little generational differences

laughing a little in the dream i had a roasted turnip with paprika for breakfast maybe that’s it it’s noon on Alpha Omega how does that work for you there is loneliness in her jeer but she keeps at me i’m not beautiful like a spring breeze i’m not delicate like a feather i cannot be a ballerina with two stone feet i am nothing and i cannot write pretty words like the zenith is your eyes i write rusted words like hurt me with your tongue knife and my ideas weigh like mercury on mars but she the Venus does not mind when i do her bidding our way of seeing life is very different i smitten with the downtown proletariat she with uptown well to do’s i can’t believe you are my daughter i know i say that i agree with you it’s too late momma i’m half way gone it’s best this way no hard feelins’ right i know punctuation and the grammar rules real fine but my lips shoot out the poisons thought of in my heart perhaps if reincarnation does abide the cosmic rules she’s supposed to follow i will come back as a super model just for you but now you’re gone and i see you in the clouds above in periwinkle linen and jewels the color of God’s eyes i heard you mother all of our unhappy life together and while on earth your words did bite me i also learned to use their teeth to cut my noose i ran away and did it my way it nearly killed me too but rest assured that in your way as a mother that you were your raising helped me through

three sun girl

at seven months utero blue washroom

the fists pummeled my mother’s face

she never knew i felt it too

in 71’ there was a great earth quake

they ran out and left me in

she never thought i felt it

a tiny tot no older than three suns

the girl with more suns you left me with

shoved my little hands and face

into her secret universes

nobody cared that forcefully i ate them

often told to talk about the greatness

of your perfection as a guide

remind me if you can what were your triumphs

with this backwards crazed unparentble child

other than your abandonment

for many years and as i developed into a self defined

grotesqueness of abomination

taught by the punks the junks and queers

they are my kind they know about the record

not knowing then what i know now

this feeling i snorted it in chugged it

down with lots of gin that other feeling

i shot it up to the Lord above and took it

in the front and back from any boy as lost as i was

i took the punches curses put downs and secrets

too unsavory for the family name sake

there was a time when i yelled fuck you to

everyone around i cut the cord called you both whores

and headed into town and here i stand until the

end that nears upon me nuzzling my throat

with words in nature cleansing

i now move up one more step of wisdom

understanding that the spark of love for you

unrequited as it was never tainted

the three sun girl can go to rest

her eyes no longer brimmed with tears but hope

Figaro’s

he asked why do you keep her picture there in the drawer swallowing hard i realize that you were my mother more physically beautiful than any woman i’d ever seen no makeup no artificialness in any way i lied and i said oh i don’t know looking out the window at the bus stop i opened the drawer a few more times and there you remained stoic and frozen in your place as he gnawed at the steamy pepperoni pizza hot pocket and scratched his sack he yelled why don’t you put it in a frame and fear broke out in a sweat a slight vertigo took me and i rubbed my head looking for a hit he yelled again and saw what i was jonesing for he says nope not today lets go to the art store instead we dressed in American drag t-shirted leathered and jeaned he held my hand and missed my forehead kissing my aviators instead are you mad he asked i says no and think quickly about the flamingos at the zoo and the empty dark brown bottles of Kilkenny i left in the bus stop trash can two hours ago my feet feeling disconnected from my soul i says no i won’t go and he turns around to see me i can’t keep her in a frame it would be the ultimate betrayal she was Opa’s favorite until she met my Da and ran away with him imprisoned by her vanity and steadfast love for a man of misery determined to be his only queen on the backs of everybody she had to win but death did not agree what are you spewing about never mind i said i can’t keep her in a frame all her life she was held back by her thoughts expectations disappointments and aggressions even her people wandered the deserts and were rounded up in box cars as the evil ripped out their spirit and put them in cages i forgot he said but she’d like a frame she was always a refined lady as he smiled apologetically and the homeless guy with a grateful dead t-shirt on was handed a bologna sandwich by the salvation army guy as we detoured into Figaro’s Bistrot instead

private runt

another flame in the distance of a repetitious page

alarms my blood into a flow of fast thinking

she comes in the storm of her own pain

a slow thick fear the only match i have to counter

i now know not to longer linger by the crusted ashtrays

or lean on their solid walls of past injurious indiscretions

but rather crawl out of the darkness of the closet

a charming foxhole a Neverland of sorts with Barbies GI Joes

water colors and a one eyed teddy bear called Mike

after the storm lulls herself to sleep

and the lightening goes to some other town

to launch his cowardly thunder

we are all less than triumphant in dignity and resolution

and when all is calm the mirror under the storm

confirms that there is life yet

another successful recon mission

a blue awareness baptizes me

today i survived again

and am still breathing for a home

where did Opa go

accordions were not of import to me

until you were no longer there

the caramel and gray plaid La-Z-Boy chair

sat gaping at the ceiling wondering as i was

where did Opa go

we didn’t really talk no one taught me how

instinctively you knew though

that i loved your oversized navy blue trousers

and your red suspenders

except for the lederhosen not my style

regret burns hotter at night

while i sit silently on the kitchen counter

alone in the dark sometimes with pained wrists

and old cracked ribs dislocated in my youth

sit along beside me good times

where did Opa go

time rippled down your face

porcelined and freckled

both by illness and by cure

you would stare at mom’s cat

as the din of Lawrence Welk

seemed to echo from the corners of the room

where did Opa go

remember when i was 13

my socks were old and dingy

five sizes too big

and as you shook your head

you took out $50 from your wallet

and motioned me to get new socks

i just shrugged and smiled

turning my back on you

Mutta’s fancy mirror

stabbed me with

your puzzled dewey face

at my ignorant rejection

why did i let go

Opa

204 months

stars

and

peace magic

the Tip O’Neil

years latch key cutie big

eyed wild eurotrash bastard child in the days

of secret punk band shows underage law breaking a menace to the lawns

the paint on my tiny nails chewed down to the stubs scratching like a cat on the urban totem hey ho

