orange peels fresh in the sink
my finger tips scented by their honey
outside the heat lectures the breeze
little birds lined up fluffy down ornaments
i ask myself
self what will you do today
and i answer i dont know
you do that everyday self
arent you tired
and i answer yes but not like how you think
the birds are still
the window thick but i can read their beaks i know theyre singing
and i say to self
self how about oatmeal
the Irish kind with a little cream and fresh peaches
starring with blank eyes
at the punk rock collage
stirring the cinnamon and sugar
my 4 year old self giggles out from the jar
pig tails tan corduroy dress
bare tiny foots and a Disney coloring book
self instructs me to stand
and i walk away from her
Poetry
the little freedoms
not this morning nor any other time
has silken hair been a concern
old jeans black ashy tee
worn grimy chucks
red painted lips not for me
scab marks on fingertips
smiling face collecting things
at the antique store
thoughts of politics tea and scorn
stopped in track by butterfly songs
flutters of black orange magic
finally relieved
my sister later said
that when mother left
the tears on her velvet cheeks
were like lily petals
time has passed
on most days when
i notice myself in the mirror
memories of her voice and sorrow
crowds my day
by eve’s time
sitting alone on the porch
some plump flying angel
will rustle up the honey suckle
and a vision of mother i can feel
quiet resting finally relieved
complication
you ask why do i cover it
wandering around town
a million thoughts
abstract in their reality
answers swerve but then the questions haunt
im not a fitter in the jigsaw of today right now
just a passing sorceress with a spray paint can
strayed under the bridges dirty shoes bruised features
archangel seal on finger never ringed but broken twice
but even in slumber you complain
how can anyone ever hold you
your hand anchored to your hardened chest
it’s a reflex i whisper back
shes frail
beating hushley
neath this bony tattooed hand
dendrite and soma
the network of your arms
strong like a cedar tree
fingers from both of our hands
connecting transporting us
to those sinfully delicious places
our animal scents my sweet flavors
pony express urgently
via dendrite and soma
speeding messages between our hearts
mine located where a heart should be
yours more toward your mid center
she stares back
she stares back
bold strong ferocious
history upon history
of countless hearts
whispers in brick
yearnings in mortar
cracks in silence
to have known
souls long ago
proper in poverty
hidden behind threat
fear of starvation
ghosts in abundance
moonlight is scarce
stay with me America
im not of pedigree or coveted fame
ive tripped many a time along your winding lanes
here in alleys where ive sat in ragged tents all day
a lowly worker with brochures of life altering events
the propaganda of voluntold indoctrination
my name is just like any other
from my hands that shake from harder times
i try to read between the lines
when ‘we’ are face to face
drowning betwixt the ones ‘we’ call the ‘us’ and ‘them’
we lure to come into the wasteland charm
of stretched out lips and forked false tongues
gimme gimme gimme the desperate and dislocated
the addicted and the berated running from the demons of corruption
has been the bait and switch liberator’s motto
send these the disturbed and ex-comfortable
so they will become the poster child
of the politica apparatus tweet of the week
yet as a daughter of your sacred strata
formed with the international soils of pioneer steps
of all the peoples’ diaspora
stay with me America
that i may serve
as my inalienable right guides me
to be free to love all human beings equally
cup o soup
the chill condenses
as when porridge does
and the tips of my fingers
begin to ache as if to crack
like when i used to pour vodka
on the giant designer ice cube
since i was little i liked corners
memories of life and how its come to be but hasn’t changed me
at an angle framed by brick weeds and piss the King Eddy has closed
window and door a silent rigor mortis
no more free drinks or musty teamster gropes
skid row catches the eye
twilight lives here day or night
but at times it shimmers
like when a man sings a new song
like when i can afford
to tip him five dollars
i like the twilight i feel
and when she staggers to me
and tells me her story
i think that all of us here are missing some teeth
that justice is served
that in this twilight here
Lennon’s imagination
is clear
we are all important because of our story
our statistics aren’t of value
in the twilight of these years
we are one
and we can all use a cup o soup
erosion by mbrazfieldm
my roots never grewi stayed for a little whilethen climbed on the first windthat blew through this soul of sandmy grains turned pale graytumbling through this earthen hourglassalone in the company of drovesof other discarded lonely vagabondsfrom what i gatheredlove had stopped rooting at the duneswhen i finally got there Written in response to […]
erosion by mbrazfieldm
erosion by mbrazfieldm
my roots never grew i stayed for a little whilethen climbed on the first windthat blew through this soul of sandmy grains turned pale graytumbling through this earthen hourglassalone in the company of drovesof other discarded lonely vagabondsfrom what i gatheredlove had stopped rooting at the duneswhen i finally got there Written in response to […]
erosion by mbrazfieldm
words less spoken 