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The soup is turnip and yellow and bell pepper and barley and vegetable stock and three carrots, softened to succulence in a crockpot overnight

The coffee is from Sumatra, recommended by a magnificently tattooed artisan who makes bells as part of one of Arcosanti’s revenue streams

The coffee is in a mug that the maker calls “The Anarchy Cup,” inspired by a former co-worker who denounced all politicians

And is flavored with half&half and blue agave syrup recommended by an architect friend whose designs were incorporated into buildings made throughout the Valley of the Sun over forty-five years

The bowl of soup is gone but there’s more in the crockpot, cooling

Dessert is Whoppers with the coffee that helps the chocolate dissolve to uncover the malted-milk core

And the Whoppers remind the bachelor of going to the movies with his daughter, now estranged

It is a layered breakfast laced with memory and reminder

Unconventional unto weirdness

Richly satisfying

Ceramic cup on the left was made this month.

high-protein, low carb, says my muse/in massachusetts, and approves./the birds i made/are indifferent, being inanimate. one/needs a prosthesis or two/since her beak was lost in the kiln fire.

coffee/sipped from a cup made three weeks ago/with my own hands and mind/kona, classic black/fills my spirit.

Image

I have heard and read that the most popular beginning for the lyrics to a blues song is “Woke up this morning…” I think I know why: every day is like a little lifetime, and when you wake up you are born.

the day be
gins with ligh
tened sky, with
coffee drip, with bright-hurt
eye–& when you
get a Breakfast
in you, time will let
the day continue.