smog pink shanks

there’s five green apples golden freckles on their skin
heater on cozy my hands icy
coffee molasses ice sugar cubes
glass tinted Armenian style
chest gentle heave breasts not in confinement
feet bare electric black polish on crooked toes from walking too early
eyes looking particularly nowhere
thinking about wishing to feel like a Michael Stipe song
standing fingertips wipe eyes from tears
Nina Simone where are you
ashtray heavy crystal lead a junk store whimsy buy
looking south outside the window
buildings tall short stout
like the teapot in that song
this linoleum floor where feet are flat
i witness her smog pink shanks
good morning Los Angeles

when will the saints

mbrazfield (c) 2020

since the gases of The Breath began to stir laying star mosaic highway to my Earth i have stood here with the Mothers see our skin with every deep trench within lies a simple truth no matter how those eyes may look at it those evergreens beyond man’s streets will make their way to find me i the omnipotent Mother armored in degrees of time so tempered holding on to blades of grass and crooning birds the smiles of ghosts prophets who are strangers and now it is my time the holy Breath she comes on flames attire placing the finishing touches before i’m ushered softly silently diligently into a tomb of slumber

ulcer

mbrazfield (c) 2020

acid rain drop tear
eye field of grain
gypsy cloth for burial
standing we don’t stop
just beyond the starline
shelter roof of water
floor of heaven hell
grew cold of waiting
ulcer in the chiding
mouth of goddess  in
between  the deaths of
lives less killed  our
candied bitterness let’s build
a temple maybe five
before the swallows fly
back stoned to nests
tipping over ashes was
the flowers of my
bed in hair graying