Hollywood postcards

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

there are gopher holes on the sidewalk lawns

and every once in a while on Camilla street

the dirt will mound up next to a dandelion clump

someone lived here once and they still do

and they get visited on lattice top pie Sundays

on the front door a wreath for every celebration

and after morning coffee the garage door opens

name brand grass rose and cactus fertilizers

there are potholes and no sidewalks on Alameda

someone we don’t think of lives here and many more

the dirt around her ankles with pink thread strands

in matted hair with feathers

on Tuesday last her blanket drenched in rain

by her thigh a Starbucks cup to collect her pay

peeking into secret plastic bags

her slitted lips whisper at the fence

there are various hours of the day

where heads can’t be wrapped around anything

i admit i’m old fashioned broken indoctrinated

i’m too tired so very tired to fight a fight

good bad or indifferent

the landscape is not what we think it is

there are no alien or governmental microchips

only old Hollywood postcards in our brain

cardboard sheets

/ mbrazfieldm / 3 Comments

the best walk is in the morning right before the sun completely rises the odors of garbage and French bread coupled with bus ozone and weed exist in a universe of the mind and the alley

there are men lined up against the buildings and traffic electric boxes their hoodies exclaim to the world that they are Raider Laker or Ram fans cigarette crack meth and weed wafts creating a unitary phantasmic god of smoke

some women stand by the liquor stores lighting a toke some women have little children and they stand waiting for the crosswalk light to change some women walk on blind to the world face in phone heading for a loft to be beautiful the click emitted by the heel of their Louboutin only amplifies the agony of sleeping bodies on the cardboard sheets

is it possible to be clinically alive but haunt a building is it possible to be shrouded in death and still feel the dullness of life Bandini where is the Spring time

morning is thriving and as the minutes whiz by the city gets hotter the fire department connector pipes have an extra gleam today as i study them they have written upon them the secrets of the street urchin in the sharpie pen dialect

fruit and tamale vendors mushroom up and down the side streets they methodically feed their families by feeding the mason crews contracted to erect unobtainable luxury the divide between those and us is so great by now is our poverty obtainable for them

Cricktopia

/ mbrazfieldm / 3 Comments

tuesday night again
warm like mother’s milk
the night dark is silky
not yet the honey suckle whispers
its too early
but the crickets after the rains riot and march along the seams of the house
into tiny cricket bug speakeasys
i wonder if they have their version of Modest Mouse or the Matrix
my worries and fears anxieties and revolving years
of listening to crickets
a supple madness incubated
under pressure of the glamorous life shared by the ballsy poets
my arms just thoughts
holding tight to the hallucination of life
after work on many day
i envy the crickets and their Cricktopia
i envy the little plastic Oscars who get to go to a real home
some place in Wichita
but as i linger in the backyard of this home
assured that the sign on the side of the hill
can no longer crush me

a drop of water

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

a new year began with new decisions set into motion life has become as tasty as it is to bite into a drop of water going along for a cruise Sunday traffic as it should be nicer cars whiz by yet the wind in my hair with tinges from the valley we pass the Fortress of Hollywood’s mysteries pressing forth on the one o one music from your youthhood fits you like a stretched out girdle particularly where the lace is falling off but i say nothing i nod in support of your choices instead my face is made up mostly the eyes my scars and wrinkles the tattoos on my arms they make me feel something the hills and horses grasses and trees stand around me like pall bearers to be i turn my face to the right and my lips kiss the warmth of the sun instantaneously i wonder if i placed my breast in the light would i get that effect of feeling again