paging Dr. Burroughs, Dr. Burroughs please…

WS i don’t feel that well tonight

       the stars are covered in dust and grime

and the corner store doesn’t have the Windex i like

    i’ve listen to Thelonius on Bluetooth

          and Ravel’s Bolero till the landlady came

to shut me up     it wasn’t even that loud

          i struggle Billy Bull Baby  i see you

  in dreams of course with your suits and balding

               beautiful head  but your brain really turned me on

  i’ve been going back and forth for three days whether i should           

                           go to Daikokuya’s for a ramen bowl but i just don’t have the gumption

             i think i’m depressed again  the tears run like Jesse Owens  and i have no interest in making

                                         them stop

W  im in head first in the Interzone of my own doing

                 for hours i sit on the kitchen counter

looking out for the little brown birds who eat the last

        pomegranates of the winter    and wonder where the

first half part of my life went             but i worry more

    that i have no specific certainty where my last half is                             

                             going

   can you read me a bed time story   my favorite is “Green Eggs

                 and Ham”     

work by mbrazfield 2001

a genesis with a Dada twist

in the beginning when She did pick oxygen carbon hydrogen and nitrogen and He did stir the clay with hot holy essence all the words in the world were at a finger’s length beyond my reach

so close they were that i then leapt out of the nest of my pink blue galaxy and into the pavement of down town LA the words they did follow in time i’d pluck tiny words for tiny worries and the Nephilim smiled for they knew i was falling

in love with the charge of turning the misery hatred pain starvation violence and rape of it all into the beauty found on the hem of the robe of the Goddess and the wing of a humming bird

that’s reaching for the higher hanging words drenched in the nectar from the Tree of Knowledge i strung them up to detail the anatomy of a broken heart with its crystal shards wrapped in Cleopatra’s linens sanctimoniously tucked away in a Payless shoe box atop an urban closet shelf

of the condemned building in the bosom of desperation and the pool in eyes of children stack did i those words like bricks made of powder to bring the kingdoms down and with the rabble of defeat as i burnt down i built up a nation of wordsmiths

who with their quills pens papyrus key boards tablets and marketing firms wait gingerly drinking lattes on the Stratford Upon Avon wicker chairs

that my English teacher said she dusted for the scribes who mused the signs letter symbols into the dendrites of my mind but not before Allen Will Bill Jack Hank Dylan Langston Lou Bowie Leonard and Ms. Angelou were anointed and leaving me with words less spoken