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MANIC

 

It's as fast as chugging boilermakers at Joe's bar
or preening in a rummage sale rayon forties dress

printed in phony pink Japanese symbols. Sometimes
it's snatching plastic daffodils from someone's

yard, convinced they're real or stealing
a gold lame sandal at a bar, leaving its owner

to hobble home. How about painting your parents'
basement in broad red, white and blue stripes,

then bored, quitting halfway though? It's
guzzling a fifth of whiskey on a dare and sending

a two-pound Candygram to a pal, billing it to a name 
in the phonebook and deciding to rearrange

all the furniture at two a.m. and eating not one but
two hash brownies just to see what happens. It could be

drunkenly running down a rainy street, falling
and crawling the rest of the way home. Or you

have sex with a guy you just met at Kentucky 
Fried Chicken or you down more than one bottle of pink champagne

at midnight, then hitch to the 7 Eleven at noon to buy
a twelve-pack of beer. Maybe you're half-naked, getting

tattooed on your right breast at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin,
the bikers cheering you on or how about taking home three puppies

from the pound when you only meant to get one. Perhaps 
you've been up all night again, reading the entire book

because you can't wait or you're down at that dive
on the railroad tracks where you swallow quarter glasses

of Grain Belt, singing along to thirty-year-old jukebox songs
or maybe you just feel something rushing between your fingers,

gold rising into your mouth and head, knowing
you can do nothing to stop this glory, nothing.



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