Author: mbrazfieldm

Westlake

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at 5:37 p.m. the smell of
bacon and fabric softener
covers the neighborhood
like 4 a.m. London fog

so many lies and angers
and injustices and tears
and hungers and losses

in one city block
but the smiles, oh
those immutable smiles
and the hope in the paper sacks

dog shit by the fichus trees

is the city’s way of welcome

but the carnival in the hearts

and the corn fed regimes in mind

cannot and will not tear

them down

angst, terror and hate

has become a child’s game

the roses are not free

but they are in juan v’s

can along the window

rotten with defeat

it is no longer enough

to wave the right flags

blood sacrifice one son

to the blue coats and one the

the Vat

no we have become

smarter than you

and we will not

lay down to the east

or to the west

but resign to be

free in the window

in the door

in our spirit

and in the mind

to be 74

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although the scratches on the record

add to the appeal of midcentury Americana,

i don’t believe the boy at the counter

gave me correct change.

the fact that my perfume is from S.H.Kress

across the street, but the gangrene on my leg

cannot be hid by pheromones alone.

the stench is likened to war.

but that is not the fact.

the one good leg danced the Tennessee Waltz

when it was good, the bad leg was bad

from the beginning.

the root, the marrow, the veins,

the sinews all of it; rotten

all over. i wear pearls and smile

at the wrong time and in the wrongest of place.

Buddy Clark in my head,

i saw Treasure of Sierra Madre

merely to see Bogey again

on Los Angeles Street before

the nuclear heat pushes me down

the barker

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scurry, flurry

and tread right up

to the strangest

show on earth

come one or all who

remain in this world

to see the corpse in

the archives of time

hanging for the wolves

beloved and slated in one breath

global victim of the letter

of the law

inoperable in the one pit of time

terror and broken bone

let the vultures

entertain your value

let the earth open up and

imbibe us whole

oh holy milky way

spit us back out

through caves

let the mud and the ashes

fill in the tooth

the trees are all broken

the soul’s in the zoo

waiting for a

piece of meat

ccr on highway one

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it all falls on formal shores,

Mr. Fogerty,

the rain you talk about.

the circles are no more,

the pulse neither fast or slow.

but Mr. Fogerty, my time for all is gone.

the sun hard and warm,

and i see the rain soft and cold.

yes, you sang to me long ago.

in the sand where glass is born

in the image of the bones.

the rain it lingers in the holes.

through the blood a soul is told,

live forever all alone,

no more fear to wander.

Mr. Fogerty i see your rain,

in the wrinkles of the pain.

to a life of no complain.

to the wars of the remorseful heart

like an engine in the 8th.

no more fear to wander.

and the circles in the eye

Mr. Fogerty for this time,

shedding rivers in the light.

across the fire of the sun,

skies are empty,hearts are down.

and the rain will keep its distance.

angels broken praise

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in time the patch
roughens and flakes away
leaving a badge to remember
the lesson learned.

while not being ready yet,
choosing to fly won’t help
the break. alone in the canyon
a river dwindled and the
holy caves yawned forth.

a taxi stops around the corner
of time’s middle age;
insurance forms and medic aid
now fill the noons.

beauty is cold and superficial.
the birds are dead but stones
still keep the souls
of the soldiers kept in compounds.

the corridors bleed open.
the history a waste.
to hear the lonely aging,
to see them in my wake.

a closing unto open air;
the swallows make a nest.
the river thickens with the garbage
of angels’ broken praise.

1.16

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Henry i know you can see
me. in my rut i can feel the
blisters in my spirit swelling
up again. the prayers only
make it worse.

Henry how did you ever walk
from out of the doors into the
open air? where did you find
the time to convert misery
into diamonds?

it’s so so late in life but
i haven’t been born. the
many things inside of this
bone cage cannot easily come out,
Henry, why?

there is no sun and no moon
divine. the hours twirl and multiply
into clouds of nothing. buildings, caves,
the underpass dull with expression and
righteousness of self.

