Short

that love situation

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

It was cold for the city today. Cold like the first time your palm touches a beer from a cooler. Tuesday around Pershing. Kicking around cigarette butts I look around hoping I can figure it out. The sky is gun gray so are the prospects of the tent city by the children swings. One lone chubby security guard swipes at his phone. Oblivious.

     Love is the hardest thing to think about. The thought of it is frightening to me. To them who dwell, and hustle love is crystal clear.

     She is there with a pink metal suitcase. The pink pops betwixt the stains of dried blood, chili, and grime. She wears a broken cowboy hat and underneath a matted polyester wig. I’m not sure what to have called the color. Across bent body a poncho, crispy looking like KFC clotted with dirt and hysterical indifference.

     From the banana plants steps out a man thin with skinny fingers and yellowed fingernails which at a closer look were filled with black dirt underneath. An unholy French manicure. As he reached in to hug her his Jamaican flag colored letterman jacket levitated in the wind. Then the rain came down on his worn Oakland A’s baseball cap. He smiled with a meth mouth grin and crust around the corners of his mouth. She placed her broken left hand on his left shoulder. And with her less broken right hand nursed a blunt as she offered it to the OA man as a new mother nurses her baby.

     I drew closer pretending to look past them and secretly taking them in like a hummingbird delights in nectar. He called her Lucretia, and she laughed a raspy sound. She called him Cesar and thanked him for the three dollars last night. He hoped the cough syrup helped her with her chest cold.

     Sitting down on the steps that stare at the jewelry and finger printing fronts across the street on Olive I caught patches of their conversation. Cesar was from Nicaragua. Years of exposure to the richness that is the immigrant community of Pico Union I learned to decipher at least 9 accents and dialects. The raspy lady was from L.A.

     The blunt was crushed on the tip and tucked in the hole of her chest. They sat down on a cardboard and took a long look at the day around them. I could tell he sighed as his lips pursed like an old Indian chief portrait at the natural history museum. As she stood up again with her less broken hand she slicked her hat off her head and took off her wig.

     “My last daddy hit me with a bat,” was her disclosure as she felt the stitched cut on the left side of her head like braille. Cesar shakes his head and reaches up to hold her hand.

     We turn to the west as a swarm of pigeons flap over the playground. The three of us look at each other and smile.

Shulamite

/ mbrazfieldm / 3 Comments

There are things in my mind that no one except I can see. Those things, demons, grotesque that taunt me. I hear them coming closer, but I’ll fuck them up. They want to destroy me. I, so ashamed of my age, only a drunk and you there in your profession and you have this tone to your voice. I let you in my home. I am offended. Look at me a Black woman, you must think, reduced to this just a drunk, that’s what I say. I have missed out on so many things. Alcohol is not the problem. I am the problem. I have great grand babies I have not met. And my son who died would have been almost 40, yes. The one who lives doesn’t know how I am here. I had an aunt who raised Pothos plants, and the vines would grow across the top of her windows. Yes, those are it. Look at those leaves, simply beautiful and mottled just like me. I should get one. They are sturdy, they could put up with me. I look down a lot, don’t I? Oh now, I’ve started crying like a fool. I’m old, I weep sporadically. You asked if I had drink today. Can you smell the alcohol? Let me excuse myself, I’ll be right back, have you seen my matches? Why are you here? You’re a lovely little thing and I am little too, but I belong to those who dwell by the back alley. The state grants me this nice room and they’ve not yet plucked the thorns from my soul buried into to me deeply by these streets. Are you the thorn plucker? Be careful how you weed this sickness from me. I might not be able to stop bleeding. I will be fine. Your eyes are a strange color. You wouldn’t be the devil coming to take me? I resent your calm and your character, your understatement, and your concern for me. Do I speak like you thought I would? Are you surprised at my poise? Of course, you’re not. You are one who knows better. Alas, I don’t feel like a statistic with you. Have you guessed that I too have read Baldwin and Joyce? And here we are together with those demons of mine in the corners. I can see through the pieces of my heart at the pit of my belly that your heart is breaking for me. You do not see a Black woman at all do you? You, in your profession and your sterile words and your tone, you see me, don’t you? My daddy used to call me Jasper, his baby girl with ashy feet.

