American Indians in LA

4th

/ mbrazfieldm / 12 Comments

gold line passes through there

four tribes meet and they have been for longer than i can ever know

one Meso one Afro one Europe one Orient peoples beautiful all

same hearts one dream different strokes same same same

the bridge is there she lays on her mighty back we cross not just concrete slabs but worlds too

colors flavors scents labor dignity and the human ego of course

united by segregation of their color segregated from each other by being throw an occasional bone starving of their soul

but upon closer honest sober observation on days of rainbows i can see where the tears are stitched to form the Nation where i stand

we are Los Angeles

riots marches torn down houses strikes children centers Lakers unity churches merchants Mexican chop suey Columbian Korean fusion Woody’s ribs Lupe’s tacos Italian house Red Hot Chili Peppers surfers boarders models ballers

the four directions on the 4th street bridge and what it’s come to be and what we’ve become by it is the rainbow children of our Lady

so before the Hall keepers House gablers blues reds and judge and juries request your seats mind and remember

Porciuncula and her kids do lead and ever will this vast kaleidoscope table

the water

/ mbrazfieldm / 8 Comments

i cannot bend the water she has a linear will

looks inside my burning soul and snuffs the air from me the water will not bend as black clouds drenched in loss soak up the golden lights

the acids in the wicked hearts will never bend as well they only carve out empty space for bloody floods to fill

i cannot bend the tiny drops forming round my eyes while walking on a ground that screams for me to grind it down

industry analysts of war cell phone master fighters possessive of the scores

i won’t ever be able to bend the water the lusciously maddened by her waves we hunger for some more it’s best to surrender to her cleansing bosom and evaporate into the sandy dunes

Werdin Alley

/ mbrazfieldm / 5 Comments

cold

concrete

the walls

are brick and

yet have witnessed many things

the stains of age are in the page

of the city’s palm the angels speak and demons kick out in laughter

i walk on thorns the books are long and i can’t see anything that breaks the spell of misery’s iron grasp

the worried sunrise comes and shines a light that fades into the cracks of time in the monuments to lethargic progress and flowers bloom in screens of doom and shots are too quickly taken

unlike Tokpella this alley way has finite space and we all walk in crippling slumber John Wayne won’t get me here

amongst this man made thunder the blood is thin and made of ashes

as i lay the east escapes from me

Pahana you are over due

canyons fell down

life out

of

balance