waterfalls in John Wayne movies

in the city
there are no waterfalls
just runny slimy drips
on rusted pipes
amid the feet of children
who dance
some of us conjuring wishes
between bus lines and  electric poles
there was poetry in hips of maids
testosterone sonnets from metal lunchboxes
in the city pigeon shit awning
ten jewelry stores each selling
radios from Lebanon
waterfalls in John Wayne movies
fifth grade wishes Wonder Woman
jacket and a pink Barbie brush set

self

orange peels fresh in the sink
my finger tips scented by their honey
outside the heat lectures the breeze
little birds lined up fluffy down ornaments
i ask myself
self what will you do today
and i answer i dont know
you do that everyday self
arent you tired
and i answer yes but not like how you think
the birds are still
the window thick but i can read their beaks i know theyre singing
and i say to self
self how about oatmeal
the Irish kind with a little cream and fresh peaches
starring with blank eyes
at the punk rock collage
stirring the cinnamon and sugar
my 4 year old self giggles out from the jar
pig tails tan corduroy dress
bare tiny foots and a Disney coloring book
self instructs me to stand
and i walk away from her

erosion

my roots never grew
i stayed for a little while
then climbed on the first wind
that blew through this soul of sand
my grains turned pale gray
tumbling through this earthen hourglass
alone in the company of droves
of other discarded lonely vagabonds
from what i gathered
love had stopped rooting at the dunes
when i finally got there

defectors of defeat

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
–A Farewell to Arms (1929)

i not ever one to stay settled
not in a chair nor a desk or a flipped car in the middle of the highway

i not ever one to cry fold up or whimper after the first punch slap or ranting curse

gables decisions transfers petitions bus stops late nights running away to dark alleys

broken arms scraped face bloody nose bruised halo twisted wing midnight summer clouds intrigued

books parks veterans of various fights  teachers preachers women brothers fractured holy lives

war with peace along the edge we’re marched too soon where time has earned the essence of our hands yet not the moxie of the spirit

the birds would sound

Baker Beach fog cold wet knees

sand deep cut wrists

knuckles bleed

cold sea wind seeps

into the cracks of the spirit

was around the time

we broke our peace

seagulls screeched wildly

above our coal black energy

you the pulling south

i the fleeting north

umbilical cord

severed forever

Artemis took this orphan in

taught me how to hunt

other creatures

such as i

for crazy cannibalistic 32182314155 rites

and wandering in every downtown desert

dawns spent in tunnels bent

from the neck down

every now and again

the birds would sound

toasting to paired up

cooing doves

that have flown away from me

bio

when i was a child

the God’s words confused me

as it was in the beginning

so shall it be in the end

Marley’s wailers also wailed

yet it still made no sense

when i was a girl

i studied about war in the local school textbook

but saw that both famous Abrahams modes of being sat naked on the dirty modern streets no bosom to hold tight to

no log cabin to sleep in

and Mary virgin mother became an entrepreneur in bottled holy wine and bloody linen sheets

just like any old biker momma i would come to meet

when i ran away just before the legal untender age

i devoted my life to Saint N Cassady

acid tests numbed out tongues

hugging my chest to my knees  

i just one spec of ash

from the forest of the streetlamps

where we all burned

from creationists angry balls

middle road i step the curb

beginning never esoteric

ending at my mother’s vault

whispering sitting on the retainer wall

perhaps in this universe

i’ve lived it all simultaneously

hemorrhaging thought

mbrazfield (c) 2020

this thing inside the mind has lost the path of where its from chromosomes in a situation room in outer space the Earth has crowded me

mbrazfield (c) 2020

shit really he says the days of roses haunts me the road to stray is right outside are you sure about that picking sage and ask permission BB King i heard you holler Lucille my love

mbrazfield (c) 2020

strings flap churning trains of thought wishes prayers gone amok by the howling wolf in a poet’s dream the sting of death follows me pluck one then two then three the boy won’t ever find me until he looks inside of him there i will beat pulsing with the flow of light