Cricktopia

tuesday night again
warm like mother’s milk
the night dark is silky
not yet the honey suckle whispers
its too early
but the crickets after the rains riot and march along the seams of the house
into tiny cricket bug speakeasys
i wonder if they have their version of Modest Mouse or the Matrix
my worries and fears anxieties and revolving years
of listening to crickets
a supple madness incubated
under pressure of the glamorous life shared by the ballsy poets
my arms just thoughts
holding tight to the hallucination of life
after work on many day
i envy the crickets and their Cricktopia
i envy the little plastic Oscars who get to go to a real home
some place in Wichita
but as i linger in the backyard of this home
assured that the sign on the side of the hill
can no longer crush me

Charlie’s cough

Charlie grew weaker
from the old
1940s window pane
i’d hear him
then one dusk
in September nothing
a few days
passed i rummaged
the building’s trash
casually looking for
unexpected art supplies
it seemed Charlie’s
kin tossed out
everything that he
possessed and of
no advancement for
them pedigreed relatives
yet in my
quest for treasure
troves i found
from Ohio an
old Glessco bottle

mbrazfield (c) 2015

31536000 seconds

farewell again
in the cold starlight
no roar of laughter
just faint clinks
of crystal flutes
champagne and hope
no silk dresses
just fluffy socks
hoodies and tea
Twilight Zone marathon
in the background
children squealing by the orange trees
while mom and dad clean up
after the pug
thoughts about health scares
anxiety and quick sand rage
mingle like oil and water
with the laughter of my beloved
tomorrow is a fresh start
a dash to new goals and new tolls
under the mercy of our chosen ones
as long as the sky is blue
as birds sing and flit across my yard
i can face with a strong chin
the next 31536000 seconds

of Clorox and slime

if ever i should just begin to walk
down this anxious street
that goes into the mouth of the tunnel
where we all take refuge from having to rationalize the next three nano seconds of our lives
the subway tile old and cracked
fossilized grime keeping the fading pulse
what would it be that i’d think of
the history or the art
or how we got to be entwined by the tyranny of the city
or perhaps by the 32nd step deep
i’d think of the flower district
giant sunflowers in painters buckets drowned by murky water
the baby’s breathe
as bright and lively as the milky way
on the ground
the spell broken
the steam of drying liquid
smelling of clorox and slime
around step 68
out from the canal of the tunnel
the cracks and scars on the walls
have turned into cuneiform
symbols and communicators
mournings and encoded confessions
my sins beyond
the daily bustle

clay between the ashes

mbrazfield (c) 2021

to think that beyond shadows
a sun glows she dressed in gold
swatting at her lover heaven
sending radioactive flares of hot love

to think that behind those shadows
i sit silent staring at the calmness
of poppy blossoms along the hills
while the shadows shield a chaos

to think that beneath the shadows
are my remains that partake
in the Maker’s infinity loop
of clay between the ashes

slumber, i’m here

mbrazfield (c) 2021

slumber, i’m here
see by your
side 50 years
b’tween oh what
the shit we’ve
seen words fed
me like a
bird later i
met your friends
among podiums raised
to you old
man western Blvd
we walked the
Hollywood falling bridge
west scoring beer
with publishers checks
me scoring in
other ways but
i got the
gist of you
don’t try you
said i said
let me see
you liked whores
i liked bus
stops pigeons in
the night we
both liked dive
bars hard boiled
eggs at half
past nine tough
you challenged me
but not before
the ham on
rye beer on
tap my imagination

cloister

twinkling moths scurry from the bulb
carefully knit filigree cobweb
as an exclusive lampshade  serves
they bounce and leap
a circus extravaganza
in the colors of night
old houses chipped wood
smell of old books and history
then there’s the really busy moths
with patterned powder wings
the beautiful ones
gathered up in a bouquet
innocently placed
by the spider’s gothic cloister

self

orange peels fresh in the sink
my finger tips scented by their honey
outside the heat lectures the breeze
little birds lined up fluffy down ornaments
i ask myself
self what will you do today
and i answer i dont know
you do that everyday self
arent you tired
and i answer yes but not like how you think
the birds are still
the window thick but i can read their beaks i know theyre singing
and i say to self
self how about oatmeal
the Irish kind with a little cream and fresh peaches
starring with blank eyes
at the punk rock collage
stirring the cinnamon and sugar
my 4 year old self giggles out from the jar
pig tails tan corduroy dress
bare tiny foots and a Disney coloring book
self instructs me to stand
and i walk away from her