Magic Soup
He liked to make soup, especially in the Winter
Vegetable beef usually, the broth made from
Neck bones bought on sale, carrots, celery, onions
Fresh parsley, bay leaves, salt and whole peppercorns
While cooking he pretended to host his own TV show
Calling out the procedure and using a false voice
As he chopped, diced and measured, drank beer
Sometimes he was Julia Child, sometimes Emeril
The simple comfort of that simmering pot of soup
Added warmth to his day, augmented the sunshine
As it slanted into the small kitchen in late afternoon
Black and white checkered linoleum dotted with stains
“I like to add a diced zucchini right at the end”
“Be sure not to overcook it! Some crunch is good”
“Not too many onions...and I like extra celery”
“Always taste as you go. This needs more salt”
The words were repeated when he served the soup
Usually eating alone, but sometimes a friend or two
Would drop by or he'd give them a frozen bag of it
“You really make good soup,” they would say
And the soup would carry him through the cold times
The hard times with no work, the lonely times with
No woman no children no friends just books and
His angry thoughts of frustration and self doubt
The soup cured it all at times, made him whole
“A crust of bread, a bowl of soup and thou”
Said to himself in the mirror with a sad smile
And then one day an artery burst in his head
Finally he was free, but no more soup
Just days after the funeral a friend opened her freezer
Discovered a frozen bag of his magic soup and smiled
That should have been on his tombstone, she thought
'He made good soup'... He would have liked that
-Ye Olde Blowharde
If It's Tuesday, This Must Be Hell, Pt. I
The appetite's gone
Shot to shit
The hunger that does exist
Isn't for food, money,
Attention OR
Love
The hunger that IS here-
Right HERE in the center,
In that deep, dark place where
It feels like the Soul resides
That ornery hunger
Is a massive empty ache,
A searingly dull void
Where a Soul
Should be
-Prof. Dirk Beat
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