first tree in the palace

i believe it was last night or possibly the night before last
i don’t know it’s been about 53 hours off and on insomnia
watching news programs
no music
no music for about a week
feeling very tired
Christmas 2020 is upon us
i miss the world
i’m not sure what’s going on
i stepped outside
i saw the faces
covered muzzled no joy in their eyes
and i live among peoples who are very jubilant
my heart sank
last night or possibly the night before
the sickness came
cold sweat
tears
headache
heart jumping out of throat
fear irrational dark squeezing fear
i thought i had been dreaming about Queen Victoria and that first tree in the palace
i thought i felt the snow from Utah
i thought i smelled the stench from downtown
i thought i saw the lights from my Christmas tree go out
then i thought i saw Mary Magdalene touching my menorah
putting out its lights
when i was able to gather my soul and stuff it back down my throat
i sat at the edge of the bed
my cats trembling in the closet
looking at me 6 big bright eyes the Pleiades
i thought and i smiled
i went into the restroom washed my face with cold cold water
fingers shaking causing tiny little droplets to congregate around the bathroom sink surrounded by bottles of hygiene
there was no wind
there was no noise
unseasonable quiet
every other home that i saw through my window dark
no laughter of children
no blow up snowman
no nothing
not even a lonely bug or a spider
i imagined
i really should try to rest
i really should try to stop watching the news
i really should just stop and catch my breath
i was watching The History Channel the other day
they had a Bible soap opera and Jesus was very glamorous all of the Persians
wear eyeliner it looked very chic
then i thought about Bukowski’s  Dinosauria, We poem
i think he was a prophet
that drunken old fool
i’m sending you hugs and kisses Buk
i think sometimes i think too much
but nothing worth a sigh
nothing worth anything at all
i will relax
i tell myself
i will relax
i will pour myself a tall glass of black coffee  pour molasses very slowly
i shall stir
i shall not want cigarettes
i shall not desire a little drink 
i shall not touch any needles
i’ve been so very good
i’ve been so very good
yes i remember now it was last night
it was full of terror
good thing about this dream
was that i could not hear myself scream
i wouldn’t want to cause any problems
i wouldn’t want to scare anyone
cold cold sweat
cold cold hands
cold cold brow
i smile today at the bouquets of sunflowers 
i thought about Vincent van Gogh
how would he wear a face mask
the poor devil only had one ear
these are the thoughts
that pushed the other thoughts
but i don’t want to think about it
i walk through the grocery store aisles
looking for noodles
looking for broccoli and brussel sprouts
my favorite
i passed on the candy bars
no good i say
i pay and i get into my car
for a short but silent drive home
i climb up the stairs
very carefully this time
i open the door and then
i’m in a desert
i could feel the heat radiating on my
cold cold brow
i look around
i’m no longer wearing any clothes
instead i wear a coat of serpents
i can feel my arms flailing
hoping to cast them off
i try to wake up
i try to leave the desert
during my morning coffee
i recall what had happened
i look in my refrigerator
there are no brussel sprouts
there was no Coca-Cola zero
no broccolini
but i thought about going for a walk instead needless to say i didn’t make it out the door again today
instead i tied ribbons on my Christmas tree
i have to say i  like Victoria’s style

post med

mbrazfield (c) 2020

there are days not my legs are weak i walk i walk around the city there’s Christmas in my head and the juvenile prophets have an extraordinary urge to tag just any old word on the city walls there are days but i just walk for the sake of walking i have a difficult time noticing the birds because of the writing on the walls and the writing on their face tells the story of how we got to be in this place there are no cherry blossoms no peach trees no lemonade stands this is reality or a reality

