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

gourmet two point oh

collaboration with Rob Banks y’all

car titty and payday organs i thought i heard myself think under the bridge with the tents mushroomed through it dry cheap malt liquor atomizer scent the Nordstroms lobby of the poor crosswalk to the weed supplier across the street the line begins on 18th opposite the Toyota parts dealer scooter boys and eyelash girls the latest in street fashion Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle dolls Scooby Doo blankets fixed on car windows for privacy from the bleeding hearts and muskers with their guns ready for the crop shadows greased upon the pavement from the Great Depression and the miscellaneous gruel penny coffee who knew multibillion dollar hook to look good and begging cups with a winking siren who can’t scream at the scandal of it all starvation degradation insinuation of a world gone sane cardboard living is very thrilling for those who afford expensive drywall hung by the nephews of Cuauhtemoc before the Spaniards took the gold that now sits in microwaves next to Nancy’s expensive chest filled with 38 exuberant flavors

Ben your leather apron

mbrazfield (c) 2020

we blow at the match head
like a dandelion against the wind
three strangers one and three quarters
working lips ashes on one finger tip
book bag full of notes to rockstar
fantasies who wont ever get to kiss me
a game of snakes around the bend
32 dollars in my hand Lou you the man
ladies and rainbows sinners and thieves
carnival of man meat eaters
newspapers of the week my tired head
they serve as sheets
ghosts of the shit alley Riviera
cigars cigarettes commercial children in rain
hypothetical American dreams
polityrant money greed my soul to feed
into rooms of mystique where all
who knew too much will seep
into tabloid sensationalism
but we as cobweb kids know better

gourmet

car titty and payday organs i thought i heard myself think under the bridge with the tents mushroomed through it dry cheap malt liquor atomizer scent the Nordstroms lobby of the poor crosswalk to the weed supplier across the street the line begins on 18th opposite the Toyota parts dealer scooter boys and eyelash girls the latest in street fashion Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle dolls Scooby Doo blankets fixed on car windows for privacy from the bleeding hearts and muskers with their guns ready for the crop shadows greased upon the pavement from the Great Depression and the miscellaneous gruel penny coffee who knew multibillion dollar hook to look good and begging cups with a winking siren who can’t scream at the scandal of it all starvation degradation insinuation of a world gone sane cardboard living is very thrilling for those who afford expensive drywall hung by the nephews of Cuauhtemoc before the Spaniards took the gold that now sits in microwaves next to Nancy’s expensive chest filled with 38 exuberant flavors

pic and concept by spaceboi 2019

the Clash forever

It was in the Fall; that’s about all I can remember. I was young and I was also compelled to punch Tennessee Abigail in the face. She showed me her cunt and said she wanted to fuck me. My mind panicked and I broke her nose. I was sixteen and two years into that life of score and run; but never running far enough from perps or skag.

You know those movies where Hollywood denies they exploit or glorify junkydom? They’re pretty accurate, but its far worse than they make you believe. No bleeding hearts please. I had choices, but I chose to accept the love with the destruction. I always had guardian angels, sometimes they were out to lunch dipping their toes in the Frankincense ashes at the nearby church’s wine cabinet.

Walking away from the bulging 200 plus pound bloody screaming mess, I felt bad for hurting her. Abigail continued to curse me out between twangs and gulps. An angry punk country song of sorts. I walked from the King Eddy to the Cecil hoping for some hope. I didn’t fear the cops, but I did fear Abigail’s Agatha Street pimp Big Chop coming after me for some down-home plastic surgery to my ribs.

Grasping for relief of the creeping fear, I thought about my history teacher, Mr. Hahn. He gave four honest to goodness shits about his students. I secretly enjoyed his middle of the road politics. I relished discussing the American ideal and arguing back and forth with the well to do kids in class whose moms drank in secret and their dads had a secretary to screw on Thursday evenings. It didn’t matter much though. I would yell out “the Clash forever.” Mr. Hahn would remind me that his class was strictly a Rolling Stones establishment.

