esta noche

rosewood arm wrapped tight

moon slice robin egg blue black freckles

beyond the shadow of the spider’s web silvery dew hangs

the heart stopped years ago so quiet it is the invisible steps of the spiders weaving up their net amplified in the violet breeze

my glance molded inside the grip of the cup bitter and heavy

life weeps through the slits of my old old eyes

breath too weak to move spider threads evaporates into a darkness

mbrazfield (c) 2020

bench to Nod

rest slips from
me not today she
said there is still work to be
done internally dive deep and see
sweet surrender colored weak continues to elude you the piece of eternity sliced for you is not yet served

mbrazfield (c) 2020

dogs of the 90’s

Spare Cock Amos had gone to Vegas for the weekend. I had his room all to myself if I wanted to stay there. I decided that this time I would play house.

Jeremiah was a bullfrog, etc. The song oozled out of the broken down radio. First the laundry. I put in the entire box of Tide; when Tide just smelled like Tide. I spent my roll of quarters doing one load. The suds were kinda’ thick. Drying was still a dime so I was successful at that.

Heading back to the room Bryan Boyle was waiting outside of SC’s room. He was sweaty and lost.

“Hey.”

“Oh is Amos here, I gotta talk to him bad. I need to talk to him, is he here?”

“Naw.”

“Fuuuuuccccckkkkkk, whadda ya mean he ain’t here, I need to talk to him!”

“Sorry man, he’s gone for the weekend. I’m just crashin’ before I take off. Heidi’s home though she might be able to help.”

I walked into the room and placed the clean linens on an old arm chair. Bryan had teleported off into outer space universe open wide on this arm chair on other occasions.

Turning to listen with intent to the guy on the radio drinking his bullfrog friend’s wine, I couldn’t help but wonder if Heidi had an arm chair too. Heidi despised me on account I couldn’t like her the way she wanted me to.

I got around to changing the bed and dusted some picture frames. Amos came from a good looking family. Groaning and door slamming could be heard. Heidi refused Bryan. I should have told him not to mention my name.

Joy to the fishes. The chair bothered me. It was the junk bunk. I rode it myself a few times. I felt shame. This shame was different than the other shame. The one you feel over something that happened that you couldn’t prevent. The chair, the junk, the Cecil were preventable. I had chosen to fuck up. I wondered what kind of shame Bryan felt, if any.

Bang, bong, ping, bap.

“Heeeyyy! Open the door that bitch called the cops!!”

Sheepish creak.

“Sorry man.”

Bryan sobbed and with his back to the door frame just slid down to the floor.

“I give up.” He slobbered.

“Dude, man you’ll be ok.”

I knelt beside him. His surfer shirt torn at the hems. Little yellow and pink hula girls and turquoise surfboards 3D’ed at me like flashing acid.

My heart broke as tears rolled down his chubby baby cheeks. The rain finally came. We both perked up at the opened window at the end of the hallway. Wet concrete and drunk piss wove an aromatic melody. Joy to Bryan and a little to me. City rain; we knew it well.

We talked on the floor for hours. Just about dreams and normal things and rock and roll. Sure he picked at his arms and cried a little here and there, but Bryan lived a little.

my way…

spare cock Amos had gone to Vegas for the weekend i had his room all to myself if i wanted to stay there i decided that this time i would play house

Jeremiah was a bullfrog etc the song oozled out of the broken down radio first the laundry i put in the entire box of Tide when Tide just smelled like Tide i spent my roll of quarters doing one load the suds were kinda’ thick drying was still a dime so i was successful at that

heading back to the room Bryan Boyle was waiting outside of sc’s room he was sweaty and lost

“hey”

“oh is Amos here i gotta talk to him bad i need to talk to him is he here”

“naw”

“fuuuuuccccckkkkkk whadda ya mean he ain’t here i need to talk to him”

“sorry man he’s gone for the weekend i’m just crashin’ before i take off Heidi’s home though she might be able to help”

i walked into the room and placed the clean linens on an old arm chair Bryan had teleported off into outer space universe open wide on this arm chair on other occasions

turning to listen with intent to the guy on the radio drinking his bullfrog friend’s wine i couldn’t help but wonder if Heidi had an arm chair too Heidi despised me on account i couldn’t like her the way she wanted me to

i got around to changing the bed and dusted some picture frames Amos came from a good looking family groaning and door slamming could be heard Heidi refused Bryan i should have told him not to mention my name

joy to the fishes the chair bothered me it was the junk bunk i rode it myself a few times i felt shame this shame was different than the other shame the one you feel over something that happened that you couldn’t prevent the chair the junk the Cecil were preventable i had chosen to fuck up i wondered what kind of shame Bryan felt if any

bang bong ping bap

“heeeyyy open the door that bitch called the cops”

sheepish creak

“sorry man”

