trash dash: manhattan iv.

overheard in the uzbek restaurant…

wayward talk of chile and ecuador, the prime stops on the silk road, techniques of the boustrophedon, raging poppy fields, too much hash

the one-upmanship sharp…

peripatetic call and response about the tang and other merits of uzbeki beer and uruguayan women, the obscurity of radiohead and the future is billie ellish

the timbre maudlin the umka a perfect puff…

wanderlust in the south, remaking the ruins of venezuela in the image of argentina, death by clear cutting, petrodollars ruin everything, and somehow the talk turns to czars

the plov congeals in its oil…

meandering laments of the rarity of this ritual, forecasts and promises to do it more, something in the voices belies that certainty

the crash of a kazan clanging a death roll in the kitchen…

peregrinations of assiduous maths parsing a $109 bill 3 ways to the tenth of a cent, then a drunken 3 card pile up on a plastic credit rectangle… yes, let’s, more often

while a terminal point chicken is beheaded in the alley…

“Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don’t bother concealing your thievery – celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: ‘It’s not where you take things from – it’s where you take them to.’”

— Jim Jarmusch