BrewNSpew Cafe Prompt

meine patina

/ mbrazfieldm / 9 Comments
mbrazfield 2019 (c) gouache on paper

Buk it’s 2020

my hero Hanky baby

and i’m still alive

these last few days

i’ve surveyed her face

our whore saint city

don’t fret she loves us still

these last few days

i’ve driven by

the schools i’ve been in

i don’t remember a damned thing

my first day of pre school

i was late

on account my dad had to wait

in the Mobil lines for five hours

hey Buk

do you remember

these last few days

every grade year the same old shit

the Pilgrims the marches the maths the farces

the Nina the Pinta the Santa Maria

Sesame Street Hee Haw Fat Albert and Lawrence Welk

and by the time Ronnie Raygun came around

i was branded diagnosed exposed and pigeonholed

the patina of fine psychobullshitary

casted on my soul

these last few days

intuitively speaking Buk

i don’t feel its right to blame

after all i have a conscience

id ego and a touch of naughtiness too

i don’t want to go down that way

remember the time over on Las Palmas Ave

when i called the principal

the devil’s panty liner

i had more class

than to just call her a knit wit

verbal theatrics have been

my little blue bird

these last few days

my bones hurt more

i linger by the antioxidants

and pay some attention

to the collagen talks

my hair line fractures

from the days of Face

are bald and angry

so i take turmeric supplements

during the day

these last few days

the stains of my sins

are rinsing away

leaving a fall hued patina

glazed on my spirit

these last few days Buk

the beer bottles on the streets

cigarette butts and paper sheets

blowing in the wind

make me feel sentimental

where has most of my life gone

is this what happiness is

to feel the bumps upon my skin

the knuckles of my hands

being cupped by my finger tips

as i walk under the bridge

where the many roads

to numbness took me

these days i swear Buk

i have felt

an orgasmic magnificence

flow through my veins

but there are still

some challenges

iconoclast

/ mbrazfieldm / 16 Comments

when you paint your face

to highlight

the earth

the womb

in your eyes

the beginning

keeper of spark

when you cry

your muscles

hold back

the vengeance

of a super massive black hole

she wolf

protecting her pups

we would think

that you’re illusion

but that simply

isn’t the case

Goddess maker of kings

when the Almighty

anointed them with crowns

it was your blood

that flowed

through their veins

lonely orb

director of the stars

all roads lead

to something

that isn’t very far

mother black crow

sister white dove

cousin gray owl

into the holy

waters dammed up deep

with secret

mystic powerful

graceful silent

ghost humming

hymns of all that’s told

modern wrecker

proof of life

everlasting warrior

immutable light

against the ones

who insist that cloaks

are wise

only you

in all eternity

to come

revolutionary

prophet

i raise my eyes

to behold the

invincible iconoclast

dustbowl

/ mbrazfieldm / 5 Comments

night

sleep is

hard to come

by outside the

dark it lingers on

shadows congregate near

the window as the whisper

of the dead scarecrows no longer

keep the fear of the shivering child

whose recited all her prayers at bay

dating app

/ mbrazfieldm / 7 Comments

the evening dewy with tired city rain

bustling streets hurried people

with other people in their lives

to call their own

to be me my only desire was to be

held by strong warm arms

will you be my protector

watching patrons coming in and out

sipping my sharp pop rock ginger ale

i wondered about nineteen thirty seven

thoughts broken for a second naked man

runs into traffic but he’s o.k.

my eyes sleepy mosey on downward

bei mir bist du schoen

serenade the Andrews Sisters while

women named Hazel with a hyacinth scent

sip their gin rickeys wiping their lipstick off the glass

in the saloon there are men reading the LA Times

yet others share lively union talk

then the sapphire eyed mysterious stranger

raven jet hair and a dead maus t shirt

taps me on my gothic shoulder Mary Pickford’s

angels wink at me as they slid off my left shoulder

as he sits down elegant right index finger half raised

signaling the hyperactive bar keep

from the antique flowered gold foil wall paper

Ingrid and Bogey nod at me

and i whisper at old sapphire in a sultry sigh

here’s looking at you kid

spiritual something

/ mbrazfieldm / 4 Comments

as far as little girls went i was not very normal i read and understood language on a different level i could imagine with my mind’s eye seeing the words float up from a page or sign or billboard or holy book like smoke when the Vatican has chosen a new pope

