lost on the way

mbrazfield (c) 2020

ya ever listen to sister Tharpe wailing on her guitar while spiking up your mohawk

strumming and tugging at my strands as her sweet sultry honey melts into my ear veins

getting ready for TSOL to play on the Sunst Strip in LA balls to the wall sexy hell

underage but i don’t care the way i’ve been living i’m going no where

life was too lively growing up at home so i ran from the folks

and broke all the rules danced on the shore at 7 past noon

big black ugly boots Cinderella slippers were for fools

stick my tongue out at the sky fill my nose up with white lies

scratches cuts bruises and tears bloody trousers fists in the air

scent of cars black smoke and politicos resign my gender go underworld

Christ Savior i see the Son can You explain why i felt at 3 like 21

riding on the bus with the ladies of the night shift who went to clean the houses of the rich

indignation in their smile as bright brown eyes fell on my style

echoing in the length of the trains how can this child spit on the American dream

missing the point in what i conveyed symptom of the American nightmare lost on the way

the prophets of boyd street

cherish your life their eyes say while they take a sip from the poisoned well cherish all life organic beautiful gross untouchable evil or good all of it without boundary cherish the Unknown be wise some day you will know Us don’t question why or how we happen to be here their eyes sang in choir question your heart on how to move your soul onto higher ground all is not what it seems we are all not who you think we might be cherish your mind think think think and question your brother but cherish him as well the time of cheeks is over reason cannot not work without selfless charity from your heart cherish who you are

want

to want you to kiss my mouth hungry like a starving dog deep inside the tendrils of time perhaps inside of Tutankhamun’s tomb where he laid wrapped in magic to want you to look in me and search with your fingers like a carpenter looks for nails in an old rusty Folgers tin that looks much like my heart to want to breath you in like when you turn and give a final glance at a coffin’s bouquet of roses of your fallen enemy to want to scratch and dig my woman’s claws into your back as your masculine identity fucks my sad out to want to possess the honesty of a very small child to want to have the courage to do a lot of things and in the midnight sky when my eyes upturn alone i catch a snippet of the music of Shakespeare’s heavenly spheres that only the angel’s can hear

freed

she thrived optimally when lost in LA

salty sassy loose and Catholic tube top wearing even on cold days

mother of three husband gone missing foul play by the finest in town

she talked back and took what you had with scorn and laughs

yet in the sun light at the plaza when traffic is quiet beggars and convicts safe in their bags

she fed the pigeons ever so delicately threw breadcrumbs at them not like a DiMaggio but like a Pavlova

then they were fed no more

death of Joaquin

it starts off by an off beat Gregorian chant afternoon belly bloated with heat reruns of Felix the Cat on TV in his past there is a cave maybe he will have to retrace his steps there upon death as they say drool found on his face they gossip abscess on his left leg old black leather shoe scuffed Cuban heel by an original LP cover of the BeeGees to love somebody the irony thick as his moustache neighbor woman ratted red beehive hair hail to the Virgin Mary cat lady eye liner black lipped chiquita vampira cried to the fuzz that she’d gone to check on him on account they fucked every two months navy blue jeans creased to cut cement Pendleton blue white and gray cigarette burn holes fourth button missing from bar scuffle at Footsies last May Fruit of the Loom classic wife beater still stained with the blood of his grandfather a beloved heirloom his Marine days led him astray in the tunnels of the mind alphabet soup G issued pharm cocktailed with torture death and some bombs upon closer inspection Det. Mullen said he has a tattoo with the name of Belinda on his left breast and the cross con safos por vida mark on top of his right hand directly above the thumb crippled by a Derringer at the sweet age of twelve tomorrow was supposed to be the visit between he and his estranged MIT son who goes there on a scholarship won Joaquin had planned to gift him a gold plated LeCross and his Purple Heart medal for enduring a three year involuntary vacation for his country at the Hanoi Hotel