In this kingdom of dread, she straightened my hair and advanced my thoughts on my own insufficiency.
Never does it spawn out of the soil that you fit perfectly between her sheets and smell like peppermint,
The way we all sniff herbs in the garden,
How she now sits awake at night and will inevitably kick me out.

How much was I faking drunk to spur conversation

And how much is this...

Destiny, and all the pun that lies between here and idiosyncrasy.

I'm not whole, it's the way I always crack, thinking life has ran in circles and spit spheres into orbit.

Humor, humor, I wish I'd burn.

Where is she, in her impeccable timing and charm?

She's gone to roam the Earth,
And all its great civilizations left to conquer.

She'll sing at the throne to become Empress of African empires

And keep me waiting.

It's shameful to think about the stuff I've cried over recently, and the things I saw of her while intoxicated,
Her beautiful face and the words of a woman who'd grown both petty and sad.

It sounds familiar.
It makes me want you more.
///
Is 1:30 too early to get ****** up?
I have nothing better to do.

Where have you gone,
And have you lost the plot on your journey from Cumberland River to Puget Sound?

I hear you're the Queen of Seattle.

I hear Eastern Kentucky has a long history of intoxication,
Blessed with unbelievable quantities of prodigies and savants.

Shouldn't it be a sign that they all leave?

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.

Under the pine trees, we'd lie in the shade and make up excuses for why we couldn't return home.

It isn't safe there, spend the night with me and confess that I'm aging like wine and not withering and rotting away.

Take me to your childhood home with your hidden retreat where you feed the ducks, gazing contently into the water and not thinking of the stepfather who with his meatlike hands would drown you beneath the lake's serenity.

Just don't leave me here like I know you're destined to –
As social convention says you should,
As I now in reflection know you will, and always must.

Send my soul back to Europe for this night of excitement.
I wasn't thinking in plain terms, I had already read this in Santayana but I was only noticing that you were soft and pale,
My neighbors treat me so much better than you seem to (try noticing that they're people too sometime),
You complain and put up your false barricades to lower at moments notice,
Momentous when I'm out of sight and still carrying the remnants of scent and dreams of morning candles.

Turns out you aren't very unique and you major in manipulation, honing your skill and your art isn't to be displayed in public.
Will you say I broke my own back, or admit you were taking my head and changing your voice, ignoring what was right in your eyes?

I was already agitated.

Our last supper was in the front seat of your toothpaste green Ford, no mint on the floor,
To rub your collarbone and then wish I could take it back because you ended up in my bed...

But you made it clear that we were just friends, absolutely.
You said to stop, didn't you?
You told me it was wrong?
You didn't, I asked.

It was a game of consent and I lost.

The muse of poetry gazed into the eyes of Athena, Goddess of Wisdom,
Walking through the books for inspiration or simply to **** the time.

I found myself happily at ease knowing I had love in my heart,
Love among the words of dead poets and dead Roman Emperors who dared to dream of philosophy,
But it was thoughts of treason stirring beneath the planks which built the staircase,
Winding five stories up and you in your feminine near mythical beauty.

I spent a short time in the library where I thought back only a minute on Allen Ginsberg's infatuation with the human construct of language,
How I would yell my lung's capacity of air out and scream at the stoics for their wasting of their one chance at emotion.

Will it ever be helpful to better learn the placement of the Swiss Alps, mountain line of scars on every globe, when I'd rather trace the placement of your spine, holding you in place, keeping you sound in your structure...

Walk with me through the centuries of words.

Don't just lay above me wasting your day as I'm sitting here wasting mine,
Wasting money that neither of us have to spend.

What time do we have between here and England, to return all this art to London?

Morning Glory has come to nightlife Kentucky.

Calliope, you've matched my curiosity.

Calliope showed up in my window after a night on the town,
A face full of anguish begging for help.

She brought along with her fragments of my past, spewing vulgarities like I had never grown accustomed to,

The night opened up to new possibilities.

New found companions at my side, I went into the intoxicated haze of confusion surrounding the sixth floor,

This is my adulthood, I cannot turn back.

At the end of the hallway is safety, yet in front of me is my oldest and truest friend who I cannot abandon.

Calliope came calling about half past one, August Eleven, No more innocence.