ptsd

your fingers  cured as leather
surprise my cheek and bottom lip
by instinct i recoil
i know you felt it
i smile face looking down
you look at the alley
changing the subject
to how fast flowers die
after being picked without chemical support
by instinct i recoil
paranoid that you might be talking about me
later on in the cobalt night
sitting on my kitchen counter
hoping that maybe those lived in fingers
might think of caressing me again

grady’s psalm too point oh

wet sand stink in my nose

thoughts of another month gone

but funny thing

im walking on my city street

Master Reeves literature    check

big ass cup of iced Americano    check

sun shining on my head    check

to the left of my short shank

a begging tent with liquor spills

to the right of my short shank

my jean ripped on a baby palm tree

traffic below the Wilshire boulevard bridge

connecting insanity and greed

sometimes an old woman will shake her fist

at the medical marijuana rig

going at a breakneck slow speed

at the corner the fruit vendor speaks

to his regulars about the Trump defeat

but i squeeze by avoiding getting sucked in

to consequences of a life so alien to me

well i’ve never been to Pensicola or

Miami FLA im from Californayay

my lips pucker out a lame refrain

then i wonder about Bettie Page

her life as a saint

it gets late

sky hued like wild honey

littered is my view

with COVID warnings

i reach to pick at the mask round my neck

in respect for a millennial child

with each crispy step to my place

traces of hurled up chow mein

discarded condom wraps

and leaflets notifying me Jesus saves

when i was

mbrazfield (c) 2020

in a room 1942 there i stood walking slow lights aglow in silent agony

across my street i heard the feet of the walkers in the dark

my eyes they’d dart inside and out of those walls that did contain me

on my lips a hunger creeped that caused my throat to scream in silence

and in these halls the books do hold the history of everything

my arms they mourn that he is gone away from the safety of my hold

and in this home i live alone because outside there stands the lie that is the bane of my existence