the road dogs

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

she sits there looking dazed pecking at her phone with her pink sea shell fingers

“they call me tre on account i only got three toes” she said in a proud laughter

she feels her way around the rim of her fancy thrift store jeans bought four years ago for ten bucks and donated by well bred college coeds from ANY THREE LETTER U

“i’m waiting for my road dog to help me do my laundry she’s the only one i trust we used to be drinking buddies back in the day tell me if my shoe stinks.” she stretches her tan prosthetic type shoe at my face i smelled nothing

with a distance in her blind brown eyes she asks if the blinds are open because the lights bother her she cusps an old Kleenex under her nose its allergy season

“can you hand me my eye drops they’re on the dinner table next to my dad’s diabetes pills did i tell you that he lost all of his toes and he might lose his left leg? we’ll know tomorrow.”

her head tilted down as if hoping her sad thoughts will seep out through tears of frustration as her father who named her after her own birth country was now struck down and she could no longer be daddy’s road dog either

Duster War of 1987

/ mbrazfieldm / 5 Comments

There is a certain look when one spends more than one hour at the Cecil. Particularly in the lobby, no matter if skin is young or old. There will be dust on it. Life is a cross between the Eastern Block and the Bowery, but glued together with 80’s crack.

I never made a connection of logic or philosophy. Politics never came to mind. The culture of the Cecil was that. Nothing carbon based escaped some kind of violence, for to not be anointed by even the pettiest mugging meant you were not part nor where you inoculated from the pain of not smelling the allegedly greener grasses of the other side. That was the hallucination.

For example, the spiders on the ceiling corners for the most part escaped a hungry bird or angry broom. While waiting to have under aged coffee with Spare Cock Amos, I could always count less than 7 legs on the spiders at any given day. I remember one husky Daddy Long Legs that had 5 legs and two stumps. He said it happened in the great Duster War of 1987. Nature’s hand was forced to mimic the image of the urban Eden. Miller did not exaggerate his nightmare.

Maybe it was just me. I picked up a very different perspective of the beauty ideal. I was fascinated by the prostitutes who at a certain age began to wear gym socks with their Payless high heels. Later on in the 80’s the fashion industry exalted the look as couture. Nothing is new under the Sun indeed. As my curiosity unfolded I began to ask the ladies why. The answer was usually the same. To hide track marks from their pimps. Up until then the word around my middle school campus was that you could only shoot up in the arm or snort. Who knew?

Dogs like people in particular had it pretty bad too. One eyed, three legged, limping, broken full of flies, ribs showing while lapping night’s old fried rice left behind by tourists. Chased away or chained to shopping carts to ward off any bad players. Now, their off spring live in lofts and wear protective dog gear, designer of course.

Life was stunted intellectually and emotionally for many. We either felt nothing or felt too much. We either felt numb or crippling rage. The point was that we were stuck. I say we because I was a witness, I had a home and a middle school to go to, but the Nickel had love. Los Feliz, not much. Either way there was a street pharmaceutical to help it. We either knew how to read, but became brain damaged or where never taught at all. Dogs had PETA and Bob Barker on their side. The people still wait for the upgrade. We the people can do it we are held accountable to our free will. Even as a punk kid I understood that freedom was nice, but useless if one had a broken spirit.

my way…

there is a certain look when one spends more than one hour at the Cecil particularly in the lobby no matter if skin is young or old there will be dust on it life is a cross between the Eastern Block and the Bowery but glued together with 80’s crack

i never made a connection of logic or philosophy politics never came to mind the culture of the Cecil was that nothing carbon based escaped some kind of violence for to not be anointed by even the pettiest mugging meant you were not part nor where you inoculated from the pain of not smelling the allegedly greener grasses of the other side that was the hallucination

for example the spiders on the ceiling corners for the most part escaped a hungry bird or angry broom while waiting to have under aged coffee with Spare Cock Amos i could always count less than 7 legs on the spiders at any given day i remember one husky Daddy Long Legs that had 5 legs and two stumps he said it happened in the great Duster War of 1987 Nature’s hand was forced to mimic the edict of the urban Eden Miller did not exaggerate his nightmare

