job
I wasn't aware their stadium was called the Conclave
but there you have it
if they win the world series
and pick a new pope
they will have killed two birds with one stone
so to speak

Nothing like the smoky atmosphere of a dense city,
When you walk through the crowded sidewalks,
Cross through the busy streets,
And find yourself in good company.

The air seems lighter,
Fragranced with bourbons and bergamot
Various colognes and scents crafts a potpourri
Unique aromatic symphonies tickling the nose -
The only way a good bar can.

I'm parched by the time I hit the bartop,
Shoulder to shoulder with other patrons
As casual conversation flows like the taps,
And then I am asked, "What'll it be?"

How could I resist the sensation?
Smooth caramel-colored bourbon,
The sweet seductive tingly tango of vermouth
And the tangy fiesty bite of bitters,
Place that dagger pick through the cherries
And let me sip on that elegance.

A little dash of heaven,
In a crowded room.