in one twenty twenty one

they the prophets write
words chilling to think all through
numb symbols of prole

could it be they be
saviours with synthetic inks
prayers that result

mbrazfield (c) 2020

tragedy smiling
far out into the clouds go
fumes of redemption

season of promise
idols showing their true forms
flowers in the eyes

mother of pearl moon
tonight the uncertainty
oozes out surely

forrest for the trees

photo by Rob Banks (c) 2020

world at his fingertips
the wires carry all
the borders of time
broken at hyper speed
win a race with out tracks
his eye artificially at a glance
megabytes of dying ghosts
of any host the mark
godly hands to drill us in
when all is lightning sting
dust nothing to breathe but

partial ballad for Pam and Jim

i once found him looking into my eyes holding my hands
he moved me to live to love to laugh
while the endless hoping
that my days will die fast
fuel the tomorrows that cast me into a grinding trap
i really wish i wouldn’t have to leave and pace back and forth between cold frontiers looking into darkness
the void is left

as limbo and i walk hand in hand exhausted

mbrazfield (c) 2020

hail to R Banks for conceptualizing and making this offering and picture possible love you so much

LA, into this state

raggaeton and Coronavirus-19 blues

seriously woke adverts from podcast sleuths

the AG and the Russia hoax

        MSNBC squealin’

          through the crumbling ozone

exclusive: thee gospel truth

     time doesn’t really matter?

     eight hundred and seventy-six days gulped Manafort

Prius glide bike lanes wide

             out-brake light-mine i’m from LA

                        bus lights

    frozen on Mulholland Drive

Ferrari high beams with movie directors’ wives

         Tupac karaoking in the car

              dope beats Dre interjectin’ more more more

memories of seven fo

                and the deep state goody two shoes ruse begins

                              110 N   110 South   360 degrees

the president in forced space

                behind JFK’s refurbished desk

         listening to no one but Fox and Friends

vice president boxing the Fauci and Birx bunch

“Let us love as Jesus has {LOVED?}us.”

                   the archbishop says

yo yo yo!?! does that mean we’re all dead…

                   gentrification gentrification

               where’s that old voucher to my section-8

extension the PJ’s are not communes like Marx’s mandate

         meth toad croaks in the trailer park door instead

                       sweaty poisons seeping into

     the young collective American soul

        finest tit slash bleach job i ever did see

skyscraper floor path paved with our correctly approved recepticled trash

        while our slogan puffed chests

at the pride we have at the graves we have filled

      behind dumpsters of the riche through their guerilla     


            as we parade around the good done deeds

the mayor walks those very grounds were 30 years ago

     the epidemic shunned back then

                          but walked for now

               took most of my loves forever due to their failure to conform

                                    now today in my home town America-LA country broken down to her                 


yes Cabal we are openly and freely international with an

    admiration for cowboys rudeboys and all the girls in the     


 coexisting vegan meat eater howlers in the night

           blues and reds never got us right

media giants you’re wrong as fuck about us

                we the people of the Westside coast

              Chuck wearers Mariachi trumpets duo with Miles                     

                         kung fu swinging farmers markets our neighborhoods by far were never anything ‘Little’

                 Hogs ride wild all the Angels of this Nation

want to say:

               America have a very happy birthday

to the sweatshop workers who get paid a dime

               and to the Chili Peppers the music makers of this  bad ass LA house

         let us not forget the discarded freedom fighters who stand in the soup lines

      all the kids made from God’s rainbow flag of color

               and the school babies hanging out at Food 4 Less selling candy bars for a dollar

                 to Kim Soo at my favorite barbecue

    and of course Hadib where i used to buy my tokes

            and Dona Adelita at the corner with her folks

      LaTifah and Darryl who teach me about the Sheppard JC

            AJ from the Lakota Nation a Captain America

                  comic book fiend

  and all of my liberal left hook right wing swing coffee house


          let the lights tonight be strong and free

     reflecting from Dodger stadium to the ferociously tame

               surface of the Silver lake man made designer reservoir

California Covid sun

following the gray marbled filigree of last month’s mud on sidewalk downtown farmers market hot with California Covid sun

the cherries look tempting but the purple Peruvian potatoes go great with olive oil pink salt and cumin my face tightly masked chewing the fat with the book vendors afoot offering their home address for their monthly ‘hope we get laid’ poetry reading salon

then the urban crows catch my eyes they with E A Poe smiles rainbow oil slick feathers shine under that California Covid sun

Dr. TL tongue tab flash back dream hits me like a polar breeze suddenly there is baby Grady golden brown moppy hair blue Keds size three and an uncle with soldier rough hands smiling at me

no sooner than a tear peeks into my water line a sonic whistle from Spring Street punctures my loser mind Lola Ramirez on the weekends and Manny Sandoval during the MF 9 to 5 she a purple paisley mu mu gold earrings and Michael Kors sack me black t shirt with the face of Siouxsie Sioux paper Trader Joe’s bag both aging X’ers under that California Covid sun

Lola and i float to the flower stand and her throat crooned in a Yucatanian Spanish slang enchanting and schmoozing the vendors so i get to pay ten bucks for a 50 dollar assorted calla lily bunch

the 4 am 3 cup Turkish coffee buzz wore off and dull knife pain from old injuries descend upon my left arm so i shared a dream that a cool boy once had while Lolita and me sipped iced black pressed molassesed coffee under that California Covid sun