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…

“Only the violence inside me makes noise. It grows and grows, just like sadness.”

— Marieke Lucas Rijneveld / The Discomfort of Evening