maybe it was just me i picked up a very different perspective of the beauty ideal i was fascinated by the prostitutes who at a certain age began to wear gym socks with their Payless high heels later on in the 80’s the fashion industry exalted the look as couture nothing is new under the Sun indeed as my curiosity unfolded i began to ask the ladies why the answer was usually the same to hide track marks from their pimps up until then the word around my middle school campus was that you could only shoot up in the arm or snort who knew

dogs like people in particular had it pretty bad too one eyed three legged limping broken full of flies ribs showing while lapping night’s old fried rice left behind by tourists chased away or chained to shopping carts to ward off any bad players now their off spring live in lofts and wear protective dog gear designer of course

life was stunted intellectually and emotionally for many we either felt nothing or felt too much we either felt numb or crippling rage the point was that we were stuck i say we because i was a witness i had a home and a middle school to go to but the Nickel had love Los Feliz not much either way there was a street pharmaceutical to help it we either knew how to read but became brain damaged or were never taught at all dogs had PETA and Bob Barker on their side the people still wait for the upgrade we the people can do it we are held accountable to our free will even as a punk kid i understood that freedom was nice but useless if one had a broken spirit

couch skinning

/ mbrazfieldm / 3 Comments

I woke up mid morning thinking of how many ways can one skin a couch. I slept on the floor boards of the 8th floor room of a woman who used “whore” as her pronoun.  I smoked too many things last night and my head was throbbing. My nose bled some too as crunchy clusters of dried blood dropped onto my arm cupping my head.

Last night, on Werdin Place there were lots of people hangin’ out and doping up. Lounge lizards sitting on about half a dozen couches, right there in the middle of the musky alley. There was one couch in particular that was just foam and wood. It was still very clean, but as hard as I looked I couldn’t  see where the cloth covering had gone to.

So that morning I started off with two canned  espressos and a diet coke that I had in my book bag from last week. Tiffany came in from the shared bathroom down the hall. She was pissed or maybe her traced on eye brows were crooked. I just looked out the door past her calves. Someone was getting yelled at then she slammed the door. Her eyes were hard and mean; beady as hell too.  Tiffany once told me that her momma had an affair with Elvis after her daddy left them to join the Navy. I never doubted her.

Tiffany lit a bong shaped like a big purple cock. A present from one of her many admirers she gasped between inhales. She offered but I politely declined. I was a few years away from wanting to explore those kinds of shapes inside of my mouth. I could see she was offended as she smacked her lips and twisted her neck at me. It hadn’t been the first time so I hid my smile from her.

Taking three long slow drags from the bong she stood up slowly and dropped her worn out Wonder Woman beach towel. The dirty blond pubic tufts flayed from her arm pits and crotch were stiff and wire like. Tiffany sat back down and I could see skin hang like Christmas decorations from collar bones and ribs. She was beautiful in a medical way.

We didn’t talk. I stirred around my back pack and got the works and a rock out.  Tiffany held her chin high and words crawled from her ashy lips. You can cook and shoot if you let me fuck you. She smiled and said she had wanted a taste since last year.  I wasn’t fazed by her condition, but I was inconvenienced because I didn’t really want to walk down to Werdin. I answered under my breath. Tiffany told me to get the hell out of her house. I said ok but thanks for letting me spend the night. I was growing tired at 19. There were 700 rooms at low weekly rates and I couldn’t just yet rent one. All my assets were tied in under the counter investments.

my way…

i woke up mid morning thinking of how many ways can one skin a couch i slept on the floor boards of the 8th floor room of a woman who used “whore” as her pronoun i smoked too many things last night and my head was throbbing my nose bled some too as crunchy clusters of dried blood dropped onto my arm cupping my head.

last night on Werdin Place there were lots of people hangin’ out and doping up lounge lizards sitting on about half a dozen couches right there in the middle of the musky alley there was one couch in particular that was just foam and wood it was still very clean but as hard as i looked i couldn’t  see where the cloth covering had gone to

so that morning i started off with two canned  espressos and a diet coke that i had in my book bag from last week Tiffany came in from the shared bathroom down the hall she was pissed or maybe her traced on eye brows were crooked i just looked out the door past her calves someone was getting yelled at then she slammed the door her eyes were hard and mean beady as hell too  Tiffany once told me that her momma had an affair with Elvis after her daddy left them to join the Navy i never doubted her

