to need

sometimes my convictions are

not enough to soothe

the pain of the

weight of life so

i go into my

closet dig in my

cardboard box where i

keep the rosary i

found in the mud

behind one of the

homes i grew up

he loves me not

i go away tomorrow

will you not love

me three times tonight

i’ll come again to

hold your hand but

we never know our

fate or luck and

if we come to

stay for a few

hours more then what

will change in us

soul

inside between the breastplate and the heart there’s a tiny little nook with an itsy blue butterfly her name is soul and she came to be in the mountains of Kashmir when the atoms were still babes blue prints in the grand masters eyes soul lodges there time immemorial and waits measures holds back explodes forward what the mind judges to do at times mostly in the dead of night soul flutters a little spirit revs up becoming restless and soul makes it right she spreads  here sky blue wings to dry the tears welling in my eyes blue soul corner stone of secrets and filter of the lies the weary life the prices paid to walk in fields of grandeur right before crystalline morning comes mind rages war on blue life soul her wings crushed under a stream of poison

closing time

slow traffic sign blinks

stray lights streak the wet pavement

my foot steps echo

time out

i’ve made you angry

i question not to judge

not to hold accountable

it’s just self preservation

i refuse to die of a venereal disease

a few months back i had a crush

i cast out my fisher girl’s fly

you nibbled i invited

you ignited a fire that spread too quickly

you an excellently talented lay

me a very willing convenience fuck

from the beginning of the race

my stats were clearly posted

of broad mind and precocious personality

but i only make you angry

when i really don’t mind

if you suck the neighbor’s cock

i’m cool if you want exploration

don’t politicize the situation babe

let me remind you for your record

you came on your own to me

i’ll take the tumble with some protection

a girl needs some stress release too

but don’t give me bullshit excuses

when you know what i’ve been through

i’m crushing on your lustful ways

and the sweetness that you randomly give

when we lock lips and genitals

the gods above do sing

you can get angry at me

for leaving you mid way

i’ll overlook a lot of things

but don’t think that for a second

you’ll have me as your slave

LAX

i want to share this awesome offering from my friend Lynyo. check out his stuff!!!!!

Lynyo

You keep my words far from oblivion’s grasp

A simile sometimes is worth one more day of life

Here, where my demons and fears clasp

Here, amongst words, memories, and pain we share the same strife

May every sentence give you a new horizon

May every tear of a forgotten memory give you new strength

Here, we dream new colors rising

Here, we do not fear the withered thought or it’s raging length

Write your heart tonight

My friend in weirdness

Keep on the fight

Past lives are built on forgiveness…

To my friend:

Mbrazfieldm

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you buy we fry

my favorite chair

are the sidewalks

those in the 20’s and 30’s

edge of downtown streets

a mix of rustic houses

shacks and alley ways

some with flowers

some with trash

my favorite chair

is not comforting at first

it affords me front row view

to the less palatable aspects

of genteel society

exposed vaginas cocks

twisted tongues

defecation out of

hundreds of orifices

then there’s the strip mall chair

with the upright and honest

vendor my favorite one

is Donicio from Panama

he has a way of telling

funny stories

across from there

is another chair

‘you buy, we fry’

it’s mostly busy

on the sabbath

my eyes their

veils of formal education

lifted and the life of life

exposed to all my senses

there is something thrilling

about hopscotching through

dog shit in a city

that treats us all the same

my favorite chair

in the bars of the people

although people aren’t

what they used to be

my amiga Casimira

has the latest I Phone

when i want to look in to

her deep brown eyes

and have her Oaxacan accent

transport me to another land

especially on jury duty day

to no avail

i lost my friend

to the latest pop up store

at the end of most days

when the journey’s done

i go home to my derelict

dog and two jaded kitties

with caffeine in one hand

Phoebe Ann the cat on my lap

the memories of my rest stops

deposited silently

in the removable data bank

inventory

It took about three hours to get back to Los Angeles Street from Mission Avenue with its grandiose blocks of junked cars and guys who waved flags like bull fighters guiding you into their shop driveways to get your muffler repaired for $75. I thought about Hemingway’s story. Looking down at the dirty greased earth wondering why I wasn’t dead that afternoon trying to find the lesson or the meaning of that particular event in my life. I became aware that at some point in my journey I would have to take control. My higher mind would have to take control of myself come hell or high water, against all gods, all demons, against all angels, against all saints, against myself, against the world.

