on Alameda st.

Mbrazfieldm (c) 2024

monsters are worst during the day she thinks slowly mind trailing snail like
their colors the monsters she confirms are like a.m. radio dull warning of their arrival yet
their eyes watch as thirty six who is now old
steps in the puddle with patent leather
baby doll left shoe tarnished forever
on Alameda street

thirty six hears the screams
the burn of fire water cold sweat cold hand
like old silver buffalo she watches
they move with pain purple sprouts twixt
calloused knuckles from fighting air
social malignancy history blithe
we all are on Alameda street

dusk whispers urgency between clenched teeth
the yes daddy girls learn their beat
the lonely boys stretch the meat
nothing changes into double negative
we may all be on Alameda street

intrusive

i have walked in the magic and slimy entrails of the night you can sniff the carnage reapered dreams collected bodies bought sold butchered put back whole on the cool objective table of community tax payer yet the sheen and cigarette scent of your rugged lips captures what is left of my imagination the face ive worn the whole day through with guilt rage pain and embarrassment in the pores cracks a useless smile thinking of our bottom halves entwined twisted and penetrated in a vortex of denial and after all of these years that calloused touch of your hand intrusive through the strands of my graying hair

twenty 3 twenty 4

mbrazfield (c) 2023

another year passed
tonight we’ll hear the empty blast
party boys and girls midwife
another year that’s filled with strife
but i promise you this
my lady queen city you bitch
we will be happy and cry together we might
the cellophane kings who think they’re in charge
will continue to wallow in false putrid paradise
as you and i queen city your people
shall rise

moving on

night is here thank the heavens
your face in my mind quiet and rough
your hands calloused from life
your breath with no warmth
language rusted in your throat
the times are changing a Dylan song
you’d hum on your side of the room
i was not unique enough to worship
your love the accolades of poets
smithing words then catapulted into skies
to let the satellite cast your ego widely
and now we’re old but i not enough yet
the patina of good living never tarnished me
i too have a room no satellite just memory
no accolades just words fertile with thoughts to be