Two days into being back in Van Lear upon onset emergency,
I feel trapped in my childhood home and engulfed by jingo lobbyists who have posters of Ronald Reagan,
And I read about Pascal's Wager in an essay by William Buckley to realize how anyone, in annoyance, could fall into conservatism.
I come home and all the farmers are talking Communist uprising,
But back in the university the Mormon professors are talking up our structure and that we should roll with the punches.
Noting that everyone disagrees on something,
Everyone back home is too sessile to talk or debate the issues.
I must leave at once and argue with tact about the grander schemes of life and money,
I'm just getting started.
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This is not a place where you can accumulate *** and alcohol,
And thus not a safe space for creative expression and thought...
In the dormitory halls I would put on my Aztec print sunglasses and parade the hallways declaring myself the most immortal of men from third to fourth floor.
And then you inevitably get trapped in a two story country house,
Cry for the fact that the sky is too calm.
Nothing happens here.
Nothing happens here...
It makes me uncomfortable.
Let me sit in the corner of room 403 and meditate with more excitement than a shouting match here,
Or how everything is so quiet and we're waiting for a phone call of awful news.
They all must think I eat nothing,
I subsist on nighttime ghost stories, or something,
I'm a creature of the night,
Then who are you,
Man of American with your European jaw,
Or King of all men who dare to call themselves free,
Why is it that in a decade of invention and creativity
That it's the appeal of brawn that wins out continually?
We are regressing.
Eastern Kentucky is the center of the wound,
The eye of barbarism and I am not welcome.
I will move west to spite my family and then become successful to spite society.