My body hurt and the concrete was harder than I had remembered. My feet were pulsating with exhaustion. The worn sole of my right Chinese girl shoe mouthed slowly at every step as it “peeoed-peeoed” at me like baby birds demanding food. My left shoe was now a casualty strewn under a fire escape at Werdin Place. I imagined my shoe embalmed with bum urine and cigarette ash. My shoe had served me well. I just needed to get to the Cecil.

I never felt pity for myself until that moment. My one black sock was still on my left foot and I stank like cigarette and latex. My navy blue hoodie was torn at the nape where the hood connects to the body from where I was pulled. It had scabby matted clots of blood and snot on the arm cuffs. I could smell the blood iron sickly sweet rubbery odor ground into the fabric mesh of my clothes. Memories of how well-groomed and perfect my mother and sister always were wafted over my mind. Impeccable make up, pressed clothes, matching jewelry and exquisite scents. Jasmines, roses, spices, musks; all offerings to the heavens and here I was dirty deep into the marrow. Blood, spit and skin ground into the tar. My body and feeble sanity violated.

I consoled myself by tearing the bandages off my throat and my left ring finger. The bandages caused me to admit defeat or worst yet, victimhood. I felt guilty thinking about my mom and her baubles. Those were her drugs and her costumes hiding scars my dad gave her both inside and out. I sat on the curve of Sunset and Spring St. amongst the scent of Peking duck and taquitos. I cried for my mother. I hated myself for crying just because I needed her. I didn’t deserve anything, so I just allowed myself to feel her pain like I did when I was a kid. I needed to punish my stupidity and my addictions. I didn’t like silks or jewelry anyway. I was too ugly. My mom never liked my nose, eyes or my boyish body. I was too short for her taste. I guess my father’s Portuguese genes were stronger than my mother’s German ones.

Dedicated to my friend Nick Reeves.

we interrupt this program…

mind twisted and turned out inwardly

heart full of bewilderment

spirit dull cracked in some areas

soul as is no refunds

aware that privilege was not a commodity

we all have our crosses to bear and walls to wail upon

boundless and untethered loyalty to any attention giver

and then the sons of Adam distraught

ended a course of life

at that moment of death and rebirth

spirit began to take shape

the eyes opened the lung breathed

the palm uncurled and the mind sobered

the heart beat lips parted in silence

what do i believe

we are still here the force the pulse

the breath of God

in spite of my will or yours

we are here the ancient brick and mortar

passed through the stream of our common blood

flows in rivers of love cleaning the puddles of blood

tears we have all shed across this world

different circles

in my mind i had run away again it was just a fantasy a longing to be missed the truth was i was often absent from home and so was everyone else who lived there a modern family i thought about visiting Mr. Petrucchio but it was early evening he was probably asleep in his green upholstered chair with his brown Ferragamos still on and Perry Como on the hi fi killing me softly was his favorite

a weathered bench behind the Cecil was waiting for me old gray plastic too hot to sit on in the summer and always damp in the winter very decisive for a gray bench

i went to biology class today the teacher spoke about how eggs become fertilized funny because in English class we talked about how eggs are a symbol for rebirth life all around i took out a clove and lit up watched the smoke defy gravity up past my nose my eyes head and eventually gone to be part of the universal ozone

my mind went slightly blank and into daydream mode thinking about the electricity of boy chicken sperm fertilizing the girl chicken egg i chewed some of the black polish off my left thumb and came to the realization that i had been an egg too life was so intricate and fragile but forging forward man and beast go forth and multiply

out of my dream i snapped there was a four lane street between my bench and the old warehouse across the street with the permanently shut back door that transients used as a Murphy bed or toilet depending on the weather

at first there was a loud white woman skinny like a sausage casing she was yelling and flinging her arms wildly then two or three black folks gathered along side and spoke loud enough in religious tones he dead he dead Lawd take ‘im ta heaven po’ sona bitch

my watch said 5:57 p.m. another homeless person had passed in a door way i wasn’t sure what to feel i was no stranger to corpses my grandmother chose to pass at her home when i was a little kid and we didn’t have to wear seat belts driving through the north 110 speedway i witnessed a man dying like a fish out of water he was riding his motorcycle before that but had been hit and just left there i didn’t do it then because i didn’t know i was just a kid but every now and again i say a prayer for his soul

a small crowd gathered at my bench as they watched the coroner’s van pull in to the site one of the coroner’s people looked across the street at us and began making his way toward my crowd while the dead man’s crowd shook their heads smoked laughed yelled covered their mouths with their hand and then slowly left as the PD hung their yellow tape the sign of seriousness and solemnity