Mental Health Crisis

cicatrix

/ mbrazfieldm / 10 Comments

it’s best if we sigh now

oh life for all of my days

you still haunt me

you just a state of neurological being

but you life you have gotten in my blood

no other place is better

i was conceived old

my thoughts Gemini to Don Quixote

and in times of desperation

i’ve gone blindly into battle too

just a shit head little cunt

from the city of LA

but fuck, fuck i say

you and i sister tough old bitch

we still stand

on the corners and the roofs

we too sit in the high life cafes

and the rat infested flop house bars

to tell old drunk sailors but not of Navy type

of how we got our scars

rape intoxication politics aggravation

education isolation insanity warm sun shine

loneliness love devotion twisted words

beatings in the dark making love on the sand

injecting poisons til the boils could hold no more

rode in the ambulances

mourning flat-lined blue lipped boys

ah life i am yours and no one else’s

when sitting by the ponds the koi fish

bubble up asking for my orange cheese crackers

every so often i can shed a few tears

when the coroner loads one of us into their van

never knowing who they were

but knowing that they’ll go to heaven

but my favorite scar by my cupids bow

when my face got smashed on the garage asphalt floor

so many fears and rage at the same time

and the pictures of my mother

lost on my travels with no paradigms

the scars in my heart

i keep those inside

some demons are best left

to the annals of the mind

now my friend lover spouse and enemy

we’ve walked down the path

that’s led us close to the horizon

of twilight and as much as i want to lay down to rest

and ponder your meaning and flick ashes on the floor

i realize that i’ve been just another story

at times screaming off my head

another woman scarred

by the significance

of nothing in your eyes

JC and the milk crate dancer

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

i’m so tired of being an addict i hate having to travel on Temple Street but all the signs are good Our Lady of Angels Greg Laurie Harvest Stickers car plates chock full of hearts and tiny hands instead of numbers letters they’re all messages from high up i’m cool i can handle this there’s the Déjà Vu Club who cares i don’t worry about chasing my fixations into there

what am i saying do i really feel safe walking down this damn street full of crazy assholes trying to get to the nearest bar why don’t i lay on one of these benches and just stay still damn it and what’s all this taking bumper stickers and 158 year old buildings as a sign that anything or anyone for that matter is cool

it’s comforting to me ok i know how anal i can get about that stuff not that anyone cares better yet not that anyone would ever suspect that a loser like me even thinks about her soul so why worry about it i can’t control my thoughts my fleeting humming bird mind

hmmm on the other hand lemme be a devil’s advocate do i ever feel like texting my people and telling them if i ever have to drop everything and everyone and give my life and soul and everything else and die in the name of and for Jesus would i do it

my heart says yes i guess you can’t be lukewarm its yes or no yes yes i would i don’t have anything in the world to lose but man yes yes i would

sounds a lot like i’m trying to convince myself that would mean leaving everyone and everything i love behind leaving the world I know for the unknown i’m crystal clear on that right

yes i am it’s the only thing that i am sure of look i don’t have anything to offer that’s original or universe shattering i can choose to be nice humble sacrifice all whatever etc but that my fucked up little mind is merely revolutionary NOT UNIVERSE SHATTERING right but the outcome is unknown regardless now why do i think that because the recipients of my choices and deeds are people and people are human and humans aren’t perfect so by that rational it doesn’t matter a flying rats ass what  do or don’t or believe or don’t my heart says do it jump off the cliff step off the boat God will be there my puny runty tiny black worthless heart tells me that not brains or conscience uh no hard feelings ok my little fragile mind but that’s what i believe i was born with this belief i can’t shake it shoot it out cut it off chemo it beat it it’s in me whether i want it or not i can’t even ignore it

besides a human would push me off the cliff and throw me off the boat in an episode of hysteria it’s just survival instinct who can blame them so i’d rather do it myself jump step off you know take hold of my own destiny captain of my soul whatever

then again it sounds like i’ve been watching too many Prophecy flicks so the church is sharing real estate with the strip joints do i think that’s funny do i think that juxtaposition by the freeway was there for me does it make me think deeply does it make me question morality hmmm

no not really i’m not special like that but if i look at it business wise being that this is Downtown Los Angeles the church gets its souls and tithes and the strip joint gets its saps and tips win win it’s all supply and demand my good woman

wow Adam Smith ‘Wealth of Nations’ who knew anyone could ever make a triangular connection between church titty bars and world economics freakin’ smart

well i do my worst thinking on the freeway ramps sorry but my decision stands firm can i turn off now my stream of consciousness is a big ass blinding light of a reminder in my eyeballs

what do i remind me of i’m just a stream of irrepressible and unimportant thought that no one can control remember

you remind me of where i am and i don’t want to be reminded at all let’s step off the milk crate now the sheriffs will be finding us soon enough

