The Urban Soup (Part XVI)

It could be something different: it might be the urban coffee cup, or the urban rut in sidewalk; it could be the tree that grew in Brooklyn or the holy shade-light on the urban river; it might be hallucination, wish-fulfillment, therapy, denial, imagination, mythopoiesis, bullshit, time-wasting. But it is in my area, in my world: the knobs in the sidewalk where the rocks weren't crushed hard enough, the neighbourhood cats, the sparrow-clouds eating the holy seeds by the coloured see-through glass of black tea colouring the world an optimistic reddish-brown. It is routes: from dumplings to bars to bookstores to rooms to beds and futons and medians and bus shelters to suicide high-rises to tucked-away streets to soccer TV screens to turrets and rotundas and gas mains and u-joints. From complacent walls to deconstructed sheds to drum vibrations to plants captured on third floors to showers to figurines to totems to skinned raccoons. From pushers so rotten wailing down the waking gibbous moon to Buddhist monks caught in a traffic jam on the highway. From hair slicked back to armpit hair braids. Wines and epiphanies and porches and imams swirl around as little cut-out snippets of god knows what. From Dante's four levels of intepretation to a poster with a bird and a cat. From Jungian archetypal theoorizing to a half-worm wriggling in the plowed soil. Meh: I never liked soup all that much anyway, especially not during the summer.

Consider: "Make your ego porous. Will is of little importance, complaining is nothing, fame is nothing. Openness, patience, receptivity, solitude is everything."