hangups are for losers

i talk to my mother a lot on the phone these days. i moved out of the house eight years ago along with my knocked up girlfriend, a life form which i was unaware of at the time. for the first seven years my mother and i didn't hold the close contact that now exists. it's incredibly comforting in times of near madness. maybe people call me a mama's boy behind my back, but i generally try to avoid those type of people especially if i'm in a heightened state of gonzo.
the most recent madness to speak of is the state i've somehow found myself in; both figuratively and literally. domestic man and wyoming. to speak of more solid things, this state in our american union. wyoming, goddamn it's pretty; be prettier if you killed all the settlers. there's a dichotomy here that reminds me of east and west berlin. east wyoming is run by summer homey type knitwits with deep pockets and suv's. they own everything and have built a settlement of quasi-community that rings of the union. then there's east wyoming, run by pseudo-cowboy lopers that tie homosexuals to fences and drive poorly made american trucks. this side guzzles the petrol even more profoundly because they own a great share of the oil rigs. a lot of their actions are likely affected by the lack of blood circulation below the belt of strangling wrangler jeans.
now i happen to live on the west end with a pretty, voracious woman in a kind little apartment on one end of town. i figure i got here from reading too many books and listening to too much music, since i seem to always prefer my influences to be sentimental, sadly romantic, and generally to the underdogs. if it seems unlikely but love is possible, i go for it like a sorry rosecruxion...
im currently in a state of terribly optimistic confusion; it makes me feel as if i should be currently worrying about some catastrophic event. when in truth, i sense no such thing and instead sit dumb wondering if my senses are being shot by domesticity. wondering if perhaps i need put an end to cute pet names and frequent calls home if i'm running late. this isn't the plight of a man prospecting his lost masculinity, rather it's a sobering look at soma.
and so now and again, perhaps following a short scuffle in the kitchen or forgetting to buy toilet paper, i call my mother.