holes of my salvation army

mbrazfieldm (c) 2024

i don’t want to be a Neruda love poem girl
i want my thoughts to be admired like the turquoise gold around the throat of a hummingbird
i don’t want a boy to be my knight in anything shiny valiant or stunning
i want him to see the blaze inside me through the holes of my Salvation Army black jeans

y que

mbrazfieldm (c) 2024

aquí estoy otra vez
magullada sangrienta venosa luchadora insaciable enojada y cansada
ciudad soy tu hija
golpeo peleo corro
a través de tus junglas de basura
con mis puños en mi corazón
causo estragos
cago en la injusticia
me parten los dientes por defenderte
pero madre, ¿dónde estás?
soy la saliva en el suelo de la taberna del trabajador
soy el sartén vacío en un callejón oscuro
soy el olor de la muerte en el poderoso dólar ciudad madre ¿dónde estás esta noche?
mis pies me sostienen frente al Hilton Biltmore Cecil Midnight Mission convertido en espejo perpetuo
los ojos de mi alma lloran seco y carmesí
pero me paro como tus raíces a través de la estrella guía de mi alma
a través de él más
yo soy tu gente
limpieza del río mosaico
mi dolor me colorea con un millón de tonos de guerra
soy tu hija
nuestra señora porciúncula
por vida y que

porra, papai

mbrazfield (c) 2024

some days were sad gray uneventful
most days were brutal confusing painful
rarely did we need or want to smile
the looks the words the anger the hate the ridicule the shame the blame the abandonment
marching on in my head time middle fingered me on my knees crawling on the tarmac of the road to hell paved with no intention
Mutter turned her head like a queen in agreement
i could not comprehend
where do i make sense
papai misguided man
leading dragging his daughter
slaughter wood chipper of life
but i’m grown now
your dice followed you to where you went
my words hushed heaven will never live here anymore Gehenna had bought the country
healing compassion empathy sympathy turning of the cheeks fasting sacrificing keeping score patronizing scarification complete spirit annihilation
i was never meant to be your Issac

high voltage

mbrazfield (c) 2021

let us praise sweet baby Jesus
for this liver of mine
these combat boots circa 1989
the fuck you nose in the air Lost Angelina flair
thank my lucky stars for me growing up between the nickel and old school Hollywood
i like a mold among the sparkly tinsel glow of all of those who have come and gone
but i am still here, ha!
and to the goodness let us thank you too for gifting me the shadows of Bukowski’s foot steps his words and his bungalows over on the east side
thank you universe for allowing me the courage or something to taunt my teachers with the scratching of my internal she balls
and my mohawk and knee scabs after countless drunken skateboard falls while attempting to take a calculus test
thank you God for the life You have let me have and the free will to let me feel the punching caresses of the days gone by