Burlington Ave. Retirement Home

April 6, 2019April 5, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / 5 Comments

you’ve earned the right to sleep

after the end of battle

the mountains and the breeze

of change that do not fluctuate

all was traded some left to the side

the city of angels

is where you now reside

the dream of any freedom

that never was fulfilled

stolen from you your soul and your kʼuhul ajaw. past

Guajoyo in blood, Mozote in fire, Junquillo the same

sidewalk pillows and bottles as slaves

your problems have grown up

the leaving of stains in memories of women

of lies in the jungles with snippets of Monroe

the linens wasted pulp

shared by the poets and the popes

of a world so far away from you

wasting away in the alley of industrialized Golgotha

burlington avenue retirement home

Violet’s sisters

April 6, 2019April 6, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / 23 Comments

as the cars go by

we sit on the corners

of the public walkways

under tattered canopies

that used to be hanging gardens

and fields of golden straw

our chiffon gowns encrusted with rubies

are dwindled to greasy rags

crystal chandeliers and exquisite ballrooms

transformed to milk crates and cardboard boxes

dignity and the strength of spirit stand tall while

we grow accustomed to darkness

Zimmy’s Head

April 5, 2019September 30, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / 13 Comments

in dreams i can see inside of Zimmy’s head if i wipe my third eye i can hear the wind blowing in the waterfall if i stand on one leg i can tell how many eons the mountain will take to swim in the ocean in my delirium he asks me “well what did you see green-eyed one?” on my back i groaned the tiny crabs rise from their crevices i tremble as their tiny feet tinkle in the sand wiping my eyes with the tears of Mary i am overcome by the opening of the cave as if the Hand did unseal the jar to anoint me with freedom

Prométhée la femme

April 3, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / 7 Comments

tearing through the artificial dim

of the skyline in her eyes

and the gods did give commandments

through the sky the lightning cried

dabbing gently on the canvas

all the might inside of me

in the old fortress once a bank

where earthly gods now adorn the bricks

i cusped my trembling splattered digits

to my tender lips hoping that the god won’t

make me pay for stealing his precious colored rainbow

to lead us on our way

la llorona redux

April 3, 2019April 3, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

children this is your mother city Porciuncula

calling and wailing when i feel your fall

i anger i ponder cry in agony

i’ve watched you grow in my neighborwombs

i’ve watched you writhe in the pain of isolation

i’ve withstood you raising your hand in anger and murder

against your siblings my streetveins flow through

your souls and while your spirits are still in the hearts

of your flesh ancestors your ache and loneliness

emblazoned on flags of blue red and black

demarking ancestral bruising

how can i avenge you my children

when i simultaneously incubate the demise

perhaps the answer lies

in my children rising up and punching with their brains

honoring themselves with their mind

and claiming your royal given right to rise and be you

Obaasan

April 2, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / 5 Comments

the doom of the pending day bullied

my every step and my mind shot out in a million directions

the mist felt like blades on my face

while my untethered thoughts piled up like delinquent bills

i hung my head to look at my watch with quivery lip

and an angry heart my tendons moved against me

in an instant i heard her call out my name and my name she called was “good morning”

i turned half way round straightening my frown as to not be maleficent in her space

the heavens did ring and my eyes caused to squint at the beauty of the ages

the halo around her small perfect bow as she cared for her bed of roses

and through my mind crossed the wisdom to know that she was an angel

post card to Jean-Louis

April 1, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

being raised in los angeles is indescribable born in the old la county general hospital with its beautiful antiquity is an unbelievable honor i drive by there almost daily sometimes three to four times per day a place so intimately familiar and so alien at the same time i love it so much a sick love it makes me want to run through the abandoned hall ways and burrow myself in the old phone booths and never ever come out again Jean-Louis have you been here and do you know that i want to fill my lungs with that old air it was founded in 1878 ironically my three favorite numbers 1 7 and 8 forty-four years before you came to consciousness i was born there in the 70’s and i haven’t really consciously checked out Jean-Louis is it possible to be a human ghost i am a charity ward alumni but in many ways those of us born here continue to love our city bitter sweet the nursery that birthed us and healed us with ticket number infamy we have paid and continue to pay one large ass never ending bill one that is paid day in and day out hey! Jean-Louis you bum tell me something kid blow the sax of time is not a sandwich and we travel through the Ozone of your most triumphant hours general hospital with its jubilant height and art deco facades sends shivers through my blood cells when i see it off the santa ana 5 beautiful and mean and powerful and ever loving with its chiseled arms going towards the sky like the baby Jesus of your catechism years i can only imagine you Jean-Louis wide eyed Dharma child on the knees of love and me as a child i was introduced to many medical machines and medications i played for hours with knobs and hoses and tools i was sickly but willful as most angelinos but i wasn’t a wizard the hospital in my mind was a nation state with endless halls and sulfuric smells with the aroma of vending machine coffee and chicken soup like mother’s Yiddish parlor the shower rooms with white cold chlorinated tiles and the smell of latex too oh Jean-Louis even now i am conditioned to seek out these smells and no food is as good as vending machine fare now that i’m older i beat the gravel around Boyle Heights and look in wonder my child eyes and Converse sneakers have not really changed much probably because i refuse to lose sight of my cradle but Jean-Louis what does it mean to look all of your life for a granule of meaning and be told you are in God’s image and behold on top of a mountain there you are and while the pigeons pan for peanut shell gold i look at the horizon and the junk yards of the northeast beckon while i thumb through the pages of the oldest book