Jeff said
I wish I was dirt
I'd wait on the spills and the the cigarette butts
Doubt very much it would hurt
From the bounce of the glass
Or the filter, for better or worse

He said it's easy to soak up stories
If you're laying on the ground

And he said
No clocks or unrequited work
It'd just be me, I'm the dirt
I let you walk all over me anyway
So let me enjoy it

the coaxing leering laughter and the coke crusted smiles hold me together through my daily trials until the mountains fade and plains stretch far and my childhood chains resurface along with old scars.

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.

///

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.

This cathedral was ruined by dust,
Your altar has gone out
And you smell so strongly of the pine trees you rest your head under.

I wish I could bottle you,
Either to have that aroma at my disposal,
Or a shot of you to drown out my hardships.

Each day moves in sequence with great emphasis on the orchards,
Bearing myriad fruits,
Such heavy blossoms in sequence with your arrival.

I'll wish I wouldn't have locked myself away,
Away from the sunlight—
The good sunbeams that grant entrance into life,
Spending all my time lamenting for the world around me.

Seems like no time to feel love now,
Only time to cry for the love I let go to waste.

T'was little fun
T'was a little town,
No virulent delirious runs
No irking sounds
As t'was a little dangling town

All t'was a feasible brew
No meanders to sought
No conundrums of anew
just wired timely things to rot

When all t'was a portent upcoming
For t'was clad and veneered
In a amicable sun-daze groaning

T'was a peaceful loop of mono-gradient seasons
and all to do was ponder
For t'was guzzled with reasons

T'was yesterdays jigsaw puzzle
T'was a nightmare in sun-light
But for now, let's retch our unknown dazzle

As t'was,
A flippant fuss
For what shan't be
A beguiling me