soup kitchens

walden freeman

wheat fields are waving us out of the midwest, as if mockingly asking us to return. we are not welcome anywhere, at any time, anymore. ask the storytellers to hang around the streets at home and cover our cars with armor upon our triumphant returns where we speak in glorious voices about how we lost everything. we'll brush our teeth with battery acid and learn to aim our sniper cannons with kaleidascopes. if we assassinate every color except the same yellow found in the sun and invading our decaying black and white photographs, we could start newer than ever and simplify our existence down to the level we learned before we ever learned that we had to learn anything.