an emergency room is not an ideal place to sleep while you might not get beat up you might catch the flu or get arrested but sometimes you get to see the city in its an entirety a representative from all walks of life and we all stew in our vulnerability suddenly everyone hurts farts groans wails yells angers saddens and feels life in their gut like a cheese grater or wrecking ball if you’re on the gurney gunshot wound to the back easily a kid or a pregnant woman bleeding bad God’s credibility comes to question why did He allow this but my logic doesn’t go down that pussy route going nowhere i know that God is God with no need for anyone especially not someone the likes of me instead i wonder why that kid wasn’t at home at three in the morning was his mom turning tricks did he have a fight with his father or the bleeding woman with half a baby coming out her Oscar De La Renta ball gown while her husband’s wearing a Rolex what the hell is going on i wonder could i have prevented this how am i connected to these souls did i vote the right way did i pick the correct door my eyes dry out as i weep inside the x-ray room while they rearrange my arm loss is loss i feel inside my own insanity and so with dawn i’m finally gone and greet the sun upon the bridge while the train whistles blow as i turn to my left hoping that nothing else goes wrong for the ones left on the emergency room floor
Author: mbrazfieldm
the functionalism of dandelions
supple eddies of wind
caress and tickle the yellow
little matted heads
and their thin arm stems
shooshes it away
they stand firm rooted in packs
patchy green grass
sprinkled with crinkly caramel leaves
some dandelion families
those of five and six
adopt a stray apple tootsie roll candy wrapper
that found its way from Halloween
a few rebellious dandies flourish
in one and two and they grow up pretty hardy
before being crushed under a running boy’s tennis shoe
i like those that grow up nice and tall
with shiny pea green fuzzy stems
that little Mexican girls harvest on a Sunday
to place on the altar of the Virgin mother
when they end their day in church
then there’s the really rugged ones
with sparsely yellow tufts
they are angry little spiky things
surrounded by the trash cans
punctured by the littering
wrapped in sheets of rust
those end up having to bear the brunt
of needy cats and dogs
looking for a litter box
this thing
the thing it is fantastically big
dark with some pockets of rainbow
like an oil spill choking oxygen from the sea
this thing it creeps upon me
looks me in the eyes until my glance falls
to the ground beneath my bare feet
such a crazy thing it is comes when i need to rest
and like a vine above my dreams there it hangs
menacing the angels and their holy valor
the thing it swallowed my St. Christopher
when i was three it crush my compass too
ripped my maps to smithereens
left my raft broken in many places
now that i am old and sunken in
this thing still haunts me
it shakes me shrieks at me and makes me cry
i have tried to fight with fire water and dope
then i thought i’d be nice and slept with it
but to no avail this thing grew denser and denser
not even the sacred doves could pacify it
but like all who have come before me
and to those who come this way
i have learned to exist amongst it
this thing my fearful monster
i chained to it
both night and day
never too young for T Leary
Home was cold and lonely. Waverly had gone away for the holidays with her family. I hadn’t bonded with anyone at school. I wanted hot cocoa and warm pajamas, ginger bread men cookies and a Christmas tree with glass ornaments in 1985. I wasn’t going to get it. So I bussed it to Chinatown, scored and got a bag of stale fortune cookies.
I thought about going to the Cecil and dropping there, but I didn’t want to be lectured by the old lady on the first floor. Florida was the cleaning lady she had worked the docks in San Pedro during WWII as a steel worker. Bent and grey she would polish the walnut sticks of furniture sparsely laid out.
The walk from Broadway to the park on Plaza Olvera was calm in spite of the screaming bitch called traffic. I didn’t mind. I was trailing and smiling. As always, invisible to the eyes of the world but never to my city.
I sat following the giant furry beasts that seemed to engulf the people with multiple hands and faces. Deep blues and the oranges were never more orange. The sounds of people talking or laughing were vague, but I understood the strands of human energy feeding the cosmic realm set to take off into the sky.
The Pio Pico Building sat there quiet in the chaos of the mariachi music and the stop and go low riders booming the likes of Grand Master Flash and Run DMC. Then a mirror suited man walked up to me muttering sounds and wearing a huge red dot on his nose. Thousands of me’s exploded like shrapnel landing in the pupils of my eyes.
It took an eon or two, but I finally directed him to the train depot. Satellite man gave me a balloon dog. The dog was red and the heads and tails and every little knot fanned into dozens as fireworks dazzled from my finger tips. I felt alone in the sea of people, I felt cold frozen fire under me as the Aztec dancers circled about their worshiped sun it was all the same to him.
Time moved with grace like a swan in a lake. I thought about my father and how he taught me how to shoot a gun and a rifle and how to box and use a knife. Years later I found out that it wasn’t because he wanted me to be well rounded he was just disappointed I was a girl. He was really very disappointed and I was very lost. I needed a dad. I wasn’t sure how I felt about women. My mom was tough on me. She expressed numerous times how useless I was and even wished death a few times.
