Gabriel’s boulder

and with the flash of lightening my heart stopped the anguish of a thousand needles in my arms the guilt of surviving what others had not came to me in a night of bad dreams

it’s always by the river where there is pain and fear flanked by genuine love created like a diamond is through tons and years of pressure

in the dream its always cold like a movie with a storm showing something deeply wrong earning us that satan comes trotting to destroy us

the thunder speaks in deep cracks shooting through the canyons filled with rage pouring through the vessels of my soul in darkness my pupils open wide gaping for any light but my consciousness goes under

and that white flash slips through the glass again to retrieve me from catatonia’s grace and prick me with memories of all those years wasted by the river’s bed

the yellowing cranes

the riverbed is cool the cranes have a yellowish belly but are beautiful nevertheless there are bleached soda cans but the logos hang strong against the California sun i sit by the reeds and watch the Chinese couple dig in the mud for long lost jewels they explain the husband is originally from Kansas she says i watch on until pitch black leathery little birds with mean diamond tinged eyes and beaks yellow like egg yolks begin to crowd around catching tadpoles one stands on a mossy Takis bag on the trail bicycles travel north to south and vice versa i only see helmets from my shivering reeds somewhere by the train yard an old trash truck backfires and the mean little black birds lift up into the sky like a flamenco dancer’s skirt my eyes pause at the rim of Dodger stadium and out of nowhere my mind drags me to the summers eating sticky juicy watermelon slices with my sister as the grown ups drank howled and listened to the game on an old radio from their army days and now i wonder if they died knowing that some day i would be leisurely sitting by these LA River reeds sipping fancy tea watching treasure hunters and fancy bicycle helmets wiz by and are the yellowing cranes the souls of our lost boys from the Hanoi Hilton

falling feathers

black feather floating from the sky piercing gravity on it’s way to the ground where its little gray tips will be dampened with winter weep i stare at cranes by the river’s bed standing on a stick like leg waiting for the shooting stars for miles and years i’ve been right here looking up at falling feathers

mbrazfield (c) 2020

for Virgie

by the river

there’s a path

i bring her

coffee in the

morning and tell

her what the

day will task

at road’s end

i find her

home with little

dead flowers by

the door of

her secret world

no one sees

her no one

knows there are

many others that

walk through it

alone and never

say a single word

they smile and

sing and pray

the most melodious

and magic noises

from two toothless

lips do come

the black sparkle

in her eyes

uplifts the sting

in my own

pain as she

croons just for

me darlin’ never

lose your light

John

along the holy water hole

we stand and ponder leaving Baal

it cannot not be that simple

just a dunk in the pond

we stand and ponder leaving Baal

anointed in the river wave

anointed by eternal flame

re-birth as we kneel

pondering about leaving Baal

and then the Son comes to show us how

through shaky fingers you delivered, John

the One we left Baal for

July 4, 1981

in the grocery cart you find the frogs down by the river

                bending in the light to where

the Pacific Bell poles rot at the bottom

in the creek where all the vagrants pee

                  it’s not lady like to see those things

but i guess i can learn faster to just look

   lucidity in their feet as the cops roll bye quietly

                      looking at the river grounds

“shut up shut up shut up!” the mantra of the

            prophetic invisibles fighting to stay in the

                      black hole

by the river Frog-town groans and the little fire fluffs

    spark here and there like in Gustav’s serpents

but Chavez’ Ravine bullies the twilight with a salute to

                   the liberation on the fourth

and we are all out of innings               

Cain and the Trash Can

i think you are
wrong to stand in my
way. you seek to
destroy all that
is left in my brain.

i did kill a man
with blows from my hand.
fiercely to his bones
i ploughed.

i ripped out his
soul and threw it away
in a tin not too much
unlike you. i own this
nirvana of concrete and pain.

i watch all the sinners and i watch
all the saints on my
circadian treks. i am not lonely
in spite of my face for look
to my right there is my race.

unbeknown to them yet though
here i stand. they are nearing
the end of the bind.

soon i will
usher them to this abysmal entry.

where your soul goes

and the killing continues with the will
of their hand.

Quietude

singing songs of other

tongues at different times

throughout the night helps

the sadness fly away

the fall and deepened groans

cradle my dimming light

nobody comes with ancient signs

for me to watch and the notes dissipate

I thought I saw your aura flow

down by the river in the night

the foggy morning confused my

eyes and I stood there stung

by the beauty left behind

the gentle sway of how you bent

the hearts of rhythm in the

moon so tender

clay smelled pure this morning

as it grabbed on to my shoes

the dog in me waggled a little

in my heart

angels broken praise

in time the patch
roughens and flakes away
leaving a badge to remember
the lesson learned.

while not being ready yet,
choosing to fly won’t help
the break. alone in the canyon
a river dwindled and the
holy caves yawned forth.

a taxi stops around the corner
of time’s middle age;
insurance forms and medic aid
now fill the noons.

beauty is cold and superficial.
the birds are dead but stones
still keep the souls
of the soldiers kept in compounds.

the corridors bleed open.
the history a waste.
to hear the lonely aging,
to see them in my wake.

a closing unto open air;
the swallows make a nest.
the river thickens with the garbage
of angels’ broken praise.