an early rut

With time running out like this, it’s silly—fucking ridiculous really—to worry about anything besides the gut. And instincts. This early rut. That’s got me thinking, writing, and drinking. Stevens martinis on a Monday night. And for some reason, I want to fight. For my kids tomorrow. My wife today. And I want to wake without sleeping. To blood in my mouth. Shredded knuckles. Another bout. The rounds cut short because always, I lasted longer than the other guy. But time has brought me here. Home. To S.B. Oogie. And Little Man. Our 100-year-old house. Cozy and quiet. Grandparents close. Northern Michigan. Where—without lessons—I teach my kids to be fearless. Thoughtful. Kind. To recognize much. Want little. Protect the roots. Do more. And to know that it is okay to fight. For things you believe in. People you love. For ideas that are greater than what’s offered behind these walls. In this small town. But I am only a man. Whirling through space. On a big ball of dirt. Living a safer life than I deserve. And with time running out like this, it’s silly—ridiculous really—to worry about anything at all. Because my instincts are stronger than ever. This rut has got me by the balls. And all of this thinking, the writing, the drinking—is exactly what’s been eating at every man in this town. ~ K.J.