Mr. Keith Richards

ever since i was a kid i’ve always had a very vivid imagination mostly because i needed to get away i was too little to drive too little to get a job to make money to take the bus so the only place i had was deep inside my mind so time went by my body stretched my brain gathered more wrinkles and my eyes widened and then the shit hit the fan there were some days where the fan just fell off the ceiling there was so much turd on the blades then there were days when the fan was happily located on the ceiling in the hole with the wires that it was supposed to have swirling around and around doing its job with the moths going in and out of the little lamps shaped like butter cups there was no shit then maybe just a minor fart maybe it was me eating sauerkraut straight from the jar ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards and after a while teachers took notice they got all nosey sent me to see the psychologist called my mother called my father ring ring ring no one bothered so they thought i was special they had no idea how special i could be but i was a relatively well-adjusted child growing up in Hollywood and all you’d be surprised just how fucking well-adjusted i was ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards anyway so as a story goes and i forget where it goes cuz there’s just forks all over the place let me see let’s go to the fork with all the drugs and alcohol oh yeah all of them early on hard living on the edge before and after the edges give or take a few centimeters ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards anyway so long story short made long cuz mainly my fan is starting to show up again on this ceiling i’m in love with a man who lives with a clown and a possum but that’s an entirely different story love is a strange thing i remember when i was a teenager love was a Clash song or like Talking Heads or something like that and punk rock was like really romantic and like you know the Rolling Stones you know your band ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards was pretty cool too even though you guys were old even then but that’s not the problem anyway as i was saying my man lives with a clown and a possum no lie i’m not making this up i’m not even on any kind of drugs legal or illegal i’ve been dry for a really long timethis is just my brain my brain on reality what do i do you ask Mr. Keith Richards well i think a lot i like to fancy myself like a famous writer like a real deep thinker like William Burroughs sorry i don’t mean to name drop but Burroughs kicks ass anyway so yeah like i was saying yeah i say a lot cuz i’m like trying to knit my thoughts to have a cohesive conversation ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards anyway i’m not really sure why i’m here in my dream talking to you like you’re supposed to be my shrink right but you’re here i guess because the guy i’m in love with loves your band The Rolling Stones ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards anyway i’ve lived many many many years in downtown Los Angeles and it’s gone through a lot of intersectionality you know but i don’t know man like the ghosts are still there you know the systematically and psychologically disenfranchised the homeless skid row has just like fucking spread out to infinity and our politicians don’t seem to think that it’s a bad problem you know they don’t have to live on top of each other they don’t have to live on donated tents they possibly have not fought in foreign wars and came back to America just to get fucked over you know they’re not culturally marginalized i used all of the ism’s you can find ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards i don’t know how to explain the world anymore i just kind of walk around and around and around and then sometimes i look up at the sky and there’s this huge ass ceiling fan and the blades look like a chopper and they’re like spinning and spinning and spinning and we’re all down here pushing shopping carts and i’m giving them my empties because that’s all i got yes ya follow me Mr. Keith Richards yeah sometimes i feel pretty bad cuz like i have a place to sleep at at night i have people i can call when ifeel like i want to cry and i’m in love with a man who lives with a clown and a possum ya got that Mr. Keith Richards anyway before i rudely interrupted myself i wanted to tell you that living in LA is really starting to bother me she’s drowning my beautiful angel womb where i was born and grew up is drowning in shit i can’t stand it anymore ya dig me Mr. Keith Richards anyway what was i talking about oh yeah i’m in love with a man who lives with a clown and a possum and it’s really hard cuz it’s just the clown and a possum and there’s not much you can do with that all i know is that i’m in love with that man and he likes your band Mr. Keith Richards for your sake i hope that this dream ends really fast cuz i’m starting to bore myself you know i really don’t smoke or drink or use drugs anymore that’s all in the past i think that’s why i got so lucky to fall in love with a man who happens to live with a clown and a possum anyway Mr. Richards i won’t bend your ear anymore i think that my 45 minute session is up i really thank you for letting me wear this really cool bitching ass hat but you see i got places to go i got things to see i got ceiling fans to dust i gotta fart and i’m grateful to you Mr. Keith Richards you crazy old son of a bitch love your music man and i love a man who lives with a clown and a possum

