A stillness in the warmth of August dark,
an open, not-daylight sense of business done.
While the watchfully judgmental eyes all sleep;
their calculating minds dreaming of the register’s hum;
us restless, moon-driven wanderers rally and romp about.

It’s our time the night, the lamplight, the museum-effect of artificial light;
all mechanical din, all human noise dampened by midnight’s coming majesty.
Only the other animals’ varied voices are advanced in the deep shrubs and tall trees.
The regular people of investments and transactions and short sales and short thoughts,
are safe in their big beds, or congregating in their oversized churches of the booze and bump.

True night-spenders care not for day-trudgers and the sun god-controlled ways they accede to;
We flow with hyperbolic purposes to exert our physical presence, to exalt our adventurous blood.
As one shreds a darkened parking lot curb, or acid-drops a concrete window ledge to pavement slope,
another slides over lamp-lit streets descending lazy curves through flickering light-industrial business parks.
All see and recognize each other but need not hoot false greetings; our language is of the body and the motion.
Our night voices, conceived in caves under moonscapes not deterred by stone, not dependent on heat transference,
emanate primal inner spaces of preindustrial humanity, an echoing emirate of protein-flashing muscle-tearing pore-cleansing


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