I wasn’t the type of girl who thought about the accepted American ideal of what girls should be like in the 80’s. I guess I wasn’t any type at all. I arrived at the Cecil. Big Mac styrofoam boxes and empty apple juice bottles grew out of the tarmac instead of weeds. I felt sad. I thought Tennessee Abigail was my friend.

Spare Cock Amos didn’t have her drag on. We were going to go out. But I do remember her fingernails being exquisitely polished and groomed in seashell pink. Amos had a lot of hurt in her too. I told her about what I had done to Abigail. She asked why and I told her. Amos responded in a God dense given voice, “good for you.”

Dusk was gray golden and the neon flashed halfway on hooch shop fronts. I took Spare Cocks arm at her request. We waved at the half live carnage on the side walks on Los Angeles street. From one of the gutted out warehouses my mind convinced me Piaf’s ‘La foule’ was wafting out. I unclasped from Spare’s cautious restraint and twirled; neck stretched harvesting the notes in my ears like ripe peaches.

a grady read

my way…

it was in the Fall that’s about all i can remember i was young and i was also compelled to punch Tennessee Abigail in the face she showed me her cunt and said she wanted to fuck me my mind panicked and i broke her nose i was sixteen and two years into that life of score and run but never running far enough from perps or skag

you know those movies where Hollywood denies they exploit or glorify junkydom they’re pretty accurate but its far worse than they make you believe no bleeding hearts please i had choices but i chose to accept the love with the destruction i always had guardian angels, sometimes they were out to lunch dipping their toes in the Frankincense ashes at the nearby church’s wine cabinet

walking away from the bulging 200 plus pound bloody screaming mess i felt bad for hurting her Abigail continued to curse me out between twangs and gulps an angry punk country song of sorts i walked from the King Eddy to the Cecil hoping for some hope i didn’t fear the cops but i did fear Abigail’s Agatha Street pimp Big Chop coming after me for some down-home plastic surgery to my ribs

grasping for relief of the creeping fear i thought about my history teacher Mr. Hahn he gave four honest to goodness shits about his students i secretly enjoyed his middle of the road politics i relished discussing the American ideal and arguing back and forth with the well to do kids in class whose moms drank in secret and their dads had a secretary to screw on Thursday evenings it didn’t matter much though i would yell out “the Clash forever” Mr. Hahn would remind me that his class was strictly a Rolling Stones establishment

i wasn’t the type of girl who thought about the accepted American ideal of what girls should be like in the 80’s i guess i wasn’t any type at all i arrived at the Cecil Big Mac styrofoam boxes and empty apple juice bottles grew out of the tarmac instead of weeds i felt sad i thought Tennessee Abigail was my friend

Spare Cock Amos didn’t have her drag on we were going to go out but i do remember her fingernails being exquisitely polished and groomed in seashell pink Amos had a lot of hurt in her too i told her about what i had done to Abigail she asked why and i told her Amos responded in a God dense given voice “good for you”

dusk was gray golden and the neon flashed halfway on hooch shop fronts i took Spare Cocks arm at her request we waved at the half live carnage on the side walks on Los Angeles street from one of the gutted out warehouses my mind convinced me Piaf’s ‘La foule’ was wafting out i unclasped from Spare’s cautious restraint and twirled neck stretched harvesting the notes in my ears like ripe peaches

