On staying feral

Lately it seems that I cannot tell if I am happy or sad. It’s if my heart is full up of moments where the smiles distract the chaos. There is so much to love.

and to be truly  alive is to be flung into the chaos.

A light and bubbly beer buzz can colour a palette rosy with a new perspective.

Or is it the calculated melancholy of chosen lyrics?

The honeysuckle grows outside of the door and whispers reminders of life

The dirt still finds it’s way into our eyes, with the oak pollen.

We seek out the chalky hands…the calloused nights of sore limbs and nervous gym sweats

As I wear my work face out the door

Learning this new layer of myself

The dull hum of a screen, and a new age co-op work space

Isn’t it all still the same hustle? Just disguised as another way of thinking?

I think of of days, reading Edward Abbey. I think of Kerouac. I think of Bruatigan and Bukowski and Plathe and the hauntingly raw female vices that rise from the caves of today.

Have we all fled so far from the cave that we have forgotten how to make fire?

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