absolution

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

water cold serene

then the holy light appears

rebirth i am pure

dying between closing arguments

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luck

smitten

with few steps

happy with the

choices i have made they belong to me

unpopular turns delinquent alike

options were mine

judgmental

endings

are

just

that my

conviction

is steady all

ready to go come the wave of infernal

positioned to strike with white hot venom

for mercy and

dripping with

bloody

hand

dissecting the Geneva Convention

/ mbrazfieldm / 5 Comments

the summer is what it is here

the humidity clinging to my tired skin

like a crazy 50’s t.v. wife mockery

on Wall there’s the law and then there’s us

each side with glaring mutual understanding

that nothing is being done

no longer angels no longer devils

Gods gone fishing and they won’t be coming back

the species of Adam failed to keep their end of the

Covenant with Noah and Jesus holy shit what have we done

in life there is reason and there’s law

inside the soul there is right and there is wrong

inside the ego all is mine and nothing yours

on Koehler there is a man who doesn’t know he suffers

the fear he knows not himself prisoner of

the bio-hazardous ecosystem freedom gone awry

the filth the human shit the rage the insanity disease

the pain addiction poverty starvation piss trash

tears the waste of modern time

no longer get through the stains of a life

poorly lived or sorely wasted no logic

no feelings no rhyming no Kingdom will come

betwixt the cardboard and the shelter

the damage has been done

wage on me wage your wars

indifference is your nuclear weapon

middle c

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when the dirt on my shoes

starts to click the pavement

i go to the park

pray to the squirrels

bow to the trashcan

gambling that at the bottom

will be a half eaten idea

that i can sell

when the anger in my soul

starts to pound out my heart

i go to that tent

beg to the man

bow to the pipe

give away the music in my bones

for a hope that i will stop the pain

when there is a nowhere and no rainbow

and my shadow trades places with me

i go in my head

get lost in the wave

of no way out symphonies

so i turn in for the day

to welcome in the tepid night

and wait for that clicking to begin

et ecce mulier

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omnipotent dawn shawled in gray and pink delicately kisses her on her scarred forehead as it rests against the bus bench advertising the most prestigious real estate agent in town while seven nylon bags each with a logo from a market or a high end store warehouse her last prized belongings one ragged blue Nike sneaker and paper cups filled with grime a broken clock and red wires

militant she is in body in mind she could be anywhere beyond the stars when she smiles the image in her eyes reveal the fires from hell in a most delicate green other times she sings in laughter and waves hello across the sky to the graces never seen by human eyes the locals with finery of wear wonder why she’s there and crown her as a public nuisance not meant to be part of this community there is just too much of a great divide between her prophecy and their brittle decaying reality

look the lawmen arrive she’s more despised and made to carry her belongings down Dolores St. and then the dusk with iron claw he comes and she can’t run away from the hand of fair and righteous rule the goodly people have unanimously decided through tax forms and priority that she must go away the jury wash their hands for the people have spoken and so she takes her fate with a tired brave face not understanding the hate or what she did and where it got her

for three days she’s placed on a hold prodded with instruments of scorn and judgment pleading for her thirst to be mollified she’s forced to take bitter pills as the keepers of the places gamble on her kismet now she’s subdued her gown is sheared down to her contorted waist lacerated feet and hands are tied to the bed of loveless nails for the sake of the most upstanding people’s protection system

Ma Joad’s great grand daughter

/ mbrazfieldm / 4 Comments

mud

coolness

green cricket

calls to the soul

primordial waste

spirit shredded woven

in the skin of the leper

i’ve become night hangs loosely poor

lacking luster my lady shoes not

good enough to walk the sidewalks of the

chosen fools who speed holiness away

my gown humble with the dirt of work

hands clasped in riot darkly hid

elbows turned upright gaping

for fluids of defeat

social sunshine glares

upon my lips

without a

tragic

face

try

mighty

sinner smile

at least look to

the west of Hope street

and the pillars under

the court house of the fake lights

at the steps of public health signs

and with divine encrusted begging

bowl nee five dollar coffee paper cup

we ask again tonight and through the day

for gentle rain across my face gone

away with sorrow full with blown

out stars gazing through the soul

of infant time and sin

seeped through secret holes

in skies hazy

with sanguine

guilty

stain

sa
photo courtesy of Hélène – Willow Poetry

waif

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death

cover

me no rest

blind darkness thrive

in the garden hidden past the mountain

fold my arms atop my chest and walk off

temperature

cold and dry

country

of

mine

where have

you gone from

your wild child free

but lost to fences that strike my soul shut

i don’t see the stars any longer light

anyone’s way

before night

one last

kiss

Carol

/ mbrazfieldm / 14 Comments

Carol was trying to find a few cigarette butts to gut out to make a whole cigarette although she wasn’t a smoker she’d sell them to her neighbors in the tent next door for fifty cents with her thin arms and micro wrists she’d toil for a couple of weeks to raise enough money to go to the flower store on Los Angeles street and buy her parole officer a single rose or sometimes two or three red carnations i had met Carol while i was in high school at that time she was in her thirties she befriended me at People’s Store asking me about my perfume on account that she liked it i was a young punk and i told her that i wasn’t wearing any and walked off Carol stood there looking confused but the guilt gnawed at my chest and i could feel my ears turning hot and red i told my friend to go home and i walked backward a few steps toward Carol as i turned to her i mumbled at  her that i was sorry for blowing her off and offered her my snickers bar she lit up and said thanks kid but i’d rather have some of that beer you have in your back pack i froze and denied having anything in my bag although i knew damned well i had a bottle of Daniels i didn’t like beer we both smiled knowing each other’s truth in bullshit every now and again i’d go looking for her with water bottles canned food and the occasional AJ note if i could spare it we talked about DTLA and Skidrow Carol laughed and i watched her and then she started to tell me about her family out in Virginia Carol had been a victim of many unspeakable things my relationship with Carol lasted for about three years or so her sanity was remarkable but as time went on  it became unbearable to watch her sleep during the day in the summer LA heat her legs were encrusted with months of dirt and when i stared long enough at the splotches they were almost artistic or hieroglyphic in a way i stopped visiting for a few months to reckon with my own demons when i returned it was during spring time and Carol did not recognize me i found her on the corner of 6th and Wall squatted down bare footed picking peas out of a tin can with half a label that read Springfield by her feet was an old pill bottle that read Retrovir a few cigarette butts and a mangled how to live with HIV pamphlet