Mr. Keith Richards

ever since i was a kid i’ve always had a very vivid imagination mostly because i needed to get away i was too little to drive too little to get a job to make money to take the bus so the only place i had was deep inside my mind so time went by my body stretched my brain gathered more wrinkles and my eyes widened and then the shit hit the fan there were some days where the fan just fell off the ceiling there was so much turd on the blades then there were days when the fan was happily located on the ceiling in the hole with the wires that it was supposed to have swirling around and around doing its job with the moths going in and out of the little lamps shaped like butter cups there was no shit then maybe just a minor fart maybe it was me eating sauerkraut straight from the jar ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards and after a while teachers took notice they got all nosey sent me to see the psychologist called my mother called my father ring ring ring no one bothered so they thought i was special they had no idea how special i could be but i was a relatively well-adjusted child growing up in Hollywood and all you’d be surprised just how fucking well-adjusted i was ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards anyway so as a story goes and i forget where it goes cuz there’s just forks all over the place let me see let’s go to the fork with all the drugs and alcohol oh yeah all of them early on hard living on the edge before and after the edges give or take a few centimeters ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards anyway so long story short made long cuz mainly my fan is starting to show up again on this ceiling i’m in love with a man who lives with a clown and a possum but that’s an entirely different story love is a strange thing i remember when i was a teenager love was a Clash song or like Talking Heads or something like that and punk rock was like really romantic and like you know the Rolling Stones you know your band ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards was pretty cool too even though you guys were old even then but that’s not the problem anyway as i was saying my man lives with a clown and a possum no lie i’m not making this up i’m not even on any kind of drugs legal or illegal i’ve been dry for a really long timethis is just my brain my brain on reality what do i do you ask Mr. Keith Richards well i think a lot i like to fancy myself like a famous writer like a real deep thinker like William Burroughs sorry i don’t mean to name drop but Burroughs kicks ass anyway so yeah like i was saying yeah i say a lot cuz i’m like trying to knit my thoughts to have a cohesive conversation ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards anyway i’m not really sure why i’m here in my dream talking to you like you’re supposed to be my shrink right but you’re here i guess because the guy i’m in love with loves your band The Rolling Stones ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards anyway i’ve lived many many many years in downtown Los Angeles and it’s gone through a lot of intersectionality you know but i don’t know man like the ghosts are still there you know the systematically and psychologically disenfranchised the homeless skid row has just like fucking spread out to infinity and our politicians don’t seem to think that it’s a bad problem you know they don’t have to live on top of each other they don’t have to live on donated tents they possibly have not fought in foreign wars and came back to America just to get fucked over you know they’re not culturally marginalized i used all of the ism’s you can find ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards i don’t know how to explain the world anymore i just kind of walk around and around and around and then sometimes i look up at the sky and there’s this huge ass ceiling fan and the blades look like a chopper and they’re like spinning and spinning and spinning and we’re all down here pushing shopping carts and i’m giving them my empties because that’s all i got yes ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards yeah sometimes i feel pretty bad cuz like i have a place to sleep at at night i have people i can call when ifeel like i want to cry and i’m in love with a man who lives with a clown and a possum ya got that Mr. Keith Richards anyway before i rudely interrupted myself i wanted to tell you that living in LA is really starting to bother me she’s drowning my beautiful angel womb where i was born and grew up is drowning in shit i can’t stand it anymore ya dig me Mr. Keith Richards anyway what was i talking about oh yeah i’m in love with a man who lives with a clown and a possum and it’s really hard cuz it’s just the clown and a possum and there’s not much you can do with that all i know is that i’m in love with that man and he likes your band Mr. Keith Richards for your sake i hope that this dream ends really fast cuz i’m starting to bore myself you know i really don’t smoke or drink or use drugs anymore that’s all in the past i think that’s why i got so lucky to fall in love with a man who happens to live with a clown and a possum anyway Mr. Richards i won’t bend your ear anymore i think that my 45 minute session is up i really thank you for letting me wear this really cool bitching ass hat but you see i got places to go i got things to see i got ceiling fans to dust i gotta fart and i’m grateful to you Mr. Keith Richards you crazy old son of a bitch love your music man and i love a man who lives with a clown and a possum

mbrazfield (c) 2020

Duster War of 1987

There is a certain look when one spends more than one hour at the Cecil. Particularly in the lobby, no matter if skin is young or old. There will be dust on it. Life is a cross between the Eastern Block and the Bowery, but glued together with 80’s crack.

I never made a connection of logic or philosophy. Politics never came to mind. The culture of the Cecil was that. Nothing carbon based escaped some kind of violence, for to not be anointed by even the pettiest mugging meant you were not part nor where you inoculated from the pain of not smelling the allegedly greener grasses of the other side. That was the hallucination.

