underground in solitude

mbrazfield (c) 2022

i have no desire to stop and smell flowers or tell my friend about the aroma of bread in the morning breeze i have earned the right to just wander off in these unbelievable streets barefoot to squander the last of my life i have no interest in looking for the art in my face or the strength of my wrists i have a need to talk to myself about the world that scorns me and finally be at peace to embrace the underground in solitude

in the red

mbrazfield (c) 2022

we great grand children
acorns plucked from branches
strewn across the roads
on a whim of damnation herself
still in the red we toil
rot away on bended knee
collecting rejection in reusable bags
we cry not for pain anymore
sedated we sit and lay down
to partake in the ruthlessness of abandonment

undone

mbrazfield (c) 2022

watching the orange trees today full of buds and bees busy life ruthlessly buzzing forward my blood stale purple dripping from my nose the sky falling my feet facing up thoughts spilling from my ear prayer bowls howl when empty dragons chasing no longer lucrative so we reach for a key pad human thought what is where we go solid oak caskets flow among the fields of wires

GB

GB lost her friend today
in a family of ten GB lost herself
in a culture where family was amputated from centuries ago then GB lost her crown
GB’s friends have lost their battles yet they hang on like fatal car crash victims who wont recognize the great beyond
GB cried today sobbed is the better word
GB judged herself for not being there when his time had come
i only a specter following her around mute and heavy dragging the chains of frigid bureaucracy
GB lost her head for a moment frozen grief there standing
GB never had what we do but we dont comprehend when GB begins to agonize
GB died again today and wailed betwixt the thunder of the freeway next to us
tomorrow GB will wake up and look for him in her dreams his wheelchair there with a a little box of rolling papers asking her for grits and bacon

i knew the rainbow

im not ready to write that poem about pride i want to hold on to the last withering rainbow tufts of our youth
even as society judged you even as i relied on you as your own life hung over the cliff you gave me love
im not ever going to write about the goddamned rainbow and flags and house music and all of what you were pigeon holed into
i ache for you when i see a live pulse in the inside of my scared split wrist
i feel burning shame as if i could only gut myself out the several times you bought my junk when you needed life extending medicine
no i cant write about the marches and those vigils and political farces when i miss you so much
you were my mother my father my sister my brother my protector my guide you were my life choice accountant my guardian my saint
remember the time i was raped and you found them out and morphed into holy rage for a moment hell closed up while your fists rained down fury upon them we both wept
remember the morning when i knocked on your door and your mother answered with a face wet with Mary’s eye dew
from behind your favorite Japanese screen you called to me wondering if i brought you Thai iced tea
i navigated my shock to see your skin and bones when two weeks ago you wine and dined with joy at the Tenderloin
you said come kiss the queen and as i neared the top of your hand lowering my lips to your cool forehead
i melted next to your neck and received the final tear from your left eye and i knew the rainbow wouldn’t ever light my path again

*for Asa, i miss you so much friend say hello to Freddie for me