no go not tonight the breeze cooled by something in my heart the hocus pocus speaks in tongues the snakes charm themselves to the crowds and through my throat i swallow 10 inch nails

smokey cries old men die but come again tomorrow with light bulbs in their hands of poison from the gods made with resin from the Tree of Life and so we are like them only for a while until the mercenaries come asking for our ransom in the faces who just won’t give a fuck

our communal star doesn’t point to the north but rather to a place that’s nowhere we could have been babies in the manger with the beasts to keep us warm but my momma was no virgin and your old man joe the drunkard rolling stone left to follow an alice cooper homage band i miss the days of after school of which i hardly went and a chance to interpret Shakespeare at our leisure the stars we caught when we swung high are still there and we beneath them

photo mbrazfield

abreagieren

my mother and my father would fight about the air around them or about Jimmy Carter and about their marital problems tired old words leadless bullets that i took for them a meek child called to be King Solomon at 4 the trees and blocks and baby dolls were not enough to free me from the painful heavy feeling in my post toddler soul an orphan in the house of everything meaningless clean sanitary and paid for but not love i had 30 pieces of silver 7 times more and i kissed no one and no one kissed me when i bruised my knees or when the Armenian kids beat me up after school or when i cut the rope and wandered off into the womb of my city the yellow brick road didn’t exist but there were miles and miles of pavement where gentle hands and toothless grins had my best interest at times and at times i grew up the hard way but between stolen 4th of July Fireworks shows OD visits to the ER home cooked waffles at Astrid’s house boys with rainbows in their eyes and a few good angels i learned how to love

coy

paint

pavement

sacred there

in the pond

on the daily traveled sidewalks

in motion forever being touched with no feeling

i see how beautiful you are comfort for the industrial spawn city child

your orange backs stop my steps from going too far without smiling in the bleakness of the day waving docile fins

your jewel backs charming treasure afterthought of the straggler in the mood of the times scientology across the street while the bed bugs do battle cry by the patisserie of my distant sullied youth

in the pavement my eyes the news of the day beguiles to think that in your face there might be happiness

around you go with the brothers in the dark pool of my mind

i walk against a tide of lukewarm panic

no Buddha’s cloak can hide

the past that

keeps me

forced

inside

Photo m brazfield street stencil artist unknown

mashed potatoes

mornings are hard when you know you’ll have to be with people with lots of soul pain. the typical refrigerated store air nipped at my nose as i trudged to the coffee line. Larry  read the hospital paperwork poking out of his coat pocket with the torn leather elbows.

Larry had probably seen Halley’s Comet twice. he wore a blue plaid shirt with faux mother of pearl snaps, black dickies and steel toes. he had a decently robust head of hair, silvery with a darker shade of gray streaking towards the back. per chance when his brain cells had a more cordial relationship amongst themselves, he might have been only assigned to crafts requiring brawn and handy work. his face was anglo. blue eyed, long and thin, perhaps an Irish boy.

     he had steady hands. a little calloused, but one could tell that he’d done his fair share of manual labor and partook in bare knuckle bar brawling, often. his dull downward stare declared days fleeted away full of insults, dukers’ blows and abysmal marks where many tears had corroded away at the spirit. all, of course, to the voice of Patsy Cline in the background. broken spirits usually have the ability to sit graciously across from a chair full of spilled coffee or possibly the Devil as well. no one paid attention so the old man introduced himself to the arabica soaked nothingness sitting at his table.

     ‘i know how to make mashed potatoes. you can’t leave the skin on, otherwise they don’t taste good.’ Larry abruptly spat out his directions to the emptiness in front of him. he had a good tone, not raspy or squeaky, kinda’ like if John Wayne and Bogey had a baby. ‘you put the butter in after you mashed them sons-of-bitches up real good! but the butter has to be soft, otherwise the potatoes taste fake.’ i relished in his pronunciation and perfect punctuation.

     distracted by the buzzy voice overhead blazing the $5 specials the old man then looked at me. turning slighty pink Larry smiled and quickly began to wipe the table down as he stuttered and apologized. i smiled and offered my extra napkins. together two bruised souls sopped up a mutual figurative mess.

i think im Hamlet tonight

pain at sunrise can cost a slight loss of mind. angry and melancholy like the crazy Hamlet. i think of actions and confusion of morality. i’m a villain to myself. i am fearful that God has gone by me super-fast, like when it’s too late to move your car when the parking ticket lady is writing the ticket. solitude and desperation of heart and soul can make one see things in a past that one never had and the reality of the future 5, 10, 30 minutes is too frightening. time grows stale at dawn. Griffith Observatory is oh so far away but down the street from where i live. the young folks are out being hip and smart in the world. i wonder if when they are as old as i am will they inherit my thoughts as they breathe my CO2 as they are doing now. i fear for us i fear for me for i am much more of a coward than they. they are still blissful in their youth and i am subjected by my wisdom of what is to come at dusk. time grows short and it comes in spurts, like my bloody noses and stories and such. maybe God will come my way again like the bus on the stop that forks in the road at sunset.