Kyle Foley

Posted on June 26, 2017


Editor’s Pick

the west virginian

i obtain a position at a motel. i work the front desk during night shift. i seem to inhabit an alternative dimension, one mired in confusica, one kidnapped by bewildermento. i feel exiled from the norm, the energy levels are subnormal. the travelers are often gnarled by the night’s rough-hounds, enshadowed by its oppressive tentacles. by the time they greet me they are often partly subject to morpheus’ grasp.

a customer walks into the motel along with three of his mates. he is blue collar, rough, dirty, but he possesses a grin and an eye-glimmer blinding in its sparklado. i think that with his crysto-aura he ought to be acting in movies. he seems happy yet i wonder how often the suffocata of labor’s steam rouses his frustration in a blight of insects. i want to tell him that i admire his blaze of euphorium but i’m afraid that that might remind him of his inhabitance of the dregs. i want to know him more intimately, not as a comrade since my polished hands might offend his blue collar sensibilities but as an omniscient observer. i want to see how the ruggèd women born of his mountains, flush with wildness, confront his charisma and react to his brigades’ cannonade. i want to know how he deals with the chaotic moods of his amigos, one moment held captive by his aura’s mesmer yet the next they regain control, rebel against him, try to reduce his stature to rubble but of course they rubiconocrossically fail.

he is a hero, an anomaly, a trophy of the west virginian hills, rugged, a warrior of purpose, a soldier of belief. he confronts life’s debilitating absurdity with force and slash, ignoring the slither-demons of confusica, unmolested by the lust-pixies of disorder. he fights alcohol’s bellowing snarl and although the beast occasionally tightens its noose he still frees himself from its pull.

i do not doubt that he suffers fits of apoplexy as all emotional mountain-men do yet i do not despise this hurriflame of temper rather i want to know its affect upon his soul’s architecture. i suspect at times that tysons do cause him to explode in an atrocity of grime yet it is the subtle eloquence of his cheer that abrogates those vesuviums.


Kyle Foley is a masters student in philosophy. He is the founder of, a website which can calculate the truth-value of metaphysical statements. He lives in San Diego, California.

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