of traffic and crowded sidewalks
and honking horns and clanking
flag poles, heated arguments
and breezes by the freeway,
screaming geese and children
and fumes and scooter engines,

I see it all boiling, machine guns and daisies in hair
and bloody protesters and horny politicians
and Himalayan peaks and thorns on the head
and rising tides and grandmothers
handing out chocolate cookies and Diet Rites
and smokes signals from the jungles and skyscrapers

and here above the soup
it’s all the same but one,
everything blended
into a puree of light,
nothing crashing together
because I cannot crash into myself,
I can only flow like sauce
onto root vegetables–

oh, isn’t it delicious,
just this fleeting taste
before gravity takes hold
and I sink back down
into this pieced-together meal?