Author: mbrazfieldm

purple petals

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when i was a teen girl

i had a teen boy lover

he was broken like James Dean

and like Brando a real bad ass mutherfucker

he kissed with a platinum tongue

as we walked along the Venice sand

he’d get into fights

all bloody and bruised

but we still caught the moonlight

sucking on the booze

we’d fuck until we couldn’t walk

not because of sex or anything

but because of all the glue we huffed

those were wild times

in the eyes of other people

to a punk skater kid

of broken inner spirit

the life style was his fort

me i was just a wanna be

looking for a Trojan Horse

to leave this solar system far behind

by sixteen i’d been dead so many times

and had gotten taken advantage of by force

all because of it

Blaine with the dirty blonde mohawk

my only refuge that boy was

we swore our love

with Sharpie marker anarchy tattoos

and shared pizza crusts

from the dumpsters down on Zephyr

at night we’d find some Gypsy camp

and howl unto the face of angels

howling at the moon just seemed so trite

but when we’d look in each other’s eyes

there were no stars in them

like with the Montagues’ and Capulets’

just an existential escape past our sullied souls

knowing that we had no plan

just living for the day

no flowers in my hair

no money for the Goddamned fare

from desperation blvd. to hole ave.

just me and Blaine alone together

simultaneous fear and madness punching in the air

we lived like Cohen and the Beats

the Velvets and Andy and Billy Name

we talked about fascism and Ollie and the gang

La Revolucion y El Che

we talked about other times

his aunt Myrtle’s minced meat pie

Constantinople and even Hemingway

he read about the Bolsheviks

while i adored Bukowski

he slept in the LA Central Library

on my bony dirty lap

one of the most beautiful

and sacred memories of my life

was my chipped fingernail polish

fingers picking out two tiny

purple flower petals

from his gentle baby hair crown

a crumb of life

/ mbrazfieldm / 5 Comments

his fedora was camel tan felt with a gray ribbon around the crown he missed a tooth or two skin dolphin blue ashy like the flick of a Cuban cigar he belonged at that piano bar he had always been there an entity but every end of a lifetime he’d take on another body and the fedora man would return to the same old black stool sagging with confessions of past souls bemoaning life and living being a junkie i was on the look out to see if he could be trusted the old man spoke English but our real conversation was on another level we understood each other with our eyes we were all intuition instinct pulse gut feeling we were cons used to the streets i wasn’t stable material i thunk too much he wasn’t to be trusted he assumed too little one day we both happened to be there i told the owner who wore fake diamonds and bee stung eyes i’m just a grad student from Harvard can i stay and scope things out what do you study she asked hoping i might be a doctor her jowls exploded with pride that someone with class and money could be among her crowd yes psychologist i lied i lied oh how i lied old fedora was there wearing a black as night striped suit with shiny shoes the kind they wore in Paris long ago as they ran to catch the frantic trains heading for Lisbon when my mother was a little girl i must have had a wild imagination too many old Hollywood flicks i suppose he was just a dirty old man and i a junkie student just wanting waiting     

urbanized safari

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the bear caves ripe with shade i go in every night somnambular in waking life there are traces and clues of human nature on the forest floor naked toes step on glass butts used condoms as they make their movement toward the yawning door the bears and zoo have left this wing and moved half a mile to a chic man made compound the trees are pink flamingos brown and the cotton candy makes me blue as i am old but living young the monkeys still amaze me i pet the deer and drool at tigers staring up at me after my tender heart has over flowed with spots on the giraffes backs i go to have a drink and i keep drinking on for days dying in my own captivity

thanks, Toots

/ mbrazfieldm / 11 Comments

dear Reina Señora de Los Ángeles

thank you for the myriad places

that sprang forth from your womb

beautiful whore open to all

from east north west south

thank you for your alleys overgrown with trash

and dirty smoky bars that only take cold cash

thank you for the pruned faced

multinational hookers

who tuck until they’re blue

and thanks for Hillel’s guitar

and X and punk rock hungry bands

i love to look at my reflection

in the puddles of the damned

and thank you for letting me slip away

from La Chata and La Sad Girl at Lil Chuy’s wake

thank you for the tacos sushi and McRib

colonics pilates and knock off designer shoes

and the beggar at every freeway exit

who cleans my windshields with his shame

thank you for the Salvadoran Iranian and Korean

who managed to call the fire men

to save the homeless Viet Nam veteran

while the GOP and DNC

squabble over shit

my Queen misguided angels by your feet

thank you for my complexity

for surviving my last fix

i appreciate you looking over me

thank you for the high end malls

fake nails lip fillers fat cell freezers

and my beloved 99 cent stores

the beaches and the valleys

the mountains and the roads

and for all the hardened gutters

you softened for me to sleep in

the soul we are your people

good bad papered or unwrapped

we are all your seeking children

but i’m your only brat

tallith

/ mbrazfieldm / 9 Comments

at moon’s end

i find myself

trying to stitch

back together

what i so vehemently

spent so many years

tearing apart

the light is subtle

too feeble for me to thread

needles of apology

remorse or redemption

yet i continue on

finger tips pale

pricked by bitter reminder

of gaping tears

i tore into the fabric

of decency and self-dignity

with offerings of woolen prayers

i attempt to mend and patch

a heart sullen with snags and rips

to no avail

on most any day

then every so often

the rays of light

knit me a magnifying glass

and in subtle ways

i toil at weaving

a better human fabric

for myself

of which i make offerings

of tzitzit embroidered with the shame

of tails in between my walking legs

with seams of hope

that mercy will be granted

at the ending of my new day

aerial was i

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twilight is a little jagged

rays of Sun’s arms

tremble as Earth opens his

blue doors to her

the marriage bed set

and i’m growing my wings

to fly in the mocha of the night

he beckons my common senses

and i dive into a certain

constructed abyss

my back it labors

as the vestiges

of alabaster hued flight

carries my sins away

then just as quickly

as the virgin blossoms

my wings disappear

into the waking Sun

her face beaming with hope

and as night and i

we go our different ways

my back rested

city aflame

my life clean slated

soul light as a feather

a conversation

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

i remember that garage

atop of the Echo Park hill

pretty in spring

bikes built to thrill

now my hands empty

mind full of memories

that fueled my entire life

the end nears by

we come close now to the station

we could never use words

only cryptic sensations

what sets me apart from the Godly

she asks

i can’t forgive what’s been done

i explain

all that is left

are two daughters

and a conjoint broken heart

cheveux indisciplinés

/ mbrazfieldm / 10 Comments

i love the color of my hair

brown red and in some places pink

my tired legs and lined filled hands

eyes that stare flat beyond the sky

and a mind that has lost the hard shell

of youthful indulgence and inexperience

i love my lips still round and plump

and the new found freedom

of spouting my own thoughts

that are crafted with the filigree of wisdom

i love my face

oh those expression lines

that will never be usurped by botox

my cheek bones high and tight

to frame a genuine smile at the wind

i love my hair when she gets wild

and i walk the streets of Beverly Hills

stroll in the Rolls Royce isles

worn out Chucks with the strategic tears

where the toes are too tight

salesmen follow me with Lysol cans

and their neat white gloves

that eradicate the traces of the hoi polloi

the hair a right of passage glorious

furious bright riot

reminding me that my agedness

is a catalyst to the third eye lens

from where i can finally see

the dimensions of the world

the good and the bad

and really only give a damn

about the moments that matter