stillness mutes the heart
actions speak louder than words
yet words turn the keys
beg to differ
sweet violent love
remember when skies cried
i’ll never forget the ghost
love thy husband they say
you keep walking on the tar
through jungles turned to mire
the wrinkles i have earned
black eyes can be forgiven
holes in hearts we both have
of lies and innocence we lost
time alas does not heal most
dry ice cold
waking up in a curtained hospital emergency room a few hours later felt like the mist of dry ice cold lonely i wasn’t sure if i was shivering out of fear anger or because i was in need of a fix quietly i began to pull IVs out of my scratched scrawny arms but then was foiled by the noisy Mexican nurse coming in to check on me “oh little missy you shouldn’t do that here just relax and the doctor will be right in ok” she stuck me back in the arms as she smiled wide and exaggerated like a jester i resented her calling me ‘missy’ but i figured she was just doing it to be friendly after all there was no way in hell she enjoyed patching up half dead carcasses coming in during grave yard at County Emergency she had that normal all-American positive vibe pretty and middle aged “what time is it ma’am” i strained a dry rasp “it’s 5:49 am honey listen there’s a detective talking to your doctor right now they’ll come in to see you soon do you need anything some water or tea” asked my nurse as she smiled at me this time like Carmen Zapata from the 70’s kid’s show ‘Villa Alegre’ where i learned some Spanish when i was a foster kid i wanted to take refuge in her normal all-American positive vibe as i started feeling queasy and shaky again lying on the gurney with my thighs and insides on fire a lava lamp-like panic began unraveling
this whole again
1. on the edge life sits
2. the sky orange with tinge
3. of the progress by man
4. if we tilt we lose footing
5. if we bend we lose grace
6. the compromise too great
7. so we sit unknowingly
8. but not silent
9. fingers say our words
10. our tongues no longer needed
11. my body moulded by ballots
12. but what of the soul
13. a spirit cracked
14. where the better angels
15. how to make
16. this whole again
in essence
around here we radiate from the inside
we laugh because crying would mean shedding and giving out
with laughter we bring breath in
around here the afterwinter doesn’t fully unfold
yet the night and day in mid summer dreams can be very cold and far away
a never ending road of rocks and thistle
around here we build and tear down when it becomes necessary
in essence we always build
around here time does not matter and the Constitution is a gamble
cautionary haiku
we believe blindly
the sedated coxcombry
rise from specious sleep
Hyperion and Effie streets
“it’s been years since i thought about using my toes” she said sitting quietly on the corner of Hyperion and Effie streets she grew up hippie baby royalty before the majesties turned bourgeois as fuck “it’s been years since i thought about painting my toe nails” she said tucked tightly into her wheelchair under a patchwork or greens and bright reds and her nurse coos “you take you Sublocade now ma’am” with her bugged pewter blue eyes and see through seer sucker skin she looks to the underneath of the yellow bougainvillea tree and snarls at the men smoking lined up slouched on the brick wall looking at their toes recalling a war and the traumatic brain injuries and legs blown off as more than one slouches sobbing in fear “it’s been years since i’ve walked on my feet” she sighs out loud through aged yellowed lips that once kissed the sky and the dandelions but now are sealed most of the time to keep her cancerous insides from falling out “it’s been months since those boys have been here” she said “i wouldn’t want them to see me falling apart” she wheezed under her breath on that corner of Hyperion and Effie streets
Marisela Brazfield
thank you so very much Susi, as always i’m honored to be in your wonderful hemisphere please check out the Short of It and send in your works everyone LOVE from LA xo
Urban Spring
April short but mighty
we have no peach flowers
only ads promising youth
Spring in the city
without much ado
we wait
Urban Summer
August heavy like old carpet
we have nothing to say
watching her burn in
metaphor of history
our skin dry like sand
Urban Winter
December mild like tea
lights on palm trees
snow on Hallmark cards
Christ on Broadway
no wisemen found
nights are longer
like our hunger
One Good Man
When I ran, I would run to MacArthur Park. At the foot of Downtown split into two by Wilshire Boulevard. When I was a little girl, my grandfather used to take me to MacArthur Park. And after we were done walking around feeding ducks, he would take me to Langer’s for a pastrami sandwich on rye with a kosher pickle. We did not talk much. In between searching his…
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words hushed
to forget my line
across the street the crowd
opposite my thoughts crowded
in my brick building mind
there are willow trees
lining the dirt paths
that used to be dustless
still the little brick corners
prick up catching my heels
from the corner of my dry right eye
i catch Fante in a grey suit
head bowed writing on a pad
golf pencil a story about a girl
straight ahead the afternoon
pierced in the heart by pigeons
scared into the sky
by wailing fire trucks
and my face dead on
the Mexican artisanal mirror
my lips red my words hushed
stones speak
the stones speak
their skin rough
with the violence of time
yet they allow
a few wild flowers to push on
and greet the fleeting rays
of my dying smile
words less spoken 