Bryan sobbed and with his back to the door frame just slid down to the floor

“i give up” he slobbered

“dude man you’ll be ok”

i knelt beside him his surfer shirt torn at the hems little yellow and pink hula girls and turquoise surfboards 3d’ed at me like flashing acid

my heart broke as tears rolled down his chubby baby cheeks the rain finally came we both perked up at the opened window at the end of the hallway wet concrete and drunk piss wove an aromatic melody joy to Bryan and a little to me city rain we knew it well

we talked on the floor for hours just about dreams and normal things and rock and roll sure he picked at his arms and cried a little here and there but Bryan lived a little

roman candle

snow fire light thunder the hummingbird speaks

the peacocks have been here for all time just their beauty royal blue tears

heart desires stretching reaching for infinite nothing it seems

i stare the moon frowns at me a spotlight on my shame most gracious lady my eyes downturn

pain and mystery are beautiful holy at times demonic only at someone else’s pleasure

if He wept at His abandonment who then am i to complain

agonizing rainbow look me in the eyes roses die in mid December

that all of treasure’s soul lays bare the blood not on the spear this time but splattered all to see

that a twisted existence didn’t always weave and the past a few exceptions made

that leads me to this Maypole game where spirit and soul are sewn into the coat of many colors

to light the sky in flames of glory and my spark to soar on angels’ arms

for Hunter S

ojo de venado

for the most part

this Spring has been bland

the honeysuckle doesn’t woo me

the curiosity has dried from my heart i don’t read how i used to

Bad Brains or the good Reverend Horton Heat don’t sound to me like they used to way back when

there is an apostate strand of DNA to the right of my interior

the witching hour sticks at me like when Ladd Jr soccer kicked a wasps nest

i’m weak and can’t believe anymore my demons know they’re close to laughing last

my molars are ground down tear ducts parched i don’t have mercy for me

God i can’t feel You next to me how lost i feel tonight

there is a world that got away the war is done but i’m still trapped in this fucking battle

numb and cursed moss eyed doe i think i’ve plucked my own eye out

perhaps it’s just nature and my time has come to grow a beard

perhaps Noemi has gone away her angel’s don’t sit and play poker smoking big cigars like she said

it’s 4:37 am

no one wants me nor do they wish me anything any which way

click

strike

lit

gurgle

pour

clink

suck

blow

gulp

there’s an Aztec sunrise ceremony on channel 2

my belief in magic’s gone

black nail polish

quiet afternoon sunny beyond the window lemon trees surrounded by weeds and a hummingbird at the flower my stereo’s on low but playing hard old time country music human nature tortured love etc Serge Gainsbourg starts to cum through on my airwaves my tangled roots stars of David in my eyes although there really has never been anything royal about my life Trader Joe’s tamales red hot steamy from the microwave ping ping ping my mother’s veil and daddy’s trail of buxom broken hearts the colors bleed the auras peek out around my shut tight eyes then the time arrives when i don’t give a shit and i paint my eyes my mood and my nails black

speed metal hiidiin buree

early on laying on the warm gray beach with tiny fleas hopping from foam bubble to foam bubble my cheek is tanned by the white ash sun then i see him long black hair chains everywhere eating rice balls and drinking Heineken my thoughts wonder off to speed metal a sea gull zips down to take a piece of Twinkie from my hand the shore it lays tranquil divider of land primordial real estate agent the music in the waves loud clanking slow motion at high speed the Buddha with sun glasses spread out on Venice beach uneasy vibes orient depress let’s chant for new year but awareness comes from remote controls he’s done with rice balls Lama of my dreams Leonard Cohen can you hear me look to the sea my third eye boils my peace upside down hearing the call of awareness while being chained to madness and the singing elephants trample by

in regards to Foghat

At 21, I didn’t know two things; how I got through 4 years of college and who played “Slow Ride.” But grunge was growing on me and I still had Miles and Monk, maybe a little Ginger Baker in between.

I also didn’t know what to do other than just ‘party.’ Code for self medicating and wasting life away on account of being lost in the City of Angels.

I was of the streets; my family had good bones, some education, jobs, the normal shit. I didn’t, however we were all lost together but galaxies apart.

