The Wrong Kind of Mad

Crazy is good

when it’s raucous laughter, hot on a pretty boy’s ear.

When it’s breathless stories rushing out of pink lips,

infused with cinnamon schnapps and delirious impulse.

People love madness—

the kind that dances on tables with dirty feet,

and sings with all the fervor of a child

who’s learned to make grown-ups swoon.

Lunacy in impressionistic shades—

not the awful clarity of a grey waiting room

with chipped walls and tired nurses,

looking at their clipboards instead of your eyes.

No one loves madness 

when it’s bitter yellow pills,

choked down like so many apologies.

Mania in sharp relief—

smeared scribblings—

black ink on Post-Its,

on canvas, on cardboard,

and five separate journals,

in bathroom stalls,

and anywhere else that might hold

all the thoughts that won’t fit 

between “How was your day?”

and “The usual stuff.”

Crazy is good

when contained behind fences

or socially acceptable silence.

(2015)