For example, the spiders on the ceiling corners for the most part escaped a hungry bird or angry broom. While waiting to have under aged coffee with Spare Cock Amos, I could always count less than 7 legs on the spiders at any given day. I remember one husky Daddy Long Legs that had 5 legs and two stumps. He said it happened in the great Duster War of 1987. Nature’s hand was forced to mimic the image of the urban Eden. Miller did not exaggerate his nightmare.

Maybe it was just me. I picked up a very different perspective of the beauty ideal. I was fascinated by the prostitutes who at a certain age began to wear gym socks with their Payless high heels. Later on in the 80’s the fashion industry exalted the look as couture. Nothing is new under the Sun indeed. As my curiosity unfolded I began to ask the ladies why. The answer was usually the same. To hide track marks from their pimps. Up until then the word around my middle school campus was that you could only shoot up in the arm or snort. Who knew?

Dogs like people in particular had it pretty bad too. One eyed, three legged, limping, broken full of flies, ribs showing while lapping night’s old fried rice left behind by tourists. Chased away or chained to shopping carts to ward off any bad players. Now, their off spring live in lofts and wear protective dog gear, designer of course.

Life was stunted intellectually and emotionally for many. We either felt nothing or felt too much. We either felt numb or crippling rage. The point was that we were stuck. I say we because I was a witness, I had a home and a middle school to go to, but the Nickel had love. Los Feliz, not much. Either way there was a street pharmaceutical to help it. We either knew how to read, but became brain damaged or where never taught at all. Dogs had PETA and Bob Barker on their side. The people still wait for the upgrade. We the people can do it we are held accountable to our free will. Even as a punk kid I understood that freedom was nice, but useless if one had a broken spirit.

my way…

there is a certain look when one spends more than one hour at the Cecil particularly in the lobby no matter if skin is young or old there will be dust on it life is a cross between the Eastern Block and the Bowery but glued together with 80’s crack

i never made a connection of logic or philosophy politics never came to mind the culture of the Cecil was that nothing carbon based escaped some kind of violence for to not be anointed by even the pettiest mugging meant you were not part nor where you inoculated from the pain of not smelling the allegedly greener grasses of the other side that was the hallucination

for example the spiders on the ceiling corners for the most part escaped a hungry bird or angry broom while waiting to have under aged coffee with Spare Cock Amos i could always count less than 7 legs on the spiders at any given day i remember one husky Daddy Long Legs that had 5 legs and two stumps he said it happened in the great Duster War of 1987 Nature’s hand was forced to mimic the edict of the urban Eden Miller did not exaggerate his nightmare

maybe it was just me i picked up a very different perspective of the beauty ideal i was fascinated by the prostitutes who at a certain age began to wear gym socks with their Payless high heels later on in the 80’s the fashion industry exalted the look as couture nothing is new under the Sun indeed as my curiosity unfolded i began to ask the ladies why the answer was usually the same to hide track marks from their pimps up until then the word around my middle school campus was that you could only shoot up in the arm or snort who knew

dogs like people in particular had it pretty bad too one eyed three legged limping broken full of flies ribs showing while lapping night’s old fried rice left behind by tourists chased away or chained to shopping carts to ward off any bad players now their off spring live in lofts and wear protective dog gear designer of course

life was stunted intellectually and emotionally for many we either felt nothing or felt too much we either felt numb or crippling rage the point was that we were stuck i say we because i was a witness i had a home and a middle school to go to but the Nickel had love Los Feliz not much either way there was a street pharmaceutical to help it we either knew how to read but became brain damaged or were never taught at all dogs had PETA and Bob Barker on their side the people still wait for the upgrade we the people can do it we are held accountable to our free will even as a punk kid i understood that freedom was nice but useless if one had a broken spirit

Brenda

if only Brenda could rewind her time three years

shuffling slowly down Agatha street quiet only pigeons coo

i follow the trail of baby feathers-pretending to be sane

just to keep an eye on her

it is reached the daily destination

one of the many resting places

along the coastal California lie

her heels cut dry bond with the pavement

lips crusted knees bent soul MIA

i pull the wool over my own eyes

turn and walk away from her again