i thought i could genuinely speak to non human life forms through my thoughts and at a young age the whirlwind of the lives of the adults while in my Topanga canyon years caused me to believe in the spiritual something that was always there invisible but tangible only to my soul ever present warning me hide the keys flush those pills down the toilet before they get them and die for the day don’t go home with that man don’t touch mommy’s things hide by the creek

always the presence during the part of life when the soul seizes to be tender and becomes a little hardier the spiritual something became overbearing not like Joan of Arc’s but just getting in the way i wanted to do my will even though it wasn’t the right thing to do for the sake of my soul and well being i followed the human aspect that surrounded me and forsook the spiritual something

now that i’ve traversed several planetary rotations i know it’s there and sometimes i can feel it most often i can’t or i can’t tell if subconsciously i refuse to feel it however the mortgage of my misguided self agency has come due

R 12:9 to 13

/ mbrazfieldm / 15 Comments

the wood peels from the shanks of the inside of the ghost temptation rots teeth grind in the daymare of desperate desire the room with no view the floor is on fire and the sea she is angry boiling up to the chair of judgment it’s not your time yet the mistress and her kin invade my gossypium cabin fever out i say no room in my nightmare you would not understand day three the muscles stalactites reaching up to a god out to lunch remember holy time is different than human seven heads are better than none my hands in outer space the heart percolates in mother’s Turkish coffee pot ssshhh she doesn’t know licking out to anything that moves without a pulse to send some help a little bump a little drop a little cup to ease lubricate the crumbling road to the reality of seals breaking slowly

my Paul

/ mbrazfieldm / 9 Comments

just tonight can we stare at the lamp lights

     gleaming on the surface of the puddles in the street

tonight ange triste will you stand still

    so as to peer upon your waifly silhouette

without it floating from my bandaged hands

    can i be your Paul and place my ear atop your heart

and etch in little kisses i love you on the

renegade palpitations there about

       tonight no wine no smokes no laughing hard

no sucker punches no living the life no mosher pits

                   no altered minds

      just a little silence with you ange betwixt my arms

instead of me amidst your legs  

    you don’t always have to run away   scared little bird

pecker and picker of my nerves  and priestess of my vacuumed        

                        universe 

    one time before i leave and i lose you to the vampires

for a wild Irish boy

/ mbrazfieldm / 5 Comments

tempest in your name

wild love ripples through my soul

tease me rowdy wind

Valentina

/ mbrazfieldm / 7 Comments

little Valentina jumped up and down by the crosswalk waiting for the light to turn lime jello green her little black patent leather shoes tip tapped on the dirty dusty sidewalk she let go of her mom’s hand to clean the dust off open little palms were no match for the dirt those were her prized church doctor and special school event shoes they couldn’t get dirty Valentina had an excellent day at the dentist and her mom and dad promised her she could go to Olvera Street and get her treat as the family made their way to the Plaza Valentina’s eyes search like a hawk she didn’t see Don Chema the paleta man with his cart filled with frozen delights it was a humble little ice box covered with ice pop stickers shaped like action heroes Sponge Bob and even the Disney Princesses once they got to the kiosk and the giant tree Valentina’s hopes dimmed she looked up at her dad with the biggest brownest sullen eyes and he offered a dreadful solution would you like a churro instead Valentina searched once more and as a small crowd of Japanese tourists dispersed she saw Don Chema she hopped and squealed with delight Valentina pulled on her parents to walk her to the paletero Don Chema in a nasally raspy voice asked her que le gustaria mi reina Valentina whispered up to her dad and she asked for the prized watermelon paleta juicy red with the little black seeds frozen inside

on Wilshire blvd

/ mbrazfieldm / 16 Comments

trees

naked

and white far

away castles

in the platinum

forest painted silver

then the city bus belches

toxic filth into my lungs that

plead wildly and gasp for mercy then

catching my breath and thank the stars i’m home