Late Night

No one, no one but me.
Everyone around can see.
And anyone who's anyone can see.
She's got a whole lot of reasons but they don't make reason much for me to see.
So many excuses blow around I just want to say I just want to see.
And anyone who's anyone can see.

-Æsop Tchai, 2005

I has said

I was slouching in the doorway of Trink's China Queasine, when I overheard the following conversation:
"I have always loved you."
"No- You didn't know me until you got out of the War!"
"I mean, I have always [post War] loved you!"
"Aiee...I like that."
"Will you take my hand and hold it to your cheek?"
"I would if it were a clean hand."
"I wash."
"I mean clean from SIN!"
"I cannot do that."
"Oh, those bloodstains run deeper than water can clean!"
"That was my youth. That was good times."
"Good times in Danger's Clubhouse. I want a man who doesn't eat meat with a glimmer in his eye!"
"Doesn't eat meat?"
"With a glimmer! Glimmer!"
"I don't glimmer!"
"Your eyes glimmer. Pork chomp! Glimmer! Beef steak! Glimmer! Chicken Suey! GLIMMER!"
"I feel belated. Infatuated."
"I will roast you to cleanse you, my man."
At this point, the garbage truck came by to dump, so I backed into the street to get out of the way. Theere was rain in the gutter and children in the rain. There was a calender that said 1999 and another one that said 1982. They were in the garbage, but the wind blew them away. Who threw them out together? Why those years? Why not any other years? And why did just the wind free those two? They were covered in the same script of tattoos. Dates and tattoos. Calender tattoos like "Billy gets his shot", "take Kline to the vet", "Dinner with the DeMerthinezes", "DO THE DEED", "GET THE $%&* OUT OF THE COUNTRY!" etc.
Then the garbage truck finished puking everywhere so I went back to the doorway and the two cooks were gone.

Intrinsic Sclar

In the epic struggle of mankind there can be no doubt as to the inferiority of the consiousness as to the catalyst of deed. 'We do because we know we do'. But do we realize this epiphany? Is anything, if not realized in the consiousness, actually anything? If we are because we think, are we still if we do not realize that we think? Can one think and yet not realize, or be self-aware of one's own thinking? And in the process of thinking, is the consiousness present by cosmic default, or is the consiousness the mother of thought?
In the crosshairs of humanity, there arises the indominable question of rise over run: i.e. does the question beget the answer or does it exist only to lead one therin? Inasmuch as can be said about consious thought, is it the consiousness that defines the existance, or is it the existance that berths a consequential consiousness?
All this to say: yip, yip-o-keneethesiak!
I am my parent's son and my sun is apparent.
The bird of my eye is the weed of my lie.
And all things go up, up, up to the moon to destroy telos and mekos and stratosinpherior.
A smile is just a tickle in your throat that crawled up and died on your face!