truth hurts

a broken trail of rotted crumbs was what i followed

leading to your golden bed too good to be truth

it all began with that voice i heard beautifully harmonious

when i realized wicked lies came from your poet’s lips

Roy Orbison’s pegasus 2.0

mbrazfieldm (c) 2020

mind down to last dendrite

electricity dying down

clowns lost their candy sheen

my stage name bitter buttons big shoes

Luna pierce the sheath just let it out

wild pony flying over blue bayou

not every symbol meaning some meanings are hard to see

non sequitur zoo

go to the junction where the crow caws and feel like coffee grounds are sacred don’t trample them with emotional support gobblers in the wind do you think pterodactyls clucked the motor is stuck in the mud skipper makes no whistling rattles die they steal watermelon slices from the post man in Cairo i don’t think so but Henrietta will investigate the portfolios of one hundred gazelles with tiny hooves drilling and crunching across the moss that could potentially grow in the Sahara over by the airport where the sea gulls screech holding up old ladies for their drinks pigeons collect the Groupon deals cooing at the seams of insanity

after the X show

the soft cool feather strokes of breeze fingered through my shaggy tangled hair teasing out a kaleidoscope of red highlights

the muddy booted covered feet carried my dirty denim wrapped carcass through the termite riddled door into his wool upholstered army cot where he kept 3 golf clubs

we kissed wildly like two beasts on the savannah interlocked in that battle to the death right before they cut to the Mutual of Omaha commercial

love i wondered as he pawed at me what was it while his teeth searched for my young girl bits

it wasn’t like the movies nor was there flirtation or sexy anticipation like in Bei Mir Bistu Shein

then he stopped my eyes still closed and my tongue lapping in the dark

i need a cigarette he whispered can i bum one i rasped

what is love do you think i dealt out my rhetorical grunts

an almost neon silhouette of his broad shoulders shrugged against the poker faced moon

to miss

my ears have heard

words and utterances

some warm some cold sharp void of life

i fill a dropper full of lies and squeeze them in my eyes

but they roll out eventually

the heart can’t be made a fool even if it’s mine

i haunt the streets and alley ways i pick at crates and smoke away the vision of a miserable creature

whose love just ran away and left her with no direction

in my nightmare the flying carpets are ubiquitous and free

the torment starts when you stop by to tell me about my sorrows

the roses pluck at their own thorns as if they know i won’t come back tomorrow

mbrazfieldm (c) 2020

memorandum

would it make life easier for you if i said outloud what i’d rather just share with you

would it make you a bigger man if i would publish all of my missteps and ineptitudes

do you deserve to know how much you mean to me the tears i’ve shed the drugs i dared to impress you

do you care about my thoughts my feelings my decrees or what i see around this word

if what you want is to fuck and bolt pretend that there was nothing wrong

if all you want is to get a title of renaissance man a golden plaque with gilded letters and pretty words

that’s not really me i’m now buried in a cold dark life locked in under the headstone you chiseled for me etched with nothing meaningful

cyclothymic

mbrazfieldm (c) 2019

strikethrough

laced

sharp

clove smoke

in alley i

got what i came for

a ticket to peek inside God’s ear near

the heavens past the Milky Way from up there the world was beautiful

at the American Hotel full of sweaty nooks and crannies where the music was wild in its ferociousness and once infected

the brain floated amongst the red aura of the room while the riffs and the booms and the twangs and the truths were part of a generation dying to speak its aching lonely soul

from the cave with symbols and art from masters of no particular renown prophesies of the pioneers of future trillion sized debts and whose progeny would be prisoners within bars made of algorithms instead i was a rule breaker kid channeling Cassady before she knew how to write trickster of the night wild child who’d

never had to fight with an authoritative parent on account they were already at some of their own soirees as a little tax deduction i quickly learned that a woman’s place was not really where she had to stay and i followed suit because it was the only way my rebellious nature would be soothed and that’s how the old vagabonds took me to see the Clash when i was ten the coolest 6th grader ever summers in Bakersfield sandy hair wild like baby snakes shielded by the big

bad momma cobras picking grapes hearing the night thunder of God and machine never wondering what would happen to me at least not in the day time Al’s bar i miss your soul so many times i bled polka dotting your floors lost my mind but the angels of the green couches were there to call the taxi but no one knew the address rock and roll deep in thought colors floated steadily for me forming live connections to the guys that God called Us do pigeons count as doves i loved the one with stripped wings white neck and red beak hind and fore sight blended in my head pounding breaths waking up in the middle of the deck only to see the headlines im still here Hillel wild crazy as fuck child incomprehensible girl took the diagnostical sentence because you didn’t understand