The Watcher / by The Black Lex Luthor

The Seattle night speaks to me in cryptic code, a language old, and I understand then the dark streets that move with spastic rhythm, oddly reflecting the motley assortment of people living therein, the pushers, the pan-handlers, the druggies, the club-hoppers, the drunks, the various pedestrian/vagrant ingredients all lumped together like southern mashed potatoes, looking for their own one-way dream road to the magnificence of living, hoping to be loved.

I am the not the night stalker, but an observer- the watcher, seeing the thoughts of the day manifested in the realm where most wear masks, hiding the shadows they cast by day, the images I see are only the projections, so when we touch, we don't touch each other, we are grasping at air, fingers caressing dusty nothingness with an eager flair. When we speak, we don't speak to each other, but convey intelligible wordplay to apparition avatars that fade when the buzz is killed.

A language old, the hidden, vintage vagabonds breathing guilt into guiltless interaction taking time to steal reality and leave lies in their place. There is care and there is grace in the movement, and I watch them dance their hearts away hearing the false shift in the sway of their hips. I suppose we, all, are looking, hoping, to cultivate honesty from a garden of fearful subterfuge. The night is a menagerie, an elegant mess that has a broken twinkle, an image that glows in the night but fades with the rising of the sun.

Here I am, wanting to holler for the truth that is in my face, quietly reaching for an answer I can't place. Could I be running after something I'm not supposed to chase?

I am the watcher, a son of none here, eager to see the beauty in all, facing the night to understand the day.

To be continued...