turquoise

2:57 in the morning Broadway still suffers for someone
traffic lights blink with the force of anemia
i think only of you
and wonder how to kiss your eyes
so blue like turquoise
the Sun she won’t be long in coming to teach me what pains me to know
as i wonder how to kiss your eyes
so blue like turquoise
the Moon he’s been a coward left me at the bar
he slipped away to chase a star
and i wonder how to kiss your eyes so blue like turquoise
as i step again into the hemming of the dying night
the puddles underfoot are my only guide
through the mesh of doubt and loneliness
and i wonder how to kiss your eyes so blue like turquoise
i thought i saw you down the road
chasing your old ghosts
in such a radiant glance you told me of another’s heart
through Broadway i wander
and recite ‘will i ever be enough’
and wonder how to kiss your eyes
so blue like turquoise

for Mr. Banks ♡

great Grady’s ghost!

it happened in slow motion lightning fast simultaneously laughing gas i crawled like a cheetah at the break neck speed of a snail that’s all i can think of i remember it was 4:44 am and i needed to go to thee room not any room thee room people were sitting on plastic chairs orange yellow green like an artificial fruit salad outside of the Macy’s window circa 1936 there were little speakers on the ceiling with little mesh coverings like those that cover the shower drainage holes i thought i might have been walking on the bathtub floor laughing gas they said and further down the hall there were ashtrays big tall cylinders with a silver topping and sand and butts yellow butts put out i could see the name brands on them Menthol Kools Marlboro Winston Camel and then there were big cigar pieces i don’t know what you might have called them i was just a kid i remember seeing tiny little Dixie cups inside of the telephone booths and there they would be those little cups with blue and yellow flowers and the name Dixie i guess that’s where people stash their pills i also remember the phones being off the hook buzzing and buzzing and buzzing and i imagine an old woman on the left hand side middle booth cream dress church hat white wiry hair crystal green eyes and dead lips she stared at me like a frog i look down i know who she was once we passed across the hall there was a war survivors and i peeked and i saw a room full of gurneys men mostly black men with bloody bandages somewhere missing legs and then from my right ear i could hear an invisible body that sounded like they were from Texas white harsh hateful yelling at the top of this lungs to be taken out of that room he didn’t particularly like being with the coloreds i had never seen something like that the laughing gas they say the laughing gas and further down the hall no yellow brick road my hair wild frizzy intertwined with a piece of bubblegum right in the middle but they didn’t know and i didn’t tell it was strawberry i believe later that night with my tiny little left hand i recall pulling it out the pain made me feel down to earth although i don’t know what was happening to me i had little hands finally we reached our destination the nurse lifted me up and while she carried me for about 4 seconds and sat me on my gurney i remember seeing my little gown pink with little yellow teddy bears my little thighs were bloody i don’t know why i could feel my nose being crusty and no one in the room was my relative no one in the room was anything other than a wage-earner no one in the room was anything more then a team of let’s put them back together again the laughing gas the laughing gas they sing

partial ballad for Pam and Jim

i once found him looking into my eyes holding my hands
he moved me to live to love to laugh
while the endless hoping
that my days will die fast
fuel the tomorrows that cast me into a grinding trap
i really wish i wouldn’t have to leave and pace back and forth between cold frontiers looking into darkness
the void is left

as limbo and i walk hand in hand exhausted

mbrazfield (c) 2020

hail to R Banks for conceptualizing and making this offering and picture possible love you so much

orphan

i often forget his smile the glint of his eyes pulling an old dog eared letter i touch his cursive delicate but unintelligible there are no particular ideas in the tight ringlets of pale black ink his mind was full of scorpions she never returned to him they both mad with ego and one uppance i progeny alone i with a heart full of wasps

Duster War of 1987

There is a certain look when one spends more than one hour at the Cecil. Particularly in the lobby, no matter if skin is young or old. There will be dust on it. Life is a cross between the Eastern Block and the Bowery, but glued together with 80’s crack.

I never made a connection of logic or philosophy. Politics never came to mind. The culture of the Cecil was that. Nothing carbon based escaped some kind of violence, for to not be anointed by even the pettiest mugging meant you were not part nor where you inoculated from the pain of not smelling the allegedly greener grasses of the other side. That was the hallucination.