Tiffany lit a bong shaped like a big purple cock a present from one of her many admirers she gasped between inhales she offered but i politely declined i was a few years away from wanting to explore those kinds of shapes inside of my mouth i could see she was offended as she smacked her lips and twisted her neck at me it hadn’t been the first time so i hid my smile from her

taking three long slow drags from the bong she stood up slowly and dropped her worn out Wonder Woman beach towel the dirty blond pubic tufts flayed from her arm pits and crotch were stiff and wire like Tiffany sat back down and i could see skin hang like Christmas decorations from collar bones and ribs she was beautiful in a medical way

we didn’t talk i stirred around my back pack and got the works and a rock out  Tiffany held her chin high and words crawled from her ashy lips you can cook and shoot if you let me fuck you she smiled and said she had wanted a taste since last year i wasn’t fazed by her condition but i was inconvenienced because i didn’t really want to walk down to Werdin i answered under my breath Tiffany told me to get the hell out of her house i said ok but thanks for letting me spend the night i was growing tired at 19 there were 700 rooms at low weekly rates and i couldn’t just yet rent one all my assets were tied in under the counter investments

dogs of the 90’s

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

Spare Cock Amos had gone to Vegas for the weekend. I had his room all to myself if I wanted to stay there. I decided that this time I would play house.

Jeremiah was a bullfrog, etc. The song oozled out of the broken down radio. First the laundry. I put in the entire box of Tide; when Tide just smelled like Tide. I spent my roll of quarters doing one load. The suds were kinda’ thick. Drying was still a dime so I was successful at that.

Heading back to the room Bryan Boyle was waiting outside of SC’s room. He was sweaty and lost.

“Hey.”

“Oh is Amos here, I gotta talk to him bad. I need to talk to him, is he here?”

“Naw.”

“Fuuuuuccccckkkkkk, whadda ya mean he ain’t here, I need to talk to him!”

“Sorry man, he’s gone for the weekend. I’m just crashin’ before I take off. Heidi’s home though she might be able to help.”

I walked into the room and placed the clean linens on an old arm chair. Bryan had teleported off into outer space universe open wide on this arm chair on other occasions.

Turning to listen with intent to the guy on the radio drinking his bullfrog friend’s wine, I couldn’t help but wonder if Heidi had an arm chair too. Heidi despised me on account I couldn’t like her the way she wanted me to.

I got around to changing the bed and dusted some picture frames. Amos came from a good looking family. Groaning and door slamming could be heard. Heidi refused Bryan. I should have told him not to mention my name.

Joy to the fishes. The chair bothered me. It was the junk bunk. I rode it myself a few times. I felt shame. This shame was different than the other shame. The one you feel over something that happened that you couldn’t prevent. The chair, the junk, the Cecil were preventable. I had chosen to fuck up. I wondered what kind of shame Bryan felt, if any.

Bang, bong, ping, bap.

“Heeeyyy! Open the door that bitch called the cops!!”

Sheepish creak.

“Sorry man.”

Bryan sobbed and with his back to the door frame just slid down to the floor.

“I give up.” He slobbered.

“Dude, man you’ll be ok.”

I knelt beside him. His surfer shirt torn at the hems. Little yellow and pink hula girls and turquoise surfboards 3D’ed at me like flashing acid.

My heart broke as tears rolled down his chubby baby cheeks. The rain finally came. We both perked up at the opened window at the end of the hallway. Wet concrete and drunk piss wove an aromatic melody. Joy to Bryan and a little to me. City rain; we knew it well.

We talked on the floor for hours. Just about dreams and normal things and rock and roll. Sure he picked at his arms and cried a little here and there, but Bryan lived a little.

my way…

spare cock Amos had gone to Vegas for the weekend i had his room all to myself if i wanted to stay there i decided that this time i would play house

Jeremiah was a bullfrog etc the song oozled out of the broken down radio first the laundry i put in the entire box of Tide when Tide just smelled like Tide i spent my roll of quarters doing one load the suds were kinda’ thick drying was still a dime so i was successful at that

heading back to the room Bryan Boyle was waiting outside of sc’s room he was sweaty and lost

“hey”

“oh is Amos here i gotta talk to him bad i need to talk to him is he here”

“naw”