I feared women; they hurt your heart tore your spirit into nothing, fucked around with your brain. Men hurt me physically. I felt like I could at least fight back, scratch or kick something. I couldn’t hurt a woman.
my way…
home was cold and lonely Waverly had gone away for the holidays with her family i hadn’t bonded with anyone at school i wanted hot cocoa and warm pajamas ginger bread men cookies and a Christmas tree with glass ornaments in 1985 i wasn’t going to get it so i bussed it to Chinatown scored and got a bag of stale fortune cookies
i thought about going to the Cecil and dropping there but i didn’t want to be lectured by the old lady on the first floor Florida was the cleaning lady she had worked the docks in San Pedro during WWII as a steel worker bent and grey she would polish the walnut sticks of furniture sparsely laid out
the walk from Broadway to the park on Plaza Olvera was calm in spite of the screaming bitch called traffic i didn’t mind i was trailing and smiling as always invisible to the eyes of the world but never to my city
i sat following the giant furry beasts that seemed to engulf the people with multiple hands and faces deep blues and the oranges were never more orange the sounds of people talking or laughing were vague but i understood the strands of human energy feeding the cosmic realm set to take off into the sky
the Pio Pico Building sat there quiet in the chaos of the mariachi music and the stop and go low riders booming the likes of Grand Master Flash and Run DMC then a mirror suited man walked up to me muttering sounds and wearing a huge red dot on his nose thousands of me’s exploded like shrapnel landing in the pupils of my eyes
it took an eon or two but i finally directed him to the train depot satellite man gave me a balloon dog the dog was red and the heads and tails and every little knot fanned into dozens as fireworks dazzled from my finger tips i felt alone in the sea of people i felt cold frozen fire under me as the Aztec dancers circled about their worshiped sun it was all the same to him
time moved with grace like a swan in a lake i thought about my father and how he taught me how to shoot a gun and a rifle and how to box and use a knife years later i found out that it wasn’t because he wanted me to be well rounded he was just disappointed i was a girl he was really very disappointed and i was very lost i needed a dad i wasn’t sure how i felt about women my mom was tough on me she expressed numerous times how useless i was and even wished death a few times
i feared women they hurt your heart tore your spirit into nothing fucked around with your brain men hurt me physically i felt like i could at least fight back scratch or kick something i couldn’t hurt a woman
foot note
it’s a dirty trick the world is round and the road will take me nowhere go far away they say as they laugh in my face knowing that i will spiral on forever did You make it so that i couldn’t climb up to heaven certainly in my dream i can fly anywhere it is when my eyes are open that the gutter stinks my red nose upon it the bottles are brown and plenty the snakes jitterbug sitting on the throne of bygones but only in classification how can anything You created be bad free will maybe You shouldn’t love us so it will cost 100 trillion to be green and where will my seed grow thus we pluck each other’s eyes out i don’t want to think anymore or see anymore the beauty is of strange moon beams cats fiddles drug induced riddles Darwin you fucked up revolution on all that was gained the righteous claim their stain on the goodness of the worker
iodine dream catcher
we call it infection thus fever comes hot cold sweat in dream floating away on a cotton boat needles shiny at the end of the bridge approaching me ghosts left over from a mardi gras circa 1874 i only met in pictures shiny orbs rubber balls as the rotten peaches fall into the bell jar tar the road but let me in i want to feel the burning in my vein traverse the universe i don’t think i’m made of clay but i’ll let you think i believe
desperado
when the armor sheds
and the spirit is bare
he likes to sit on a swing
legs spread across the grass
thighs dangling between heaven and earth
he doesn’t have to plot
on how to bear the brunt of sin
when the struggle rises yet again
instead yonder down by the willow trees
the children playing hide and seek
remind him of when he was a kid
teetering between his mother’s hallowed hand
and the inevitable curse of becoming a man
strip mall haikus
tall telephone pole
over pale distance crows caw
sun rises once more
parking lot safe house
for last night’s oil puddles
aglow in morning
pushcart troubadours
seek out their daily bread place
chow lines slowly move
weeds grow cautiously
in vacant junky yard suite
fast food wrappers scream
Venice beach man
i love the way you look at me
almond blue eyes laden with innocent sin
i love the way you steal a kiss from me
and sometimes hold me down
by my cat-like wrists
and tell me how you’ll take me
i love the texture of your ear
on my tongue rugged and sun burnt
crisped by the sea salt and the sand
i love to hear the song
of your primitive throat when you cum
i love how you scold me when i’ve had
one too many of the L36s
and i respect you
as a man who tells it how it is
with compassion while you grieve
for the slow motion death of my free spirit
at your service
i pluck a lullaby from notes that the wind makes
and i sing in la-la-la’s just for you
i pretend that the fellas can hear me too
as the warm sun makes me take off your old army shirt
hold on i got a text
but before i scroll on screens i loved your stories
of bayonets and the history channel’s gruesome blitzkriegs
and when you’d sit in the garage
crying hysterically like a heart broken woman
i would weep too by the old fig tree in the afternoons
why do we fight when we fight each other
and when we fight ourselves will the world be better off
words less spoken 