dogs of the 90’s

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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

intervals in session

/ mbrazfieldm / 18 Comments
pic mbrazfield (c) 2020

the reason:

the lighthouse built in 1874 and lit the same year stood like a resplendent bride against the blue and lavender aging father sky giving her away the edge was just there one four inch move and then

the back story:

i would gulp my chocolate milk shake with my little fat legs dangling from the counter stools peering down at the green and white checker board linoleum floor

an hour before the reason:

with the wind blowing in my ear i catch a few notes of  “House of the Rising Sun” emanating from somewhere in the bowels of the tightly knit drunken biker crowd

trigger A:

child-hood memories float slowly into my head as i breathe deeply the Pall Mall smoke wafts by intermingled with the sea weedy odor from below the cliff

the back story’s back:

my mind wandered again into my mother’s ghost i loved studying her design patterns thousands of silk spools and the sequins and crystals God’s firmament in my mother’s house

smiling at Dr. Pang:

i loved to listen to my mother talk in that sophisticated German accent for most of my life she was as far away from me as the horizon i was looking at now

good Samaritan getting complicated:

a scratchy voice tore at the rice paper breeze midway he turned back to look at me and blew me a kiss as he melted into the small crowd

flat lips move at Dr. Pang:

my mother whipped me with yellow nylon rope every time she struck me on the legs thighs or torso the rope would welt up my skin and leave a red hot sting i could move but i didn’t

trigger B:

later that rainy night i awoke in the lobby from a very young age i discovered that an aching soul however would need a stronger analgesic

eclipsed mental decomposure:

i squeezed the memory out of my mind and as i removed my fingers from my eyelids a most beautiful black canopy covered the sky as diamond stars throbbed simultaneously i focused and marveled at such beauty it still causes such wonder in me to remember the night that the moon ate the dark

Dr. Pang concerned at the options:

for years i only spoke if spoken to and i kept my answers to only seven words or less i counted them i laugh about it now i was like Coppola’s Kilgore surfing through my own metaphoric napalm bombs

breakthrough perhaps:

she cut me up and sewed me back together again in her way the welts on my body were the fibers of strength that have helped me endure physical pain her harsh words were the sleeves and pant legs covering me protecting me from infinite poisonous tongues her rejection and unfair judgments were the thread holding me together when life’s sharp scissors cut into me

roman candle

/ mbrazfieldm / 26 Comments

snow fire light thunder the hummingbird speaks

the peacocks have been here for all time just their beauty royal blue tears

heart desires stretching reaching for infinite nothing it seems

i stare the moon frowns at me a spotlight on my shame most gracious lady my eyes downturn

pain and mystery are beautiful holy at times demonic only at someone else’s pleasure

if He wept at His abandonment who then am i to complain

agonizing rainbow look me in the eyes roses die in mid December

that all of treasure’s soul lays bare the blood not on the spear this time but splattered all to see

that a twisted existence didn’t always weave and the past a few exceptions made

that leads me to this Maypole game where spirit and soul are sewn into the coat of many colors

to light the sky in flames of glory and my spark to soar on angels’ arms

for Hunter S

visions of the Grail

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dear Mother and mothers and women and sisters and lovers and fighters and peacekeepers and spreaders of malice

to one and all rejoice in the day where the light began rejoice that we don’t know where we began because if we did i wouldn’t have the strength to stop myself from self destruction you mother the sacred mysticism

to all my sisters thank you for the pain for the wisdom for the guidance for the strength for the courage

to all those brothers who were teachers who were lovers who were predators who were violent who were kind who were fathers who were gentle who were respectful of the Flower

let us all rejoice that our first home is forever blessed let us rejoice and be thankful to our Higher Power She is where creation began and she is spirit woman

let us rejoice oh brothers that Adam did not have to endure the pain birthing us one nation under Earth one nation under us one nation under God is one nation under uterUs

let’s rejoice in our ability to recognize the importance of women of sisters of mothers of lovers of everyone in the light of being

let us rejoice that a woman created our body our arms our legs let us rejoice that in the concept of universal wisdom and teachings it is interjected with feminine living and guidance to balance which could be self and Universal deterioration

