tired like Kaufman


the sun is out she wears orange
freckles are her spots that cause chaos
upon the lines in the sand yesterday
the avocado trees gave without regret green
they were now the willows hang there
i just another organism single celled alone
yes the grass blades dewey with blood
from shedding flower cannibals deep among clouds
then the bus explodes its breaks the chosen
ones get off weighed down by sad
moons broken heart he a stoic far
beyond the grasp of the Neptune comic

ulcer

mbrazfield (c) 2020

acid rain drop tear
eye field of grain
gypsy cloth for burial
standing we don’t stop
just beyond the starline
shelter roof of water
floor of heaven hell
grew cold of waiting
ulcer in the chiding
mouth of goddess  in
between  the deaths of
lives less killed  our
candied bitterness let’s build
a temple maybe five
before the swallows fly
back stoned to nests
tipping over ashes was
the flowers of my
bed in hair graying

grady’s psalm too point oh

wet sand stink in my nose

thoughts of another month gone

but funny thing

im walking on my city street

Master Reeves literature    check

big ass cup of iced Americano    check

sun shining on my head    check

to the left of my short shank

a begging tent with liquor spills

to the right of my short shank

my jean ripped on a baby palm tree

traffic below the Wilshire boulevard bridge

connecting insanity and greed

sometimes an old woman will shake her fist

at the medical marijuana rig

going at a breakneck slow speed

at the corner the fruit vendor speaks

to his regulars about the Trump defeat

but i squeeze by avoiding getting sucked in

to consequences of a life so alien to me

well i’ve never been to Pensicola or

Miami FLA im from Californayay

my lips pucker out a lame refrain

then i wonder about Bettie Page

her life as a saint

it gets late

sky hued like wild honey

littered is my view

with COVID warnings

i reach to pick at the mask round my neck

in respect for a millennial child

with each crispy step to my place

traces of hurled up chow mein

discarded condom wraps

and leaflets notifying me Jesus saves

Now Available from Indie Blu(e) Publishing: As the World Burns: Writers and Artists Reflect on a World Gone Mad

hello friends please check out the amazing writings and lots of thanks to Indie Blu(e) for giving me an opportunity to share my voice lots of love from LA to all

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Indie Blu(e) Publishing is thrilled to announce thatAs the World Burns: Writers and Artists Reflect on a World Gone Madin now available on Amazon in bothprintandKindleversions.

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Ben your leather apron

mbrazfield (c) 2020

we blow at the match head
like a dandelion against the wind
three strangers one and three quarters
working lips ashes on one finger tip
book bag full of notes to rockstar
fantasies who wont ever get to kiss me
a game of snakes around the bend
32 dollars in my hand Lou you the man
ladies and rainbows sinners and thieves
carnival of man meat eaters
newspapers of the week my tired head
they serve as sheets
ghosts of the shit alley Riviera
cigars cigarettes commercial children in rain
hypothetical American dreams
polityrant money greed my soul to feed
into rooms of mystique where all
who knew too much will seep
into tabloid sensationalism
but we as cobweb kids know better

wet dream

sheets wrap what is left of me

apple wood scent fills the air California burns again and again

all organs supple still throbbing where they need to

thrilling fancies pool around my head eyes closed your face i read in the darkness of it all

lips brush tenderly drinking of my well from dark to light no one dispels the rumours that encircle you

in your hands i am burning like Califa queen arms let go no pressure felt safety net falls into hell

the grail lays on it’s broken side empty in your hands it once stood brimming with love scent intoxication down the surface of my legs

in your hands my history of civilization lips give way to carnal cries teeth gnash eyes shut tight

the comet passes through my skin truth lies in secret screams revealed

to me you’re just a dream

the Clash forever

It was in the Fall; that’s about all I can remember. I was young and I was also compelled to punch Tennessee Abigail in the face. She showed me her cunt and said she wanted to fuck me. My mind panicked and I broke her nose. I was sixteen and two years into that life of score and run; but never running far enough from perps or skag.

You know those movies where Hollywood denies they exploit or glorify junkydom? They’re pretty accurate, but its far worse than they make you believe. No bleeding hearts please. I had choices, but I chose to accept the love with the destruction. I always had guardian angels, sometimes they were out to lunch dipping their toes in the Frankincense ashes at the nearby church’s wine cabinet.

