To Compete With This Kind of Longing

To compete with this kind of longing
You need a steadier heart.
No arteries made of glass, no waiting for clots to form.
You need to leap out of bed in the morning like everything is on fire,
the posters you meticulously straightened on an edge,
standing on a crooked chair, sputtering about the house with a passion seen nowhere else.

I can’t complete a thought. A character portrayal.
This kind of longing is born out of an uncertain future.
It is a building constructed 40 stories internally,
to be noticed across the plateau of an Arizona cafe with outdoor seating only used when the sprinklers are switched on and they can dilute your drinks unconsciously… 8:15… poses for album cover, the second or third since I said I would do the same and then again with sunhat or the desire to live in Washington as if I don’t already do that…
toothsore in the quiet tuesday morning, every morning sounds the same
hollow emptiness of the ravenna retirement home
where the doors never swing… red dress swaying
on the desert highway with a kindred spirit contained within,
some ethereal spirit, more like, something impossibly distanced
by time more than age or ability or talent,
our depression manifests differently.
mine has been allowed to nurture itself on my thoughts,
the good ones, always eaten up by a negative cloud,
some screaming clouds let in the back of my mind when I was drunk and the regret,
the lack of writing letters, the suffering caused by an awareness of great ideas and a mind aware that I cannot think to move forward for any of them… There she was… Now a denied access roommate to all of this hoarded space. Now brightly decorated. Easy to have slow morning when all is so comfortable. No no. We need time. How much time? Where will time go once we get to the other side of it? Does he know time… does she know time?

changed from whimsical acceptance to paranoia of fraudulence.

all of it feels so useless some days. this writing.
these words toppling over previous combinations of words
and the free writes are not the same quality
because the nostalgia of the past beats the description of the present today,
but then, when she broke my glass blood into silica fragments
on a beach somewhere, somewhere without natural water,
a manmade lake beside a small hill called a hike,
deeper hills elsewhere with larger hikes, rattlesnake coves and dusty sunrises,
no no I am there not here. I was able to write presently in that moment but not this one.
I am presently exploring the recollection of the moments she sparked in me.
Thunderbolt down through the top of my spine.
Worries and a tense shouldered feeling that I can never recover.
Discomfort of the los angeles show and the loneliness of a sad drink
while she sings sweetly and my conversation is distracting and horrific
I wanted to sob and I think I did once I found my car.
through traffic through Hollywood alone in the painful throes of celebrity insanity and every night is hot and cultural and dangerous because the strip is a cesspool and I brought that energy with me because I molded myself briefly into their framework, making me the shitty landscape I was a part of.

Now mountains, trees, peaceful silence? This part of the city is like a god damn rest cure.
They feed me money and free time and I eat it without thinking about the future or my music or the speed and direction necessary to make anything difficult happen in life. (difficult in the arts. music in the veins though no dancing blood still. she has those cute little veins that light up in the nighttime hours for creation when I go out to the pub and destroy.)

her little bird sings when I drown mine.

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