Plato, slices

Allison and Sasha were their names. Sasha was a Russian, Allison a redhead beaut--tall and thin and lithe, and she bought me a slice at 1 a.m. and then did what I normally do (she wandered off) and Sasha and I followed. The three of us spoke in Spanish the first part of the night (then in Russian-Bulgarian). This is because these girls go to South and Central America and live there--how dangerous, really, are these countries, when these girls go their in dresses and shorts and sandals? Hostels, their homes for their visits, are speed dating for fucking, and I don't blame them for the venue choice, because the feedback is immediate, the setting is quiet practical, and fucking is visceral--it gets way past that wobbly speaking movement which gets nobody nowhere.

My ears are ringing. God damn it my ears are ringing. I smoked a cigarette last night. Minor Threat serenaded these women. I say I can't write but now reading your work I realize why: what would I write about? How I can go to a bar, eat tacos, grab two girls, and wander and drink? That sounds like the soul-less march of Miami coke fiends. I'm not a coke fiend. I'll never be a coke fiend, unless it's with that yeh-yo flake you talk about. Maybe with that yeh-yo yellow flake golden ritual snort you speak about there Donnie.

Man, I trained with the guys that night too, but I chase these damn girls. Moraline saves the world, and I drive my Subaru each day to the deskjob and spend the fake currency on the booze that fuels the gatekeepers who let me in each night

God damn there captain your writing gets so many thinking about so many things. I mean my degeneracy is interesting, it can be good for a laugh or a read, but what the hell does it feel like to know your work is perennial? What a swagger it must give to a man. And you are with good people too, your family. Your trust them. They know you are progressing mankind singlehandedly in your basement. And I've been to that basement and can attest that it gives you no unfair advantage. Man, I should have gone home after the shot and the beers and the tacos, but I saw the redhead and her face melted the whole fucking place down, and I did what Chrome always did, I sat down and spoke as if I was continuing a long lost oral tradition.

I'm back now--that was my great and cleansing bowel movement of 7:42 a.m. Denver time. I do most of my work there, it's where I have a copy of the same damn books reading the same damn passages that get me nowhere, still on to fucking ontology when you've created a new way of accounting for the meaning of experience. What you've done here is injected this anthropology into the anemic discipline of the Frenchies and Krauts. Yeah, and you're taking on this culture like Miguel attacks the serpent, you know, the one from the bible. You are doing the work of so many men and so few men at the same time--so few men, because so few men really have affected world history--man, just think of Plato, just think if he had chosen to go to Park Tavern and go for late night slices instead of getting his work done? Man, think if he had to drive to work now. But she'll feel good when that long dress comes off. I don't think Plato ever felt that.