All the words come out trite, tired, come out jumbled without explaining what they're really trying to say, I get drunk off pilsners at the writing bar, I remember school buses in the desert, think, there is an answer in the Star Trail, but there are answers in the East River too, don't pretend your best poetry doesn't come out of dirt. 2023 dances like an unknown around your temples, how long you've been wading around in the liminal space without remembering what life is. Your therapist warns you of mania, but she doesn't know. She hasn't felt the fire, how it feeds you, how three years of death doesn't discriminate against joy even if it comes with a mental illness on its tail.
We're all mad here.
A tourist couple sits next to you, counts how many minutes it takes to reach Veselka, how far to the community gardens, they have proper books still and you adore their innocence. Do you think she can make a Long Island Iced Tea, he says, that's my favorite drink. Your regular bartender is out, a familiar face you've seen since you first came here greets you, says I'm just filling in. You wonder what she'd say if asked to make a Long Island iced tea. New York is a joy and a gift when you remember to hear it.
I'm remembering to hear it.
I only forgot for a minute. I only forgot because the voice inside grew too quiet, the world outside too loud. I only forgot because I was swirling the bottom of the rock, but I was never going to stay down there
forever.
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