For example, the spiders on the ceiling corners for the most part escaped a hungry bird or angry broom. While waiting to have under aged coffee with Spare Cock Amos, I could always count less than 7 legs on the spiders at any given day. I remember one husky Daddy Long Legs that had 5 legs and two stumps. He said it happened in the great Duster War of 1987. Nature’s hand was forced to mimic the image of the urban Eden. Miller did not exaggerate his nightmare.

Maybe it was just me. I picked up a very different perspective of the beauty ideal. I was fascinated by the prostitutes who at a certain age began to wear gym socks with their Payless high heels. Later on in the 80’s the fashion industry exalted the look as couture. Nothing is new under the Sun indeed. As my curiosity unfolded I began to ask the ladies why. The answer was usually the same. To hide track marks from their pimps. Up until then the word around my middle school campus was that you could only shoot up in the arm or snort. Who knew?

Dogs like people in particular had it pretty bad too. One eyed, three legged, limping, broken full of flies, ribs showing while lapping night’s old fried rice left behind by tourists. Chased away or chained to shopping carts to ward off any bad players. Now, their off spring live in lofts and wear protective dog gear, designer of course.

Life was stunted intellectually and emotionally for many. We either felt nothing or felt too much. We either felt numb or crippling rage. The point was that we were stuck. I say we because I was a witness, I had a home and a middle school to go to, but the Nickel had love. Los Feliz, not much. Either way there was a street pharmaceutical to help it. We either knew how to read, but became brain damaged or where never taught at all. Dogs had PETA and Bob Barker on their side. The people still wait for the upgrade. We the people can do it we are held accountable to our free will. Even as a punk kid I understood that freedom was nice, but useless if one had a broken spirit.

my way…

there is a certain look when one spends more than one hour at the Cecil particularly in the lobby no matter if skin is young or old there will be dust on it life is a cross between the Eastern Block and the Bowery but glued together with 80’s crack

i never made a connection of logic or philosophy politics never came to mind the culture of the Cecil was that nothing carbon based escaped some kind of violence for to not be anointed by even the pettiest mugging meant you were not part nor where you inoculated from the pain of not smelling the allegedly greener grasses of the other side that was the hallucination

for example the spiders on the ceiling corners for the most part escaped a hungry bird or angry broom while waiting to have under aged coffee with Spare Cock Amos i could always count less than 7 legs on the spiders at any given day i remember one husky Daddy Long Legs that had 5 legs and two stumps he said it happened in the great Duster War of 1987 Nature’s hand was forced to mimic the edict of the urban Eden Miller did not exaggerate his nightmare

maybe it was just me i picked up a very different perspective of the beauty ideal i was fascinated by the prostitutes who at a certain age began to wear gym socks with their Payless high heels later on in the 80’s the fashion industry exalted the look as couture nothing is new under the Sun indeed as my curiosity unfolded i began to ask the ladies why the answer was usually the same to hide track marks from their pimps up until then the word around my middle school campus was that you could only shoot up in the arm or snort who knew

dogs like people in particular had it pretty bad too one eyed three legged limping broken full of flies ribs showing while lapping night’s old fried rice left behind by tourists chased away or chained to shopping carts to ward off any bad players now their off spring live in lofts and wear protective dog gear designer of course

life was stunted intellectually and emotionally for many we either felt nothing or felt too much we either felt numb or crippling rage the point was that we were stuck i say we because i was a witness i had a home and a middle school to go to but the Nickel had love Los Feliz not much either way there was a street pharmaceutical to help it we either knew how to read but became brain damaged or were never taught at all dogs had PETA and Bob Barker on their side the people still wait for the upgrade we the people can do it we are held accountable to our free will even as a punk kid i understood that freedom was nice but useless if one had a broken spirit

i prefer the older ones

your chest swells and collapses in slow motion
i miss watching the hairs curled up tight in salt and pepper rosettes
you didn’t love me i was too young but on cold lonely nights you couldn’t stay away from my womanly thighs
i drank alone on the floor cursing the day i was born then when the sun took her post
i walked through my door having to face the world again