post med

mbrazfield (c) 2020

there are days not my legs are weak i walk i walk around the city there’s Christmas in my head and the juvenile prophets have an extraordinary urge to tag just any old word on the city walls there are days but i just walk for the sake of walking i have a difficult time noticing the birds because of the writing on the walls and the writing on their face tells the story of how we got to be in this place there are no cherry blossoms no peach trees no lemonade stands this is reality or a reality

4th

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

on 4th street

when the dogs got tired

and laying on the floor

perfectly brown and gold spots

little Dachshund legs

stretch out but just a few centimeters long

and green eyed kittens by the door

wild shooting whiskers

like the sky on fourth of July

looking for big momma’s kitty teats

then we all look up at the window

simultaneously in time

although i’m just passing

through an old aunt’s borrowed room

the whistle of the train

needled through my soul

and they perfect holy and beautiful

yawn at the sound of the force