grateful for poetry

Exultant, drunk with the little victories: remembering to bring a homemade muffin only slightly less glorious than right out of the oven, flashing my usually-cloistered bus pass to prove my city citizenship, consolidating paper trails into one gleaming paper superhighway.
The hangover is quick, severe. Blurry comes into focus with a “fuck you bitch” and I am at work. Because this is how it is in the building of books and lost people. We who work here are the serfs, and all the jesters are kings.
β€” Halsted M. Bernard

(This entry is part of one month of gratitude.)

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.