I’d walk listening to the organically mechanical jazz of the city. Notes of deep blue pain, orange notes of sorrow, pink notes of hope and black atomic scary love oozing out of the trumpets heralding our demise. Us, all walks of life, us in that beautifully grotesque melting pot of angst.

Needless to say the bad crowd fell into me. I was high functioning, a sweetheart, and functioning high. My world was slow motion in a fast velocity world. Things came seemingly easy. I could crash at the Cecil, I was a regular at King Eddie’s, where everyone didn’t care.

I raised clenched fists, joined the movements in all languages, I was smart. I read, dissected, recollected and debated. Painted, sculpted, drank it and smoked it.

At 22 I started to suspect that in all of my boundlessness I was deeply ensnared in something I had lost sight and perspective of long, long ago. Slow ride. Taken roughly and fast, fast, fast. There was this pain, a loneliness tangled up with self loathing. I had failed. It was complicated. I wanted it to be a dream, but it wasn’t. Like the rest of my human kin I wanted to feel, but I was a coward. Defeat was a drag and at times I thought if I climb down from that upside down cross it could turn very ugly. Rage they called it. I called it ‘why did they.’ I might be able to utter it someday.

It would be two years before grad school. Two years of mayhem. I like the way that sounds. It’s cool. The reality of it is pathetic and sad.

I continually looked for the Fibonacci sequence in their eyes; for reason, for answers to questions I had no idea about. In my life, meaning had lost itself particularly when roles had to be played well to keep up appearances.

Perhaps that’s why I loved the Cecil, the humanity between its walls. The smells, the dust, filth, cheap glamour, the innovation and the sheer will to survive. These where the substances of the gods. In the sterile houses in the hills nothing clung but spiritual death. Their emptiness was empty for empty’s sake. At the Cecil we had been gutted at different points in our lives so all we could do was gasp. And sometimes sing ourselves to sleep. The ride was slow at first then my wheels fell off.

my way…

at 21 i didn’t know two things how i got through 4 years of college and who played “Slow Ride” but grunge was growing on me and i still had Miles and Monk maybe a little Ginger Baker in between

i also didn’t know what to do other than just ‘party’ code for self medicating and wasting life away on account of being lost in the City of Angels

i was of the streets my family had good bones some education jobs the normal shit i didn’t however we were all lost together but galaxies apart

i’d walk listening to the organically mechanical jazz of the city notes of deep blue pain orange notes of sorrow pink notes of hope and black atomic scary love oozing out of the trumpets heralding our demise us all walks of life us in that beautifully grotesque melting pot of angst

needless to say the bad crowed fell into me i was high functioning a sweetheart and functioning high my world was slow motion in a fast velocity world things came seemingly easy i could crash at the Cecil i was a regular at King Eddie’s where everyone didn’t care

i raised clenched fists joined the movements in all languages i was smart i read dissected recollected and debated painted sculpted drank it and smoked it

at 22 i started to suspect that in all of my boundlessness i was deeply ensnared in something i had lost sight and perspective of long long ago slow ride taken roughly and fast fast fast there was this pain a loneliness tangled up with self loathing i had failed it was complicated i wanted it to be a dream but it wasn’t like the rest of my human kin i wanted to feel but i was a coward defeat was a drag and at times i thought if i climb down from that upside down cross it could turn very ugly rage they called it i called it ‘why did they’ i might be able to utter it someday

it would be two years before grad school two years of mayhem i like the way that sounds it’s cool the reality of it is pathetic and sad

i continually looked for the Fibonacci sequence in their eyes for reason for answers to questions i had no idea about in my life meaning had lost itself particularly when roles had to be played well to keep up appearances

perhaps that’s why i loved the Cecil the humanity between its walls the smells the dust filth cheap glamour the innovation and the sheer will to survive these where the substances of the gods in the sterile houses in the hills nothing clung but spiritual death their emptiness was empty for empty’s sake at the Cecil we had been gutted at different points in our lives so all we could do was gasp and sometimes sing ourselves to sleep the ride was slow at first then my wheels fell off

flown

time sits condensed like grandpa’s old Valvoline tucked under the back porch steps

i’ve flown away from my soul this morning before the hummingbird came to mourn

the landing will happen later today when Ursula preps her beet salad i think that’s when it will happen

nodding trailing sinking from the surface tadpoles file in and soon enough will leap with a part of me

there i am i will paint now i can’t catch myself but there’s a little blue pain that aches to be laid out on rice paper from the kitchen drawer

mantodea

childhood pink cocoon

transforms into pale ashes

now praying mantis