Zanja Madre

/ mbrazfieldm / 3 Comments

i don’t like the water

although i miss the womb of my earth

my mother’s womb was dark and cold

pulled out dragged down

i long for primordial comfort

the safety of the sky is no longer priceless

the desert is warm at dusk

and the moon smiles her face down at me

as if pointing a finger

lost at the root i stand

without a ground

but i am not holy

little life big sorrow

the weights are against me

the lake of green is kept

by fire of angels

which i don’t understand

looking with no eyeballs

like Teresa

the dandelions are long gone

Metropolitana

/ mbrazfieldm / 5 Comments

i had not taken notice
that there were no flies
in that lobby
the mail slots are still there
the supernatural tungsten charm of

Bogey cigars and cancer
i can smell the sordid gardenias
when did nature go so wrong
and i can see the nylons and
the hats waiting for a call
i sometimes feel that in
1923 on a rainy day
i took a bottle of pills
ladies were dainty
even then


Bogey never waited in the
silk upholstered chair
for a girl named Gina
or a Midwesterner
called Claire
as a matter of fact
if you must know
my business mac
i have only passed by the glass
guarding this lobby on the way
to nothing more

cocoon

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

February, in a place where there is no time
but to waste

you, two young soldiers kept at bay
by a raggedy county tax funded white veil

there, between the cold and the colder concrete bed
lays a baby butterfly

ready to take flight, transforming, shaking off its earth,rising from its origin towards the hand of God

i envied your horizontal stance

but from my wretched vertical position

winced at what might have been your life
a supernova worm
before a thousand suns and so many many other moons
rivers crossed and coins spent

but wings are in their stead

mercy tipped love arrow and light
cleansing, beautiful,wondrous light
no more ripping of your worm cloak

like such

i, still in my lateral hoax left to rot

for summers more
good bye, good bye, good bye

1948

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

at long last a home
for the weary bones
chosen and loved
above all
in the classification
of mud and breath

here a kingdom
you will have and
come forth to multiply
as life meant to
last

however there are
many rivers to cross
and all are made of fire

rain check

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

i saw the fruit meant to be eaten
and i turned away from it.

i could not endure opening my eyes
to what was before me.

the hum of machines and
the slow burn of phantom progress.
the cat, she slowly walked on the
hot summer kitchen floors
licking her paws after a tuna dinner.
pills on the counter next to
the toast, i could not raise my hands
to lick.