blurred out my face with the
taste of noodles
fifty thousand words
from a fifty thousand word book
the artist's job
is never done
thus an artist should never work

rice is so delicate
that it erases my pores as it
runs buttery over my hands
my fingerprints embedded in memories of
stealing kisses on a girl's neck
beneath street lights with uncertain time lines

steak and soup
all winter
the cattle watched their farm
become a graveyard without markers
and i prayed for myself
instead of them
and prayed for something to take this hunger away

malnutrition nudging me
in the center of an unnameable chakra
pieces of noodles
overcooked but soft
falling out of my mouth
soft and egg-white
semi-pure
distractions from the fever
of loving flesh
running all over me

unremarkable overcooked fantasies
no consideration
for the emotions
of the cattle
who fed me so long as i fed them
i prefer the rice
noodle stains on my collar

too much poetry
in other hungers
don't have time for that
too much work
have to make dinner
for one

God this is refreshing, thanks for that.

Nice poem...