a drop of water

a new year began with new decisions set into motion life has become as tasty as it is to bite into a drop of water going along for a cruise Sunday traffic as it should be nicer cars whiz by yet the wind in my hair with tinges from the valley we pass the Fortress of Hollywood’s mysteries pressing forth on the one o one music from your youthhood fits you like a stretched out girdle particularly where the lace is falling off but i say nothing i nod in support of your choices instead my face is made up mostly the eyes my scars and wrinkles the tattoos on my arms they make me feel something the hills and horses grasses and trees stand around me like pall bearers to be i turn my face to the right and my lips kiss the warmth of the sun instantaneously i wonder if i placed my breast in the light would i get that effect of feeling again

lunch hour prose

mbrazfieldm (c) 2021

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

when the singer dies

the laughter in between the rays of the sun was missing i only noticed three days back when no eyes had shown glimmer or soul all were downcast and on the path cutting through the park the brown quilted fuzz on the cattails had fallen off and the wind and bird beaks carried it off to pollinate and line the nests for spring but the gravel under my low top white converse didn’t sass back with the crunchy feisty sound spurting from each tired step today was the today i had been counting back thousands of todays to my early youth of pink cheeked days by the legs of soldiers brothers wounded in battle combating through life while my post toddler mind wondered why the choir lead was laying down asleep in the blue and silver box as his wife and daughters cried over the flag blanketing him and while my shadow creeps under the shade of the upcoming crabapple trees i came to know this is what happens when the singer dies

slumber, i’m here

mbrazfield (c) 2021

slumber, i’m here
see by your
side 50 years
b’tween oh what
the shit we’ve
seen words fed
me like a
bird later i
met your friends
among podiums raised
to you old
man western Blvd
we walked the
Hollywood falling bridge
west scoring beer
with publishers checks
me scoring in
other ways but
i got the
gist of you
don’t try you
said i said
let me see
you liked whores
i liked bus
stops pigeons in
the night we
both liked dive
bars hard boiled
eggs at half
past nine tough
you challenged me
but not before
the ham on
rye beer on
tap my imagination

spider tongue speakers

spider tongue speakers
where are my words
how did they just go away
speakers of spider tongues
multiple eyes mega thunder
sounds with meaning
ancient bird collides
the boulders of lies
nature in pixel flat
air an element to mean bullshit
times have changed
heralding the sweet nothings
only heard by supple machines
in the night of the web
tulips land like ticker tape
bees in tribunes
held up in polyester silk production
we have a meta face against the will
of the living

mbrazfield (c) 2021

fat wives

during the times of kings and crooked priests when land was worked with skinned hands and God was kept from most fat wives were prized possessions throughout the times  borders planes punk tunes politics wars of worlds and lipstick trends tea cup dogs and reality shows churches of every persuasion color and flavor fat wives are now abandoned dethroned and berated yet among the kings and dukes earls and car owners big boned brides and fruits from loins each pound of flesh was a gold brick in their safe now strewn across my street and the streets of the city fat humans lethally  lethargic forced to eat poisoned industrial concoctions trash and starches because the bottom of the begging cup has nothing more than the guilt coin of the popular collective unconsciousness

his motor dies

in midnight stroll cool ocean roars 12 steps away
time clutches in between my thoughts i am unforgotten
sea salt on my lashes tips
flowers closed and snuggled away
my cold left ear catches a rift of a stray gull
every step approaches me as my thoughts are unforgotten
a childish smile caterpillars across my chin tucked under my achy hand
as i move on looking through chain link walls in hopes of finding sleep
then theres a clock his face is lined with human history
from the instant hes wound up to the moment his motor dies
we are unforgotten
legs are still by the sand dunes edge
a 7UP can glimmers
my cold fingers hidden beneath folded elbows
my chest fills up with moonlit air
to be alive at waters arms
to ponder on why i think Adam Duritz is the Robert Smith in Bennie and the Jets
is why alone with the night time thorns i remain unforgotten

mbrazfield (c) 2021

not feeling well

sleep cradles me im on the lawn black rolled towel holds my neck im tired the train screams and my eyes pop open i get the sensation of German mustard on my tongue and think of mother we called her by her name an extra insurance policy of disconnection although i never knew what she really felt then the Pantry floats about memories of standing in line on Figueroa at the mouth of downtown when downtown was a city there are signs lights most unnatural sports sports drinks sell sell sell dont think dont think dont think i saw a man in Victoria’s Secret robes worn out of poverty then im tired no more then im angry again defeated and dissected from my nature patches of this and that round off the frustrations of seeing this world pass by falling into abyss and in all my time i have done nothing

i want to rip my hair out

i’ve seen multiple coroners tents these few weeks white tiny like a fortune teller’s but there are no chances no predictions no suspicions just finality i’ve not felt myself murder being televised 5G capitalized on death’s dealings my smile and gentle nature up on stage demands the talent and strength of an opera singer the gall of most world viewed presidents laying down or standing still mind woodchips all of my plans palms to the sky warm sun light reminds me that there is a God i’ve seen the death of my father dressed in blue he brought down by what he held up all of his life i’ve seen the death of my mother and the sting of unfamiliarity that divided us i alien child no umbilical cord on my feet walking slightly off smell of medicinal debauchery from last night peppers the air snippets sensationalized wishing shards of words empty whirling eddies of promise obscure delicacy is what i want when i want to be alone middle age was always middle age at any point in time imbibed in the yolks of many situations took on the foil as well as the queen as well as the beggar as well as a fiend feeding rats in the alley in the middle of the day with words that mean nothing but carry weight just the same i’ve seen too many coroners tents bottom line no one gives a fuck is the appropriate cause of death on the only certificate some of us will get privilege tells me to take some time trim my cherry tree smell the air inventory what i have and be grateful count the finches outside fighting on the bush that has a doctor and expensive fertilizer i want to tear my hair out at times rage knock over bureaucratic tables like Christ in Jerusalem