then one more time
she comes, tip toes like a
hunger on the Hill St. bridge
but does not offer her love pang to me
orphaned i stand of the
ideals i’ve had
for ever it seems
she enters and
leaves unimpressed
as always
Author: mbrazfieldm
5 spot m
brown pigeons crap on the hollow sidewalk
the old Chinese woman waves her hand
wills their Jackson Pollock orchestrations
by feeding them week aged beef stir fried fare
the gin and tonic mixture of my youth
roughly flows through decrepit portal veins
fifty-year old girl tells me what she wants
easy with my ductus deferens
sip a drink of shame no olive in sight
politely decline her proposition
of five spot love while i wonder away
from Magdalene of little Italy
strolling towards the ragazzo mios
void of all holy penance in this world
briscula my only love lady fair
death walks quickly on J Pershing square
LA River
Moon, forgive my
untender truth.
your soft light
cannot fertilize
like the Sun’s atomic
beams blazing on
my barren scarred
womb where there
might be hope, still.
wasted
on the inside of the room
the floor is my alter
laying down my hands
again i surrender
with a wet smile upon my face
none was wasted in the
empty harvest of the heart
and the milky way is far
from me in this hour
i most desire
most in your opinion
was the thrift that
you did lay and probationary
periods of my feelings
judged to be abstained
from me forever
LA girls can channel A. Ginsberg too
their bodies as tired as my mind are a
conglomerate of recycler rim shop churches and everything is gated and stifled as the spirit of the child i’m looking for chain link fences rent free beautification of Western Avenue top $ cash paid open we buy metal Medicare Part D appears almost as much as “Jesus Saves” i’m in on all of these treasures that no one takes the time to look at i still cannot find my girl i always stop at 13 seconds i ask
Iglesia cristiana el remanente fiel testimonial Cathedral and Christian school Church of God in Christ iglesia pentecostés primer amor next to the color TV by RCA motel that is open 24 hours Sermon on the Mount Bronco motel on the corner of Western and 55th United African church marked up by the 55 kids crew and all the horny husbands whose wives are left alone demand a price menu for my most exquisite lips
night flows cold nerves exploded at the tips Chinese laundry out to dry the sky the stars turn off one by one and birds are sinking under mud blue gods of the century turn west and all along the mountain lightning stops to cry the purple mud dies
on the day of war
maroon worms climb up
no legions loom
and the resurrection
is postponed
because of my ignorance
Reflections of My Youth
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meals on wheels at the Savoy
my head is empty at 3.27 a.m.
it is damp with the night’s debauchery
plopping at the top of the bridge
are the noisy little birds
no one can hear
pall bearers to the dead mosquitoes
left there by circumstance
morsels for the hungry
cleaners of the earth
i think of such things
while the world keeps turning
and my sleep leaves
it won’t return
i turn and stare at drying
turnips on my table
Heliotrope Ave
she comes to me bold and big
as eternity. sunk into a feeling
of having taken all but kept
nothing.
the smell and the color
blinding to the eye. what good
is the poison to liven
my sky with a roof on it.
in this day i’d have liked
to share with you plans for
eternity after the baptism
in the electric after glow.
but it is not like that
and i can never hope now
that the calvary wants to
come any more.
the light in the sky
no longer sharp and the
birds pass the sky where the
flag has touched my battle.
scars and bones put to the test
petals and forms molecules
of death exalted above dirt.
Zanja Madre
i don’t like the water
although i miss the womb of my earth
my mother’s womb was dark and cold
pulled out dragged down
i long for primordial comfort
the safety of the sky is no longer priceless
the desert is warm at dusk
and the moon smiles her face down at me
as if pointing a finger
lost at the root i stand
without a ground
but i am not holy
little life big sorrow
the weights are against me
the lake of green is kept
by fire of angels
which i don’t understand
looking with no eyeballs
like Teresa
the dandelions are long gone
Metropolitana
i had not taken notice
that there were no flies
in that lobby
the mail slots are still there
the supernatural tungsten charm of
Bogey cigars and cancer
i can smell the sordid gardenias
when did nature go so wrong
and i can see the nylons and
the hats waiting for a call
i sometimes feel that in
1923 on a rainy day
i took a bottle of pills
ladies were dainty
even then
Bogey never waited in the
silk upholstered chair
for a girl named Gina
or a Midwesterner
called Claire
as a matter of fact
if you must know
my business mac
i have only passed by the glass
guarding this lobby on the way
to nothing more
words less spoken 