“fuuuuuccccckkkkkk whadda ya mean he ain’t here i need to talk to him”

“sorry man he’s gone for the weekend i’m just crashin’ before i take off Heidi’s home though she might be able to help”

i walked into the room and placed the clean linens on an old arm chair Bryan had teleported off into outer space universe open wide on this arm chair on other occasions

turning to listen with intent to the guy on the radio drinking his bullfrog friend’s wine i couldn’t help but wonder if Heidi had an arm chair too Heidi despised me on account i couldn’t like her the way she wanted me to

i got around to changing the bed and dusted some picture frames Amos came from a good looking family groaning and door slamming could be heard Heidi refused Bryan i should have told him not to mention my name

joy to the fishes the chair bothered me it was the junk bunk i rode it myself a few times i felt shame this shame was different than the other shame the one you feel over something that happened that you couldn’t prevent the chair the junk the Cecil were preventable i had chosen to fuck up i wondered what kind of shame Bryan felt if any

bang bong ping bap

“heeeyyy open the door that bitch called the cops”

sheepish creak

“sorry man”

Bryan sobbed and with his back to the door frame just slid down to the floor

“i give up” he slobbered

“dude man you’ll be ok”

i knelt beside him his surfer shirt torn at the hems little yellow and pink hula girls and turquoise surfboards 3d’ed at me like flashing acid

my heart broke as tears rolled down his chubby baby cheeks the rain finally came we both perked up at the opened window at the end of the hallway wet concrete and drunk piss wove an aromatic melody joy to Bryan and a little to me city rain we knew it well

we talked on the floor for hours just about dreams and normal things and rock and roll sure he picked at his arms and cried a little here and there but Bryan lived a little

two aging Fräulein

/ mbrazfieldm / 4 Comments

lenore/would you have fucked Bukowski (putting out cigarette butt)

grady/no (cracking knuckles)

lenore/yeah he wasn’t very handsome

grady/but he was like so fucking deep (blowing clove smoke)

lenore/i’m not a reader sorry i like a good movie (looking for American flag bic lighter in grocery bag)

grady/yeah no i’m not a big reader either (sipping diet coke slurpee)

lenore/i feel like a loser i should have been married by now (sipping fresca)

grady/i’m not worried about that (eyes melt over Brazilian guy’s round tight ass)

lenore/what do you want most of all

grady/(puckers up at sky)to feel

lenore/in control you mean i wanna be in control of everything

grady/no just to feel like feel the petal of a flower or of a beating heart or the pain of a tragedy you know like that kinda stuff

lenore/i wanna have fun and have stuff and go to a big church and have tea parties and furs and cute babies (lights a doobie)

grady/(sips diet coke slurpee and looks at dirty converse shoes) i spent so many years being numb

lenore/who’d blame you though (coughing weed smoke out at diet coke can)

grady/people we’re funny creatures contradictions i guess

lenore/(blazing) have i ever told you i don’t understand you most of the time

grady/my point exactly lenore i feel like i’m going crazy sometimes

lenore/you’re a brainiac always in your head live a little (offers doobie)

grady/(lights up a fifth clove declines doobie)i just have lots of thoughts lenore that’s all (smiles at pigeons)

lenore/you wanna get laid are you lonely my ex brother in law works at circle k he’s good in bed

grady/hmmm no and yeah (lets out a long clove smoke breath)

lenore/there has to be more to this

grady/it’s in you lenore dig deep you’re gold too

lenore/(smiles)wanna go to Med Men with me

grady/naw but thanks (gives homeless lady a clove and water bottle)

lenore/where you going babe

grady/downtown it’s dusk and the saxophones are waiting (dances a little makes lenore laugh)

in regards to Foghat

/ mbrazfieldm / 9 Comments

At 21, I didn’t know two things; how I got through 4 years of college and who played “Slow Ride.” But grunge was growing on me and I still had Miles and Monk, maybe a little Ginger Baker in between.

I also didn’t know what to do other than just ‘party.’ Code for self medicating and wasting life away on account of being lost in the City of Angels.

I was of the streets; my family had good bones, some education, jobs, the normal shit. I didn’t, however we were all lost together but galaxies apart.

