the haiku is unwritten

four in the morning
we sip smokey espressos
Joe Strummer and me

becoming undone

mbrazfield (c) 2020

it’s brewing
continuity
questions are stewing angry
we wait part doers motion suspend
muted red March April May rebirth unto death pull us forward bit insane masking new life restless buried ashen run to hide

dreams of Patmos

it starts like any other dream i’ve had since around age 11 with the Black Clergy and the Orthodox Cross of course Ivan the Terrible riding on a school bus horse in the diary for today there is written about John the Revelator who in my opinion had the dream to end all others forever more my phone screamed the LA County Emergency System warning safer at home lock down starts and the tranquil panic ensues can’t sleep the rapist may come blowing trumpets can’t eat boogey men come with sanitizer to wipe out my individuality can’t complain i’m doing great in contrast to so many of my brothers can’t stop thinking is this war Patmos makes me hungry in the soul talking to churches down the hall but we can’t help we are human no i say no no no sweaty panicked girl remember Big Bird and the age of innocence in limbo as the only romantic countries rage with the the horsemen double plus cut on the loose around the neck of Hemingway’s beloved

le dive bar

neon beer signs
fire door mural cop

harassing drunk patron junk filled basement
last heyday in 1950s
cheap luncheon bar feed
John Fante tattoo
don’t eat the nachos
jukebox no one can hear
two whores boxing
wino pissing
across the street
one shoe on the other
hanging from the wire
that brought the city down
they work on instinct
they are all prison taught
he whispered candy ass freaks
tell me to suck their dick
just for walking on their street
chasms blur all out
the kingdom gone
the will be fickle
find the beauty
of the bones
encased in jaundiced laughter

if i lived on Mars

mbrazfield (c) 2020

overdue

God i’m not one who talks to You very much only You know why but right now with the sky dark my dog snoring the kids yelling next door Mumbai on the fevered lockdown Syria weeping on her feet and fear infecting logic on the tube i feel compelled to thank you for my blessed life for affording me the gift of bitch and cry designer colas and multiplexities of the mind coffins lined up on my screen die ye wicked crowned virus fiend God i know You know what i mean i thank you for my life for my pains strife and what i’ve left behind thank you for my job my smile my friends my cries those three times You knew why i was spared but now i know i really need for You to see that my feeble squeaks in some way will move You and take my bended knee to mean that in the witness of these stars and weeds that my human tribe be relieved from all the things that ail us

truth hurts

a broken trail of rotted crumbs was what i followed

leading to your golden bed too good to be truth

it all began with that voice i heard beautifully harmonious

when i realized wicked lies came from your poet’s lips

held hostage

she’s here again vice grip on my chest black night horror demon waif starvation of my thoughts clawing on my floors thorns grow out of my eyes flames of peril dancing on all with illusions of lucid hell all the bottles in the world beg me to rescue them stuff my corpse with SOS written on sulfur stones of tortured paths throw me in the lake of fire fingers running on the walls 2 in the morning feeling lost the saints all laugh at my position i run outside the neighbor calls for me to come back and lock my door i grind my teeth and rockaby in hopes that this episode will soon become another reason to get high on useless capsules i’m prescribed by the drones of science

yes i’m a country lover dressed in a Ramones tshirt and i dont give a damn

my mom liked country music

i wasn’t sure what to make of it

born in a mecca of diversity as far as the blind eye could see

race segregation economics roach versus beetle infestations

but country was white blues i felt

Johnny Cash praised God like Rev. Gary Davis would

Dolly and Kenny brought joy to my mom and her kibbutzi sisterhood

Willie and Kenny transported a 7 year old pig tailed little girl to another America while on various road trips with the acquaintance to those angels

there has never been any doubt my drum is not only different but off as well

i can’t say that life made me this way but here i am

my thoughts have never been linear and yes i like it hard

music people music

not necessarily in volume but in soul Patsy i’m still in love

with our heartache our diverging dreams

you fell to pieces and i preferred to cut

piano bars mosh pit stops jazz hangouts agape screams i love them all the same

and every now and again when it all gets insane i remind myself that all diversified complications still carry the same twang

RIP Gambler 🃏

to appreciate

in days my thoughts muddle i welcome the sun on my skin with sounds of wind