Mania
I know what it’s like to claw at the air
To bite at the salty pain that swivels on my tongue like an ocean wave
So laden with prior and present life that the wave feels heavy
Even so, my teeth close on nothing
The heart clench; the trembling heat behind the eyes
The primordial ooze that thickens like a pasty roux
cold and wet, in the lining of my stomach
That fear that could have been inherited from my ancestors
Women, surely: mother, grandmother, great-grandmother
Ever back, ever ancient
Or perhaps it has something to do with the distance lengthening between where I stand now, alone
And the tender embrace that I felt just yesterday
A murder of crows heaves without warning
From the bough of a heritage oak
Their frightful chorus of pumping wings
Taking sudden flight
In determined yet unapparent reason
What concussive impulse propels them forward,
What spasm of earthly evolution?
Was it a shift in celestial temperature
Or a memory of something that hounds?
I know what it’s like to claw at the air
To try to wrest a piece of the heavens into the clutch of my hand
A bit of star, a smattering of dust, a twirl of gas, a thread of vapor
I’m a bit maniacal now
Because there is material all around me
Solid ground and wooden floorboards
Sterling spoons and ceramic coffee mugs
A bed with an indented pillow
A pair of scissors that shears paper
A rubber-handled screwdriver that turns at my fancy
But the raw stuff of life that writes scripture on my brain
That sears impressions of feelings and wants and not-wants and can’t haves
Into the ventricles of my heart, into the very seat of my pelvis
That slippery stuff that gives me energy and circulates my blood
The opens my eyes to the morning light
And fatigues me at dusk
That stuff, that very life force
It is immaterial and elusive
For the universe can’t be pegged
It won’t be pinned
I can look at it, perhaps, on a microscope slide
Or through the lens of a telescope
I can try to delineate outlines, strata, sediment, evidentiary proof
Through the narrow end of binoculars
In the close study of text and illustration
And in the taking of a deliberate, close and careful ear
I can wield the ax and cleave fiber
Music can be scored
Verse can be printed
Emotion can be sculpted
But when the record stops its spinning
When the last sentence winds to a close
When the marble bust is buried and amputates
My fingers close on nothing
They rake the air
My lips rush to press on breath that trickles and departs
Is that why my cat cries when she chases strands of sunlight?
When she chatters at flies
And leaps at shadows?
She seems crazy out there, standing in the tall grass
Sobbing at nothing
Does she suffer, too, from a bit of mania?
For it’s hard to feel flesh and blood
The rawness of existence
The throb and pulse of exquisite feeling that is
White pure
Hot pure
Salty pure
But immaterial just the same