Charlie grew weaker
from the old
1940s window pane
i’d hear him
then one dusk
in September nothing
a few days
passed i rummaged
the building’s trash
casually looking for
unexpected art supplies
it seemed Charlie’s
kin tossed out
everything that he
possessed and of
no advancement for
them pedigreed relatives
yet in my
quest for treasure
troves i found
from Ohio an
old Glessco bottle
at night is when i like to see
all those things that mean to me
the most and yet are so simple
at night is when i like to feel
through those little childish trinkets
the force of the world’s throat
speaking to me
at night is when i like to think
that those ideas imparted through pictures
teach me to be me
at night i sense the echoes
that bounce from my own glass ceilings
suspended by wildflower buttons
and the slurs of lunatics
at night i taste the salt of tears
erupting from the memories
of how i came to be
the keeper of these silly little trappings
i built a castle for you
made from fantasy bricks
crystal pink and jubilant
some of the windows
just framed by stories and things
not of any worth
the walls my twiggy arms
at times scuffed and bent
but strong
when the winters came
the foundation
a mere pond thawing
no life just murk
so i gave you pillars
adjusted from my short legs
lifting you from your knees
as you held tight
to the roses and wine glass
in your hands
and the birds
i could never get them to sing
for you Mutter
my throat unable
to find its stolen words
farewell again
in the cold starlight
no roar of laughter
just faint clinks
of crystal flutes
champagne and hope
no silk dresses
just fluffy socks
hoodies and tea
Twilight Zone marathon
in the background
children squealing by the orange trees
while mom and dad clean up
after the pug
thoughts about health scares
anxiety and quick sand rage
mingle like oil and water
with the laughter of my beloved
tomorrow is a fresh start
a dash to new goals and new tolls
under the mercy of our chosen ones
as long as the sky is blue
as birds sing and flit across my yard
i can face with a strong chin
the next 31536000 seconds
promises are like water to me
for you they quench temporarily
all that i fear for you and us
like the thirst of the dying
i can stop making promises
that i won’t agonize over the shit disease insanity violence and utter hell that we both see
we can compromise and believe
that there will be promises of better life
like we will plant flowers
but they might not smell like roses
as the smell of decay clings
promises can be multi everything
disciplinary lateral purpose conscience
promises are sugar and wine
rat poison
one daft note fleeting in the wind
a fart or love
i can’t tell where we are going
or how to get on this new road
let’s not make promises anymore
let’s just stay eye to eye
let’s just see what i will do
how i will move and act and love and lose
i refuse to promise that i will not turn the other way
if you don’t promise that you will make this inferno go away
i will say that i can accept my heart broken
and that when the camera flashes your way
remember that humility diligence and hard work are the better red carpet accessory
for you
our queen of us lost angels
if ever i should just begin to walk
down this anxious street
that goes into the mouth of the tunnel
where we all take refuge from having to rationalize the next three nano seconds of our lives
the subway tile old and cracked
fossilized grime keeping the fading pulse
what would it be that i’d think of
the history or the art
or how we got to be entwined by the tyranny of the city
or perhaps by the 32nd step deep
i’d think of the flower district
giant sunflowers in painters buckets drowned by murky water
the baby’s breathe
as bright and lively as the milky way
on the ground
the spell broken
the steam of drying liquid
smelling of clorox and slime
around step 68
out from the canal of the tunnel
the cracks and scars on the walls
have turned into cuneiform
symbols and communicators
mournings and encoded confessions
my sins beyond
the daily bustle
right here in this moment on a cold Monday for LA midday sun peeks in and out although this morning he ran from his wife Moon and she stared him down because he rose late hungover from radiation
today on a gray Monday and the City of Angels we watch each other we don’t see but we watch i look past your shoulder you look past the whole of me eyes glazed over it seems briefcase knuckles curled on the handle white pink shirt slightly crooked walking stumbling in the mind the lunch hour we eat nothing we just stare across the freeway bridge to see the trucks and the cars of the other people who do just as we are doing but they ride on four wheels and to think as we often do not think that there is no connection between us although we are all in the same situation arm in arm in our disconnection
i walk four more blocks and i see the people i used to know
some slowly dying drinking poison others slowly dying puffing away oblivious to the universe
yet others collecting cans washing them out behind buildings stealing water from the dirty pipes
today midday lunch break my shoes dirty my legs cold my eyes blind hands tucked inside pockets that are empty
the whole world is empty yet we drown in debris
we cannot hang our thoughts out to dry those times are long gone
i walk another three blocks where i used to know of a 130 year old home two bedroom large porch she’s gone the only evidence that she ever existed are the orange cones left behind by the demolisher
next week i can bet they will have a high rise up
luxury apartments that no one i know could ever afford
light vaporizes dust shower
the gold in your eyes
the groans of our lives
spoken in the quiet of the morning
we sit across from our faces
silent in broken music from our hearts
but we know
we know
in the honey suckle trees
our kisses and screams
are held by perfumed tendrils
by spider webs keepers of hollow seed husks
and an old shredded classified page flapping in the hot LA wind
Priscilla Du Preez- Unsplash Life is hard, relationships too. The reality is both take work, determination, and effort. And boy, is it exhausting. whole of a part by mbrazfieldm the rain has stopped and the sidewalks smell like dog piss and dying roses but i like the fragrance of my clove cigarette the stop lights change every […]
Reblogs – Marisela Brazfield & Punam
words less spoken 