All poems are about bombs and all

poems are about soup.

You’ve got soup in your head and soup in your hart

yes the male ungulate you’ve got soup

the hart gallops over the secret land.

Let’s hope he gallops quietly

and that the mushrooms are too.

Silver paths in the moonlight.

I read a book about mines and my hart

is black and white wild gold

miming someone is it mine?

Black faces



This is the most delicious soup I will

ever have.

Annie Hall is my mom.

Sylvia Plath is my mom.

Marilyn Monroe is my mom.

Grace Kelly is my mom.

Billie Holiday is my mom.

Any woman with a microphone that’s my mom.

I taste their bodies

creamy potato soup

chunky tomatoes minestrone macaroni




tell me wrong things, things about bad folk

your ignorance like the obese seed

of an avocado

things about the world.

In your eyes I am god.

Green flesh

pale. I take

a spoon to my mother.

Djuna Barnes my mom Mina Loy my mom.

Emily Dickinson Amy Winehouse.

I walk on beautiful glass.

The coldness of mothers.

The kitchen room is oily and wet with heat

my mommy sits smiling before labors of love.

Red soup with cilantro and soy pillows.

The powerless people

of the world un-die.


The powerless people of the world un-die.

Someday we’ll love each other again

I have always believed that

even when I did not.

The motherhood is inside you.

When you see someone’s jolt

expressed get stuck inside you

a sharp microchip

or magnificent biopsy

suddenly I remember I

have loved you every day.

I cannot help what I am either.

(Feng Sun Chen