Poetry

social worker

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

in the dawn

when bodies intercross

that stage of simultaneous

exhaust and regeneration

my mind becomes of another plane

where the primitive fears

gargle up before i can close my third eye

my getting beat or a fork in the road without its tines

i wake for a few millennial seconds

then heavy weariness weighs me down again

smelling Jewish rye bread toasting

i’m at the house on Rodney street

wearing my mother’s clothes

and my lips sewn shut

phone alarm buzzes on

and the cats start to call me mama

slowly i rise

unconsciously tap my lips

while dragging my feet

to the bathroom mirror

another day in hell

and all i got is a cup of ice chips

no egos need apply

/ mbrazfieldm / 4 Comments

tranquil 3:48 p.m. cemetery

exposed roots and i lay my head

on them inhaling the stink of rot

coming from the moisture

entwined in their wood

like cells and chromosomes

the lawn lush and cool

flower beds the brightest

colors in nature’s pupils

jeweled hovering insects

with class and personality

perhaps we are in the place

where not only the dead

come to rest

below the soil

a natural process

holy if you will

is taking place

God’s created flesh

returns to its forewarned state

i can’t imagine it would

appeal to me if i saw it

i then wonder would God’s

face appeal to me too

i focus back on the scents

around me

green aquatic a fowl or six

fried chicken knock off perfumes

car exhaust a hookah oxtail stew

and i think again

behind the pedi-cured beauty

underneath my resting fleshy bones

resides the biological truth

no egos need apply                       

on 4th street

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when the dogs got tired

and laying on the floor

perfectly brown and gold spots

little Dachshund legs

stretch out but just a few centimeters long

and green eyed kittens by the door

wild shooting whiskers

like the sky on fourth of July

looking for big momma’s kitty teats

then we all look up at the window

simultaneously in time

although i’m just passing

through an old aunt’s borrowed room

the whistle of the train

needled through my soul

and they perfect holy and beautiful

yawn at the sound of the force

baseless essence

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mirrors slates to the eyes

cold blood hot cries

in the forests of wires

camping for leisure

in soul of one who

was once a beauty

now the dump

they along with the trash

typhus and the brass pipes

in the underground

akin to the bony

once strong legs

of our fathers

stones from her river

are epoxy sold in bags

at the mostly made in China

flower and craft shops

we and they still people

we are flesh

twenty nine doors down

we also have botulism

to soothe the angst

of those whose spirits

have been mislead

to look inside the slate

and not see

the true worth of their inner glow

atheist riot

/ mbrazfieldm / 6 Comments

warm Sunday

City Hall lawn

young people

bright yellow

biker shorts

we too

sit there

moving slowly

watching smiling

at the

busy gnats

we drank

sour beer

sharing one

warm can

that took

three hours

to buy

our sisters

a yard

away talking

and pouting

smacking lips

laying out

their tired

patchwork skirts

they twirl

bottle cap

rosaries between

their stained

fingers etched

with cuts

and cracks

the brothers

coming out

of trance

acknowledge that

nothing here

will change

too many

men on

the job

too many

brains and

greedy wallets

planning our

fate and

we all

look up

at the

trumpeting birds

and we

rise in

arthritic waves

even though

were under

thirty one

and in

a hallelujah

arm stretch

above our

messy heads

our sisters

break out

in harmony

as their

washed out

bone bleached

bracelets jangle

snapping fingers

send a

thanks to

the heavens

the brothers

do a

little dance

and onlookers

stop to

stare with

smirking eyes

and jaded

quips against

the humble

family on

the lawn

who can

only address

God outside

of hypocritical

sanctimonious walls

why the night sleeps

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we’re home now let me help you with your tux

