where im gone

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mbrazfield (c) 2024

Sunday January city center we drink coffee and eat i wander through the paths lined with counters and men with steam tables full of tacos and paper hats from another puritanical time when under your floors we got away with naughty things and Tommy gun rounds i smell the 40s in the maize pastrami sushi air while twinkling organic trinkets catch their shines in the corner of my eyes as they move to the ceiling fans keeping my ghosts a few inches above the ground old and new we merge in agreement and dissolve in short spurts of peace

urban study [a]

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mbrazfield (c) 2024

the sound if steps drowned by the city noise voices flapping wings cries microbes eating away flies decomposing of things in the gutter and our minds traffic lights flash gasoline prices clash with American dream promises law enforcement law encroachment law deflation hunger pain need desperate ants we’ve become we have the potential to sell the soul of our children nobody knows not even me i just walk see repeat revolt retort with broken heart to mend by the edge of next block the children shout while learning to fly away from this discord

a pleasant surprise

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no thoughts
dry mouth
moist eyes
palms cold
heart throbs
feet tired
twisted back
fingers stiff
lips cut
throat silent
nails bit
legs bruised
arms cramped
nose stuffed
pockets empty
faith teeters
breath gone
stomach knotted
ass worn
scabby knuckles
piling bills
soul dead
spirit fleeting
the you
with cat

mbrazfieldm (c) 2023
four birds of the apocalypse
mixed media

*if you look closely you can see Buk’s ghost

comfort

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if i could cup the face of the street
into my small dry hand
i would kiss her and lull her to rest
i would hum a tune about an old song
that sang about peaches and trees
so tired and awake are her embankments
littered with the scoff of the world
but instead i would tell her of pink snapdragons hula dancing in the mist
instead i cup my own face like a child after a crying attack
my ears stretch for a hum the sound of my mom or at least one lone derelict cricket

twenty 3 twenty 4

/ mbrazfieldm / 6 Comments
mbrazfield (c) 2023

another year passed
tonight we’ll hear the empty blast
party boys and girls midwife
another year that’s filled with strife
but i promise you this
my lady queen city you bitch
we will be happy and cry together we might
the cellophane kings who think they’re in charge
will continue to wallow in false putrid paradise
as you and i queen city your people
shall rise