Walking away from the bulging 200 plus pound bloody screaming mess, I felt bad for hurting her. Abigail continued to curse me out between twangs and gulps. An angry punk country song of sorts. I walked from the King Eddy to the Cecil hoping for some hope. I didn’t fear the cops, but I did fear Abigail’s Agatha Street pimp Big Chop coming after me for some down-home plastic surgery to my ribs.

Grasping for relief of the creeping fear, I thought about my history teacher, Mr. Hahn. He gave four honest to goodness shits about his students. I secretly enjoyed his middle of the road politics. I relished discussing the American ideal and arguing back and forth with the well to do kids in class whose moms drank in secret and their dads had a secretary to screw on Thursday evenings. It didn’t matter much though. I would yell out “the Clash forever.” Mr. Hahn would remind me that his class was strictly a Rolling Stones establishment.

I wasn’t the type of girl who thought about the accepted American ideal of what girls should be like in the 80’s. I guess I wasn’t any type at all. I arrived at the Cecil. Big Mac styrofoam boxes and empty apple juice bottles grew out of the tarmac instead of weeds. I felt sad. I thought Tennessee Abigail was my friend.

Spare Cock Amos didn’t have her drag on. We were going to go out. But I do remember her fingernails being exquisitely polished and groomed in seashell pink. Amos had a lot of hurt in her too. I told her about what I had done to Abigail. She asked why and I told her. Amos responded in a God dense given voice, “good for you.”

Dusk was gray golden and the neon flashed halfway on hooch shop fronts. I took Spare Cocks arm at her request. We waved at the half live carnage on the side walks on Los Angeles street. From one of the gutted out warehouses my mind convinced me Piaf’s ‘La foule’ was wafting out. I unclasped from Spare’s cautious restraint and twirled; neck stretched harvesting the notes in my ears like ripe peaches.

a grady read

my way…

it was in the Fall that’s about all i can remember i was young and i was also compelled to punch Tennessee Abigail in the face she showed me her cunt and said she wanted to fuck me my mind panicked and i broke her nose i was sixteen and two years into that life of score and run but never running far enough from perps or skag

you know those movies where Hollywood denies they exploit or glorify junkydom they’re pretty accurate but its far worse than they make you believe no bleeding hearts please i had choices but i chose to accept the love with the destruction i always had guardian angels, sometimes they were out to lunch dipping their toes in the Frankincense ashes at the nearby church’s wine cabinet

walking away from the bulging 200 plus pound bloody screaming mess i felt bad for hurting her Abigail continued to curse me out between twangs and gulps an angry punk country song of sorts i walked from the King Eddy to the Cecil hoping for some hope i didn’t fear the cops but i did fear Abigail’s Agatha Street pimp Big Chop coming after me for some down-home plastic surgery to my ribs

grasping for relief of the creeping fear i thought about my history teacher Mr. Hahn he gave four honest to goodness shits about his students i secretly enjoyed his middle of the road politics i relished discussing the American ideal and arguing back and forth with the well to do kids in class whose moms drank in secret and their dads had a secretary to screw on Thursday evenings it didn’t matter much though i would yell out “the Clash forever” Mr. Hahn would remind me that his class was strictly a Rolling Stones establishment

i wasn’t the type of girl who thought about the accepted American ideal of what girls should be like in the 80’s i guess i wasn’t any type at all i arrived at the Cecil Big Mac styrofoam boxes and empty apple juice bottles grew out of the tarmac instead of weeds i felt sad i thought Tennessee Abigail was my friend

Spare Cock Amos didn’t have her drag on we were going to go out but i do remember her fingernails being exquisitely polished and groomed in seashell pink Amos had a lot of hurt in her too i told her about what i had done to Abigail she asked why and i told her Amos responded in a God dense given voice “good for you”

dusk was gray golden and the neon flashed halfway on hooch shop fronts i took Spare Cocks arm at her request we waved at the half live carnage on the side walks on Los Angeles street from one of the gutted out warehouses my mind convinced me Piaf’s ‘La foule’ was wafting out i unclasped from Spare’s cautious restraint and twirled neck stretched harvesting the notes in my ears like ripe peaches

a Kafka kinda’ night – mb

1:17 morning time pitch dark no moonlight the stars mere dots of dried ozone rain not cosmic God dust that’s all the same i stare at the bottom of my glass wondering where my pill water went thoughts of death and mortal coils derailed by crickets in the hallway chirping off reflections of their dreams […]

a Kafka kinda’ night – mb

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