there’s no silver lining in this urban city sky but we do have loopholes in the contract of our life where we feel the happiness
loopholes
Author: mbrazfieldm
drip
it starts in a flash
we never notice here because
its expected that we agree
to live like this without
complaint and a dosed smile
to be docile and meek
sometimes with fanfare great they
come inspect frown tear up
leave talk into microphones their
grief that its come to
this and then get rushed
to mansions before dinner time
where im gone
Sunday January city center we drink coffee and eat i wander through the paths lined with counters and men with steam tables full of tacos and paper hats from another puritanical time when under your floors we got away with naughty things and Tommy gun rounds i smell the 40s in the maize pastrami sushi air while twinkling organic trinkets catch their shines in the corner of my eyes as they move to the ceiling fans keeping my ghosts a few inches above the ground old and new we merge in agreement and dissolve in short spurts of peace
St. Peter’s exit
stairway to heaven is closed not under remodeling and owner has not gone fishing
urban study [a]
the sound if steps drowned by the city noise voices flapping wings cries microbes eating away flies decomposing of things in the gutter and our minds traffic lights flash gasoline prices clash with American dream promises law enforcement law encroachment law deflation hunger pain need desperate ants we’ve become we have the potential to sell the soul of our children nobody knows not even me i just walk see repeat revolt retort with broken heart to mend by the edge of next block the children shout while learning to fly away from this discord
majestic label
the trash tray
8th and Union
food bank abandonment
majestic label names
won’t wipe away
our soul hunger
empty canvas haiku
sun has had his days
with you now my eyes observe
your bone’s offering
urban ficus
liking the gg allin f/u sign on the bark 😏
a pleasant surprise
no thoughts
dry mouth
moist eyes
palms cold
heart throbs
feet tired
twisted back
fingers stiff
lips cut
throat silent
nails bit
legs bruised
arms cramped
nose stuffed
pockets empty
faith teeters
breath gone
stomach knotted
ass worn
scabby knuckles
piling bills
soul dead
spirit fleeting
the you
with cat
four birds of the apocalypse
mixed media
*if you look closely you can see Buk’s ghost
comfort
if i could cup the face of the street
into my small dry hand
i would kiss her and lull her to rest
i would hum a tune about an old song
that sang about peaches and trees
so tired and awake are her embankments
littered with the scoff of the world
but instead i would tell her of pink snapdragons hula dancing in the mist
instead i cup my own face like a child after a crying attack
my ears stretch for a hum the sound of my mom or at least one lone derelict cricket
words less spoken 