between grain

there where its black where the seed of my humanness lies where the perpetuation of original sin will continue through my blood line is a photograph

the lens there in is primordial foggy unclear muddied we pick up debris while traveling through the cosmos

in between grains of ink and exposure the sum of me looks for what we all don’t know what to look with

the photo is of a bright yellow God holding me in God hand such as a molecule of mercury can not be contained

and God laughs and rejoices beyond the pale of mere creature understanding the drive when my flash goes boom

how

the things that are not going anywhere in the tunnels of this life

hands tired how to explain the whys of it all

roads paved with loss hey not everything is a party take time feel her out look in eyes that have never cried for herself

what about the cramp in the gut are we starved disgusted crazy or lost

how did we get here were we tricked how in the name of freedom and doing good did i give up the bond to my soul in a most obscene way

how can i teach my brother to fish how can my brother relish what’s his if he is severely sick how can i teach my sister to fight and feel out her heart if we both have to be vetted and protected from each other

R Brazfield (c) 2019 mixed media

traces

the sun she’s sinking down to party in the valley rolling hills full of tumbleweeds thoughts broken desperate for context if only if only if only then there is Sardinia and a dipped toe by a drunken uncle long ago here on the city of angels there city of giants i dig like a gopher i bleed like an ulcer who am i really its no fun to lose your Rhesus at the moment of the light but it has nothing to do with monkey politics i dare say i have no more lice to give

Martin’s song

spiritual hear

the march in our blood listen

dont let our dreams die

cylinders

pic mbrazfield (c) 2020

i

am a

spec inside

fallopian

tubes tied in silence

wandering in sepsis

with no nebula to birth

me in and mold me to be free

wicked cold frozen fire line my

eyes to shut down at dawn’s reverse rising

you my twin enigma engine super

star in brilliant tigress opus

the moon intends to strike upon

weak hands that try to hide her

floating spec dance away

into dead eyed shore

narrow pathway

stray comet

bone star

still

pic mbrazfield (c) 2020

not mainstream

the sun is shy dark weepy sad the red stars on the hipsters Mao bags are dull it is a bazaar of thought living on the tops of the foam of your demon seas rebel rider non Jane Fondaer grown girl he dirty boy military card heir LA west of Hollywood Battleship Potemkin plays let’s go drop bomb on my tongue baby Jimmy Hendrix’s way irony one hundred ways to think that we can go to Sizzler after this and dude your mom has a new car but if i were on that ship ida’ve done the same damn thing he sings to me God Save the Queen and we go fuck behind the dumpster but we can’t seem to fit it in and we go back to talking about politics

stone

a line followed not straight feet hollowed out by the bumps of life

a beat heard faintly like a radio sign from outer space on a kids ham radio

intuition dimmed heavy without direction like broken jade frowning atop the china cabinet

a kiss blown by aging beauty queens to the princess up and coming

young girl twirling on a pole old man staring at her bones she thinks of tea sets and raggedy Ann doll he thinks of the life he once so loved who is buried six feet under

the flowers radiant pinks and red stems green and full of life across a dirty street i sooth dry skin and raise my glass to Martha

who’d a thought

is there such a thing as joy i don’t know what does the experience feel like is it velvety like your graying pubic hairs tickling my back does it taste like your Jack Daniel’s tongue with a Winston smokey chaser down my throat i want to say it looks like your strong rough hands with tiny scars on the tops and intricate lines on the palms of your warrior hands does joy smell like your sweat fossil grease gun powder breeze and the wind of America in your hair i bet joy sounds deep and blue like when you recite beautiful lies in my ears

al otro lado

al cruzar espero nunca regresar

ao atravessar espero nunca mais voltar

at the crossing im expecting never to return

Pic courtesy of Linda G Hill

memorandum

would it make life easier for you if i said outloud what i’d rather just share with you

would it make you a bigger man if i would publish all of my missteps and ineptitudes

do you deserve to know how much you mean to me the tears i’ve shed the drugs i dared to impress you

do you care about my thoughts my feelings my decrees or what i see around this word

if what you want is to fuck and bolt pretend that there was nothing wrong

if all you want is to get a title of renaissance man a golden plaque with gilded letters and pretty words

that’s not really me i’m now buried in a cold dark life locked in under the headstone you chiseled for me etched with nothing meaningful