LA words

to me i write a poem
skipping the puddles in my canvas shoes
red they are street named Chucks
to me this life i’ve witnessed most of all
their pain  our pain my pain
drown we do in hopes that rot like afflicted blossoms
there are the rainbows in the gutters of the street
blessings aplenty there are in the depth of her misery
and butterflies kiss a starving stomach’s lining
to me i write a poem
a ribbon around my thumb
a raw thought in a muted mind
that wanders through a path
underneath the alley where the windows are boarded up
and we name it progress
the corner where i turn
there are no vision quests
Braves are gone perhaps just a celluloid memory
today i write a poem
tomorrow i won’t know
existence here is very subtle
determine in the concrete night
that for the now i stand in moonlight
and midwife the sound of my words

mbrazfield (c) 2023

letting go

mbrazfield (c) 2021

air enmeshed on my face
gases greases spices biohazard turbulence
steps i do take deftly
for fear of stepping on someone’s pride or fingers
heart where do you find me
not close by tonight i’m sorry
lungs pained by the dull recycled wind
legs tired from walking on my knees
hands exhausted from typing and knocking on borrowed doors
that were sealed shut years ago
Langers you’ve outdone yourself
pastrami parfum greets me in the mouth
but pauper pockets must decline
not enough to eat on any night
moon follows explaining what went wrong
i’ve stopped listening 20 years back
the coat that was my father’s
has fell apart in the warm places
it served me well as now i’m frozen
in all the right places
only the ghosts living in the bricks
get through to where my thoughts
the truth about letting go

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