you looked so handsome tall dark sultry and mysterious

your eyes the color of the deepest wines  

the coolness of your breath on my face

as i danced for you in our secret field

you showed me your daughters

the stars and their cousin moon

and in your arms i fell unto the cool wet grass

and i confessed my fondest wishes

and then we both kissed while greeting the sun

who came with her lover

i remember the sun and i giggling

it must have been about how tired you looked

sleep well my love on

while i go clean your suit

and polish your shoes

so we can go dancing

all over again

cicatrix

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it’s best if we sigh now

oh life for all of my days

you still haunt me

you just a state of neurological being

but you life you have gotten in my blood

no other place is better

i was conceived old

my thoughts Gemini to Don Quixote

and in times of desperation

i’ve gone blindly into battle too

just a shit head little cunt

from the city of LA

but fuck, fuck i say

you and i sister tough old bitch

we still stand

on the corners and the roofs

we too sit in the high life cafes

and the rat infested flop house bars

to tell old drunk sailors but not of Navy type

of how we got our scars

rape intoxication politics aggravation

education isolation insanity warm sun shine

loneliness love devotion twisted words

beatings in the dark making love on the sand

injecting poisons til the boils could hold no more

rode in the ambulances

mourning flat-lined blue lipped boys

ah life i am yours and no one else’s

when sitting by the ponds the koi fish

bubble up asking for my orange cheese crackers

every so often i can shed a few tears

when the coroner loads one of us into their van

never knowing who they were

but knowing that they’ll go to heaven

but my favorite scar by my cupids bow

when my face got smashed on the garage asphalt floor

so many fears and rage at the same time

and the pictures of my mother

lost on my travels with no paradigms

the scars in my heart

i keep those inside

some demons are best left

to the annals of the mind

now my friend lover spouse and enemy

we’ve walked down the path

that’s led us close to the horizon

of twilight and as much as i want to lay down to rest

and ponder your meaning and flick ashes on the floor

i realize that i’ve been just another story

at times screaming off my head

another woman scarred

by the significance

of nothing in your eyes

hey Mrs. Butterfly

/ mbrazfieldm / 6 Comments

hey Mrs. Butterfly

i want to just say

that in all of my years

i’ve known of you

and the fire flies

lady bugs bumble bees

june bugs dragon flies

and most of God’s

perfect creations

when not hyper vigilanting

over my folks or the predators

my mind would drift away with you

the colors and the hues

the mechanisms made of truth

your wings and curly tongues

and the symbols afforded to you

from people who came before me

and the Egyptians how they loved

the beetle called the scarab

something to do with Khepri

and the rising sun

i believe it

i always have

i know i’ve let your beauty

and your meaning

float from my hands

but i want to say

that i’m ashamed

that i don’t know how

to describe you

my thoughts and my words

cold hollow and crude

those that have been prescribed

to me during my days of rebellion

in my eyes and in my memories

i can only describe the violets

on the hill as like the colors

of the bruising in the midnights

or the red of carnations

as the blood from my lips

for refusing to give in

or the grace in the flutter

of you the butterfly

in complete and utter silence

but before you send well wishes

and praises

i want to tell you

i’ve been no angel

i deeply hurt and failed to protect

the one who i should’ve loved first

but look it here

daisies and trees cacti

and geese all of the colors

in the rainbow high

and the moon and the stars

and Venus and Mars

i dig you man

and i’ve haven’t lost sight

that universe and the life in it

has always been beautiful in my eyes

even if the magazines

don’t think so

i know that i’m right

Mrs. Butterfly

i hope you can find it

in your perfect heart

to forgive me

for not being able

to knit you the

words that are worthy

of praise to your merit

heart of the matter

/ mbrazfieldm / 4 Comments

i love going to the hills

atop Silver Lake

where i can see Hollywood

my home my western shore

my dusty concrete paths

winding with a promise

to all that we are alive

in the City of Illusions

and that life is no illusion after all

paradox is my goddess

and Los Angeles my church

my habit was my pope

and my grit was my curse

perhaps we all strive

to go back home to reconcile

the hemorrhaging broken vein

and that’s all we want