a.d. sunday 8.11 (b)

old building sign

photo by m. brazfield

street mural six

photo by m. brazfield

street mural seven

photo by m. brazfield

street mural eight

photo by m. brazfield

street art

photo by m. brazfield

grady’s haiku

a twisted twig i

am not worthy of your cross

Rabbi gather me

a.d. sunday 8.11

my left hand

photo by r. brazfield (c) 2019

street mural one

photo by m. brazfield

street mural two

photo by m. brazfield

street mural three

photo by m. brazfield

street mural four

photo by m. brazfield

street mural five

photo by m. brazfield

spare cock Amos

on my birthday the ritual is to go spend it in downtown first a nice long walk by myself thin flip flops so that i can feel the pavement and the hot pulse emitting from the man holes i like the forest of gray monochromatic shadows strewn across alley way walls and on the sidewalks mottled by the grime and chewing gum ground into the compacted sandy mineral flesh of the streets

this year i felt bold so i walked into the Cecil the rays of stained glass fluttered upon me like crazed butterflies it was as though i could almost feel the velvet of their wings swatting me gently on my face my feet moved me down the lobby and i sat in an upholstered camel tone lounge chair even with the bustle and shallow energy of the young tourists hip kids the Cecil’s heart was heavy like a vault

flooded by memories the ghosts of my adolescence entered the stage one by one and sat in the lobby with me i became Hamlet when he saw the spirit of his father the spell was temporarily broken by an old woman asking for spare change fumbling with my pink coin purse i empty a few dimes and made an offering as i repositioned my face back up toward her she vanished only the scent of gardenias to remember her by

atop of the service desk was an incredibly tall birds of paradise bouquet in an urn kind of vase the vignette of the greens reds yellows and oranges eased my mind into taking note of someone i had all but forgotten Amos

Amos was from Cite Soleil Haiti tall slender muscular ebony angular loud graceful kind honest fearless vicious fighter when provoked transgender and broken in some parts of her spirit fragile little girl Amazon goddess bitch i had fallen in love with her strength without knowing that she was my sister in pain i was a kid she was ageless and smooth

with us there were never any serendipitous conversations about plans for the future family traditions favorite color boys t.v. or candy during my visits to her she shared that her street name was Tiffany de Mournay i shook my head and blurted she had a pretty name but at 12 i had no awareness of what all that meant to me Tiffany Amos was Amos Tiffany and i really dug them both

at other times men would call her out in the hallway laughing and banging on the door they’d yell hey spare cock Amos come out man we got some business for you i didn’t ask her what that meant although later in life i think i understood it she would say hold on sweet and go answer her door shout back in French and slam her door as she roared in laughter they all knew each other and liked to fuck around with her when Tiffany Amos got the blues they were dark violet

more acid than deoxyribonucleic

where did the blue birds go across the fields salty and gray the dream doesn’t end in it are old poles if you put your ear close enough you can hear the screams of time and perhaps a feather and a sliver of grace caught between the splinters in the east rusty dust rises from the Virginias i sense that my feet were black made so by the Greatness of my Sky Master but more because my great pawpaw owed his liver to the company store where can i find the mercury in my eyes shine into the night late strolling on Fairfax no sales on the Sabbath ill take the bagel extra cream cheese but can i pass on the smoked fish at the bus top where i like to sit Jimmy Kimmel on the script while me and furloughed Gabriel with the shiny twilight wings sit across the street and watch the ghouls worship the place where Tate Folger supped their last and watch the men of Sharrei Tefila pray and dance around in circles of the gates my Thai iced tea has become watery continental long necked girl all round dumb mouths talk at you about the triple X vegan doner kebob so just sit and fly watch it go by fire by night but where

SoCS badge by Pamela, at https://achronicalofhope.com/

truth or chance

take

my heart

tumble it

beating for you

gamble take the risk don’t make me wait long

Russian roulettes corner me black on red

kiss me where it

hurts me more

then go

truth

just

lip deep

i love you

not today dare

to be a fool you might win the game prize

i’m willing to pawn my life for a mere

cold twist of fate

we might find

that we

bleed

Zorya

there she is

bright bold with golden arms

the lady who comes to purify my blood

just 2 hours and 34 minutes in the past

did the he moon with his mariachi suit

cry with me because he is a gentleman

we had clinked tequila glasses

while he kissed my hands

but with each step Zorya takes toward my window

i’ve come to prefer the strong espresso roast

dark heavy smoldering like your heart

you prefer to sleep

after quaking and quivering through my mounds

and when your eyes come open wide your armor

will cover you again

as i remain the faithful wench

in the china cup where the gold has chipped off

filled with mud and some manipulative tears

my cigarette will drown in sorrow

so i walk into the bathroom

to wash your sheep’s odor

off my she wolf fur

English class

oh hey teacher no i’m no poet

         no need to give me your Conklin pen

i’m just a kid from down the nickel loud mouth

     skidded knees cigarette boozer

         blood upon her sleeve

reveler of sunsets  procrastinator in the dawn

i am the honey of her thighs

       and the pulsing bang bang of his gun

    but hey psssst mister i ain’t no poet

bawdy as all hell quiet when i need to be

      if some angel fell in hell

i’ll go fetch em’  Darla Hood impersonator   feeler of the waste

      inside their eyes corny graffiti kids

         longing for the it apps to arrive

liquor store dwelling social services auditor

      of her majesty the street  but mister

i assure you mister i ain’t no poet

     AC/DC cranker upper Curtis Mayfield fuck play it louder

poker player chopper rider star watcher  little fighter

     hey man call me foolish   lady riff raff   heart on fire

          but hey seriously   i am what He says i am

            so yeah mac i ain’t no poet

my Paul

just tonight can we stare at the lamp lights

     gleaming on the surface of the puddles in the street

tonight ange triste will you stand still

    so as to peer upon your waifly silhouette

without it floating from my bandaged hands

    can i be your Paul and place my ear atop your heart

and etch in little kisses i love you on the

renegade palpitations there about

       tonight no wine no smokes no laughing hard

no sucker punches no living the life no mosher pits

                   no altered minds

      just a little silence with you ange betwixt my arms

instead of me amidst your legs  

    you don’t always have to run away   scared little bird

pecker and picker of my nerves  and priestess of my vacuumed        

                        universe 

    one time before i leave and i lose you to the vampires

Faye

the skill is to find life in the routine she said i’ve stood at this counter for 30 years pumping the same bottles into the air and nobody cares she said

do you want some advice i could tell you that you’ll age if you don’t cover up your face in these narcotics made in Spain but it’s your body love it any way you want

ya’ see this scar above my perfectly lined brow fell off a tree in 1963 you have a lot of scars all over are you ok or are you one of those foster girls from down the block

i’m sorry listen that was harsh there’s this cream for $49.95 that can help heal those dark circles under your eyes it helped before my divorce hearing when Harry hit me

the freckles on your face and the bleaching out of your hair you really should try this salve from France you’re far too young to have this damage men like long soft chestnut hair like yours

oh my i didn’t see those tattoos i have a concealer for that but you should really get it removed and it’s a shame with your good bones naturally formed you’d be a good model but you’re too short

can you smile yes that’s it i think you could be on the cover of this magazine but you really have to clean up child you look like a dog town mop head skater boy

those nails you’ve chewed them to your shoulders look i have to take a break my boss might give me a raise but i feel that he just might leave his wife for me tomorrow

Grady, don’t tell your mom she’s my best friend and i think she would worry here’s her order and some make up for you we all have the demons jumping out of us and soon the scars of sin we carry in will come up to the surface

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Artwork by Kira