I’d walk listening to the organically mechanical jazz of the city. Notes of deep blue pain, orange notes of sorrow, pink notes of hope and black atomic scary love oozing out of the trumpets heralding our demise. Us, all walks of life, us in that beautifully grotesque melting pot of angst.

Needless to say the bad crowd fell into me. I was high functioning, a sweetheart, and functioning high. My world was slow motion in a fast velocity world. Things came seemingly easy. I could crash at the Cecil, I was a regular at King Eddie’s, where everyone didn’t care.

I raised clenched fists, joined the movements in all languages, I was smart. I read, dissected, recollected and debated. Painted, sculpted, drank it and smoked it.

At 22 I started to suspect that in all of my boundlessness I was deeply ensnared in something I had lost sight and perspective of long, long ago. Slow ride. Taken roughly and fast, fast, fast. There was this pain, a loneliness tangled up with self loathing. I had failed. It was complicated. I wanted it to be a dream, but it wasn’t. Like the rest of my human kin I wanted to feel, but I was a coward. Defeat was a drag and at times I thought if I climb down from that upside down cross it could turn very ugly. Rage they called it. I called it ‘why did they.’ I might be able to utter it someday.

It would be two years before grad school. Two years of mayhem. I like the way that sounds. It’s cool. The reality of it is pathetic and sad.

I continually looked for the Fibonacci sequence in their eyes; for reason, for answers to questions I had no idea about. In my life, meaning had lost itself particularly when roles had to be played well to keep up appearances.

Perhaps that’s why I loved the Cecil, the humanity between its walls. The smells, the dust, filth, cheap glamour, the innovation and the sheer will to survive. These where the substances of the gods. In the sterile houses in the hills nothing clung but spiritual death. Their emptiness was empty for empty’s sake. At the Cecil we had been gutted at different points in our lives so all we could do was gasp. And sometimes sing ourselves to sleep. The ride was slow at first then my wheels fell off.

my way…

at 21 i didn’t know two things how i got through 4 years of college and who played “Slow Ride” but grunge was growing on me and i still had Miles and Monk maybe a little Ginger Baker in between

i also didn’t know what to do other than just ‘party’ code for self medicating and wasting life away on account of being lost in the City of Angels

i was of the streets my family had good bones some education jobs the normal shit i didn’t however we were all lost together but galaxies apart

i’d walk listening to the organically mechanical jazz of the city notes of deep blue pain orange notes of sorrow pink notes of hope and black atomic scary love oozing out of the trumpets heralding our demise us all walks of life us in that beautifully grotesque melting pot of angst

needless to say the bad crowed fell into me i was high functioning a sweetheart and functioning high my world was slow motion in a fast velocity world things came seemingly easy i could crash at the Cecil i was a regular at King Eddie’s where everyone didn’t care

i raised clenched fists joined the movements in all languages i was smart i read dissected recollected and debated painted sculpted drank it and smoked it

at 22 i started to suspect that in all of my boundlessness i was deeply ensnared in something i had lost sight and perspective of long long ago slow ride taken roughly and fast fast fast there was this pain a loneliness tangled up with self loathing i had failed it was complicated i wanted it to be a dream but it wasn’t like the rest of my human kin i wanted to feel but i was a coward defeat was a drag and at times i thought if i climb down from that upside down cross it could turn very ugly rage they called it i called it ‘why did they’ i might be able to utter it someday

it would be two years before grad school two years of mayhem i like the way that sounds it’s cool the reality of it is pathetic and sad

i continually looked for the Fibonacci sequence in their eyes for reason for answers to questions i had no idea about in my life meaning had lost itself particularly when roles had to be played well to keep up appearances

perhaps that’s why i loved the Cecil the humanity between its walls the smells the dust filth cheap glamour the innovation and the sheer will to survive these where the substances of the gods in the sterile houses in the hills nothing clung but spiritual death their emptiness was empty for empty’s sake at the Cecil we had been gutted at different points in our lives so all we could do was gasp and sometimes sing ourselves to sleep the ride was slow at first then my wheels fell off

Yucatan

/ mbrazfieldm / 8 Comments
Picture courtesy of Sue Vincent

The evening was cool and the calm was fuzzy and delightful. Abbey walked through the narrow door of 4302 and laid down a paper bag full of spices and stuff. She loved going to Grand Central market to gossip and catch up on the news of her world. Abbey asked if I was going home tonight because her boyfriend was coming over and she didn’t want him to pick a fist fight with me again.

