“the soup kitchen that dreams she is a dreamer will dream of soup.” – anon

 

fallen statue, face down in the park
curious dog climbs granite figure
American-Indian Spirit Chief kissing soil
I dream of trees; in truth, they are gone
made way for tunnels, for all of us ants

with a small cup, I roam the mall
asking for alms or stolen from restaraunt?
mom, the klyptomaniac, lingers behind me
“go wash the cup, keep the cup in pocket”

minimal japanese air condition
minimal floral pattern pencils
unsharpened, longer than chopsticks
“do not break wood, are pockets deep enough?”

there’s a new kind of soft fried chicken on TV
pull legs and wings from crispy bodies
all the patrons partake
so simple to peel, so white the flesh, so orange the skin
everyone enjoying but I taste nothing

I’ve now found the windowless room
bed and breakfast refugees
homeless matresses made for families
torsos wound up together
I gather the daughters for dirty dad
(who plays with plastic robot toys)

I’ve now seen the large, pale bin
full of yellow pumpkin soup
made by C’s mom
C’s skin is black
M is now with me
I did not miss her at all
god knows I waited by the phone
but she married a truck driver
I do not love her anymore)

something is wrong with the water

hell bent weather ruined the soup
I ask M, “does this smell sour?”
with an oar, I stir the fluid
clouds of grey dust bloom like ink
sediments settle back down
the soup is like banana milk

I’ve now spotted the caterpillar
small and swimming in canary sea
with name card box, I fish it out
I try not to cut its body in half

I’ve now seen the bowl of Kim Chi
dump it in circular river bin
I’ve never seen anyone drink the soup
The kim chi will ruin it all, just like the sun
I stir the mess with an oar

I’ve now found the japanese tea room
mother kneels by the soup barge
it looks like an oversized coffin
she holds a bowl full of egg yolks
egg whites are divided
poured into soup

Mother gives me the bowl
I suck up six yolks
I note down six ticks
in voting squares on coupon slips

It’s now that kind of time
-between deep blue evening
and first dark night-
the parking lot is empty, lit by white lamps
only a building before me, a tower in which I live

“I want to go home.” I’m tired and long for bed.
on a bench next to me, F says “No.”
F, preaches about patience. About learning. About waiting.
There’s a virus in my face.
“Use Zen to kill germs,” F says.
My left palm is glowing blue.
A voice mutters from elsewhere:
“Love is a different key to the same lock.”

‪#‎noprompt‬ ‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016day23‬

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