to all the feminists to all the sisters the women who seek to tear down as men do know that you are loved know that you are valued in all equality to all my human race that was begat from a woman’s place remember you have the power to choose to do the right thing

to all my sisters around the world cradling babies feeding them from garbage feeding them from their heart to the last bloody drop hear me and feel me i am here i can feel you i can sense you i am of you

your logic is your heart your will your inheritance your love never be tamed

-to all the women in the world young old new gone stay strong with love and respect

can’t figure out

/ mbrazfieldm / 5 Comments

why we dream so distantly where the planets question who we are

black holes surrender in perplex look at each other in their deep blue eye

and say forget them

could be that in Tennessee my heart i left there beating

nature are you a conscience forcing me to look at the destruction of the muffler in my car

this morning she a strange lady clutched me in a surrender of half breed slumber

children screaming for their cereal and when i come to they were asking for some pop

sevenbones

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

the dream menu comes it’s passed around to random strangers as we zig zag through the 2nd street tunnel lined with ceramic tile once virgin white now black as desert sky my favorite graffiti walls cryptic messages like seven bones in my life i’ve only broken 8 we are used to this air nose hairs full of stuff a little boy picks at his scabs and momma holds his cup the number 81 to Eagle Rock plaza goes but we’re not ready for the home bound road instead i cruise ball heel toe over to Grand Central and order a cheese pupusa that i don’t eat and don’t know why i bought from the corner of the eye i see the three delicious ones with mint julep eye lashes calling each other a dirty trollop after a few search engine insults trollop Sassy Ass #1 goes to the ladies washroom to turn back the hands of time on her five o’clock shadow she says Adam’s apple gliding up and down i lose interest quickly as i smell a puff of clove and delay the inevitable loneliness of thought by joining the awe and admiration of booth A23 and their giant Jack fruit bowl a delicacy for the valiant but not for me today and i begin to miss Walt Whitman even though he’s never met me and Lash Larue movies on Sunday afternoon when life was very simple like begonias in the sun with the savory lure of schnitzel and Ute Lemper singing songs

ojo de venado

/ mbrazfieldm / 17 Comments

for the most part

this Spring has been bland

the honeysuckle doesn’t woo me

the curiosity has dried from my heart i don’t read how i used to

Bad Brains or the good Reverend Horton Heat don’t sound to me like they used to way back when

there is an apostate strand of DNA to the right of my interior

the witching hour sticks at me like when Ladd Jr soccer kicked a wasps nest

i’m weak and can’t believe anymore my demons know they’re close to laughing last

my molars are ground down tear ducts parched i don’t have mercy for me

God i can’t feel You next to me how lost i feel tonight

there is a world that got away the war is done but i’m still trapped in this fucking battle

numb and cursed moss eyed doe i think i’ve plucked my own eye out

perhaps it’s just nature and my time has come to grow a beard

perhaps Noemi has gone away her angel’s don’t sit and play poker smoking big cigars like she said

it’s 4:37 am

no one wants me nor do they wish me anything any which way

click

strike

lit

gurgle

pour

clink

suck

blow

gulp

there’s an Aztec sunrise ceremony on channel 2

my belief in magic’s gone

seed of pulp

/ mbrazfieldm / 14 Comments

melodies melt through the creamy walls

the night hot

the asphalt angry almost boiling

the sizzle of her heel

i can hear it

she comes near

the steps bend soft like wax

up she floats

i can almost see her

dressed in spicy orange

moist with musks

muffled stomps rushed then slowed

he stops

i can’t hear the locks

but i know he’s turning them

like a perky breast

almost rolling the knob

on the tips of his fingers

that smell like Cuban cigar

Hollywood is burning tonight

we sweat wilt run into our mattress

it doesn’t matter

the chords are taught

the hydras groan at him

from her fake jeweled throat

he has to convince a beautiful beast

that if she stays for a few hours

he can be more of a man

than he is now

bottles cheap dusty and old

like his hands

her purse sags from cheap makeup

and the volume of her in between tears

Hollywood has burned before and yet it rises

nothing novel in any of our eyes

now a cricket here

a dog bark farther

a few clicks on my type writer

the sun is coming up

i too swig from my dusty vials