I promised her that I would go to my friend’s house on the west side later tonight and asked her if she noticed anything different about her room. The Pine Sol fumes suckled her dainty caramel nose and licked in and out of her nostrils.

Thank you for cleaning mi reina, the smell takes me back to the valleys and rivers of my town in the Yucatan. Abbey had come to the US in the early 60’s on a travel visa and stayed. She started taking the dried Chiles, peppercorns, cumin and pumpkin seeds and chocolate bars out of the paper sack. Being a little high, watching her pluck each item out of the sack was like watching a jeweler study his precious stones.

Sitting back on the only chair in the room, I asked Abbey about her town in Mexico. She pursed her lips inward and let out an exhausted sigh. Staring at the dim lit ceiling she noticed the freeway knot of spider webs forming on the northern corner.

Abbey looked past the top of my head and stared of the Virgen of Guadalupe poster on the waxy wall. In a little girl voice she described the valleys as having shaded trees and cool patches of grass. The streams, as she remembered were cold enough to soak their beers and sodas when the families of the village would go pick-nicking on Sundays.

Abbey appeared lost and happy reminiscing about her country. Did you know that in the spring time we’d light big fires and because the temperature in the valley was still cold in March, the smoke looked like cloudy fumes against the pitch black sky. And the stars, Ave Maria purisima, the stars were so bright and when you saw them through the smoke fumes of the fires the whole thing looked like a fancy lace veil twinkling with diamonds.

In a melancholy tone I absent mindedly asked Abbey if she missed those nights with the firewood fumes and the stars and cool streams. She smiled wide enough that I could see her gold tooth as she looked down at her old beige pumps and she shook her head telling me no.

The door shook from four heavy thumps. Her boyfriend was in the hallway asking why the hell she wasn’t answering. Abbey cursed under her breath and ordered me to stay quiet and to leave as soon as she let him in. I tried asking her if she was going to be o.k. or did I need to alert Spare Cock.

my way…

the evening was cool and the calm was fuzzy and delightful Abbey walked through the narrow door of 4302 and laid down a paper bag full of spices and stuff she loved going to Grand Central market to gossip and catch up on the news of her world Abbey asked if i was going home tonight because her boyfriend was coming over and she didn’t want him to pick a fist fight with me again

i promised her that i would go to my friend’s house on the west side later tonight and asked her if she noticed anything different about her room the Pine Sol fumes suckled her dainty caramel nose and licked in and out of her nostrils

thank you for cleaning mi reina the smell takes me back to the valleys and rivers of my town in the Yucatan Abbey had come to the US in the early 60’s on a travel visa and stayed she started taking the dried chiles peppercorns cumin and pumpkin seeds and chocolate bars out of the paper sack being a little high watching her pluck each item out of the sack was like watching a jeweler study his precious stones

sitting back on the only chair in the room i asked Abbey about her town in Mexico she pursed her lips inward and let out an exhausted sigh staring at the dim lit ceiling she noticed the freeway knot of spider webs forming on the northern corner

Abbey looked past the top of my head and stared of the Virgen of Guadalupe poster on the waxy wall in a little girl voice she described the valleys as having shaded trees and cool patches of grass the streams as she remembered were cold enough to soak their beers and sodas when the families of the village would go pick-nicking on Sundays

Abbey appeared lost and happy reminiscing about her country did you know that in the spring time we’d light big fires and because the temperature in the valley was still cold in March the smoke looked like cloudy fumes against the pitch black sky and the stars Ave Maria purisima the stars were so bright and when you saw them through the smoke fumes of the fires the whole thing looked like a fancy lace veil twinkling with diamonds

in a melancholy tone i absent mindedly asked Abbey if she missed those nights with the firewood fumes and the stars and cool streams she smiled wide enough that i could see her gold tooth as she looked down at her old beige pumps and she shook her head telling me no

the door shook from four heavy thumps her boyfriend was in the hallway asking why the hell she wasn’t answering Abbey cursed under her breath and ordered me to stay quiet and to leave as soon as she let him in i tried asking her if she was going to be ok or did i need to alert Spare Cock