que borges vive en brooklyn, por la avenida broadway

among the potholes and scum, and some seemingly soapy substance (sorry) (ha!) that drips from above, from the tracks, onto my face, as i walk below on broadway. . . the side streets are or are not worth exploring - i am not sure. i have not carved a brownsian pattern anywhere into the rotten apple . . . these streets closest to me seem the most empty. one corner with extraordinary sun at 915 in the morning (the scene sets itself), one orange and black storage facility, one amazingly humble community garden inside metal and more metal . . . occasionally a grandmother attempts to sell religion as well as knick knacks, occasionally the boarding house for latino men puts out a car mat smeared with shit, occasionally i see a woman with her chubby baby come out in her pajamas . . . it is what it is; and i keep looking for my blue tiger.