Henry i remain intact full of holes
with nothing but my germs and
dirty fingernails stuffed with
the scabs of days gone by.

to Buk

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sins and smiles

    angelic nothings cry down

cigarette ash at your kitten heels

typer-bang/bang of your letter gun

heart spilled onto the book

              with pencil shavings

   by my side

           innocent beast with naked brain sleeves

    long lost duker wild at heart

contender of my wits-end

jumper of cliffs    lover of untender whores

         drinker of thoughts

captivator of fears  contrary to your view 

godfather of streets

                cardinal of bums

sultan of bars        pope of poems

    big daddy writer   always tried in spite of all

Sunny Dust

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in the dirt the sun shines
delicately highlighting all
the elements found
in my skin
the wind wipes down
what is left of sweat
after the logs have
been chopped down
in my skin i feel
your lips at night
as i too feel the wires
of my debts
the lonely wolf is in our garden
love where did you go
the thunder resurrects what’s
left of me without you
my turn has come to till
the sunny dust

Porciuncula

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      The need for refuge beckons her to sit on the Pacific shore at 3 or 4 in the morning. With an eased mind, images of what the Tongva and Chumash peoples saw 8,000 years ago channel into her inner eye. Were her stars, their stars? Her moon, their moon, her sea, theirs? How many times had Hailey sprayed awe over a most sacred people whose spirit now inhabit museum cellars full of shells on the Wilshire Corridor?

      Waves crawl atop of each other grasping at the salty air that dangles. Tired woman feet sink into the parts where the sand is dirty and pasty. An ancient destiny and nothing yet manifests. Tiny moist crabs send little winks of light like fire flies, only for her to see.     

      Currents swish around tired ankles inviting her to enter as a new lover does; into his soft troubled bed. Being of an unfinished spirit, she thinks of getting lost in the tremendous Pacific. Squinting, Porciuncula strains her eyes looking into the sooty darkness. Nothing but a stray speckled gull bereft of its home. She looks down at her legs wiggling to keep the briny cold at bay. Such is the juxtaposition of her emotions that the imagination’s pictorial bank issues an image of a monk on fire. Admirably grotesque. The siren of an ambulance wailing in the distance captures her attention. Surveying the gritty banks as she gets up to stroll back to the road, her eyes get stuck on a tiny heart shape shell. She smiles secretly. It’s a wink from God.

      Like a pre-historic creature crawling from primordial soup, she lumbers toward her road. Such as the Cowboys and Indians, Porciuncula too had weathered many events on this Western shore. As she sniffs the thickness of the brackish kelp in the air, her mind floats to an early age when she learned to shut away thoughts, wrangle impulses and cram words sharply down her throat into the gut.

      Porciuncula was born old in the land of the new frontier. Los Angeles. In time, words uttered by a simple child became tiny bell tolls propelling her into a black hole of law, guilt and polite despair. She had to have been born old. How else can one know to sit quietly and listen to the most infinitesimal crackles of salt water on sand as if to hear the soil pray to the sky gods of peoples and triumphs gone by?

Geronimo on the way to the fair

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balmy sweeps of crusty air circle your pinky bike facing me
swooshing by our old galaxy eyes lock
and the heavens swirl about me slow-like
Amir asks why i go the way i go
and i can only answer like your palomino did
dead eye girl Geronimo it is you i know
half a mile up we smell the food of your enemies
blowing south to the seas of cactus
to the west the pale horse peddles in fire water and gold

Geronimo in young girl cloak bronze face
with ancient snakes of worry
oh Lizard King forgive me your blue Amir rides with me tonight through your love streets
nananananana
which were originally mines alone
remarkable girl-Kachina i do admire your courage
on the corner sitting on that pinky be-wheeled palomino
dying slowly slowly slowy a tiny bit a day

Geronimo in your eye
ghost molecules need penetrate my blood with artificial healing
that Philadelphia bell tolls nine
women spirits whose skies rip open oozing snake oil gods
to slither in my soul
choking out our spirit through scattered thoughts
rusty lights broken smile dream dropper
Lizard King hotness in my bones
sonic pulsing in my ears typing on electric stones
thinking of learning to drive the reigns
 
Geronimo girl eye pinky palomino i in blood
to the fair with the flags inky pinky vibes
broken veins broken flowers jesters laughing
deer dances hidden ghosts at the shin of the God so long ago roaming in this tired wind
ride little Geronimo eyed girl
Amir
the cactus
the sky
the gold
and the King
sit for you in corners to catch you riding west forever…