mbrazfield (c) 2020

fleeing

nine in the morning it rains there are no clouds
just a dark gray block in the sky angelic concrete
i am longing for something or someone to come
in to this rain with me
alas the freight train
she won’t come
she has never been here
nor can i see her smokestack on the horizon
and when the sun sets
the sun does set in the rain
but i can’t see it
the freight train will still have not passed me by
what would i do in that train you ask
i would get out of here
to another place
another time
another land away from the nightmares
away from the cures
at this point
this point right here
we are all mad
the disease is the Garden of Eden
i give into the garden
the garden is in the freight train
there with wood paneling
like an Irish grandmother’s home there with drinks
there with spirits
the freight train rattles and my longing evaporates
it is now nine at night
i have not slept
i have not slept
i will not sleep
the freight train
i don’t see her
she won’t come for me and my longing
the rain will not come
i was born on a rainy day
the rain she is my lover and my companion
and she also sits with me in longing for other skies
that only the freight train can give or take away

purgatory

time appears to have gone on forever and there is a big chunk of me whatever i am that has not changed on this day a very long time ago i was granted permission to come into this world to a big city that is just made of legend i learned very quickly that when the sun went down we all bled shit sleep fought hated just like each other no big difference not from the next city over not from the next country over and probably not from other planets today that old cautionary statement we only live above our demons but we never get rid of them swirls in my head i confess at times i don’t know how i think how i see things i don’t even know sometimes if i believe in pain emotional spiritual physical i don’t know the difference at times what does it feel like to be without pain does it feel the same as being in pain don’t know so here i am back at the Cecil Hotel right where i have always been obviously not in body but in soul sometimes when there is no one around to question the fuck out of me and why my face looks or doesn’t look how they want it to look that particular day i wonder am i a ghost i wonder have i been reincarnated i wonder when i look up and down Broadway and Main to the left or to the right and then i look up and turn around and i look at empty shells of buildings where gargoyles used to be decorations masonry ballrooms perhaps so much and then there will be a particular window that enraptures my eyes and i can’t look away and if i squint my third eye i swear i can see her young dark hair big green brown eyes i don’t know what her name would have been maybe Hazel maybe Dorothy who knows not a modern name and then when my third eye blinks she jumps

pieces of LA dream

dawn she comes to knock on my window like room service the same time every day

i found myself floating on a cloud with a pink hounds tooth pattern covered ironing board

on it one of L Cohen’s suits and through the little poofy clouds Motley Crüe played girls girls girls that sounded an awful lot like so long Marianne

earlier during the dark part of the 24 hours i could not sleep nor did i want to so i bought some fancy eye cream to hide those saggy violet rings

i try to journal certain things that need goodbyes but it’s not that easy i’d be writing my fingers right down to a stub

life is funny how she crouches like a tiger and pounces when least expected like when i stained my bed sheets with menstrual blood that one time and i was sad and angry for months because it was a loss a woman never really heals from

then one starts to think about the turnips on sale and how i should have bought some but at least i got my baby broccoli  so i’ll survive

dawn paves the way for morning with Chai tea and a triple espresso chaser i start to stare again out of the window of the room but today i will be ready for the sneaky tigers

directly at the sun

there are no more metaphors
it is what it is
it has always been that way
but i couldn’t really see
no more soothing loving touches
like the caressing of a wave
you are gone in body now
in heart you were never here
i’m a creature who loved the dark
my metaphor box is empty now
perhaps just a dried mosquito wing inside blown in from the mountains
no more dancing gracefully like the darling swan nor can i really say that my wings have been completely clipped
every now and again when my brain breaks free
some grungy renagade metaphor breaks free and i fall into my norm
but yes the metaphors divorced me cold got up and walked away
they drifted toward a London fog
never seeing them again
in my life now a rose by any other name can be a rocking chair
driven like the snow
drives in the month of June
the end of my winding road
seems to not appear
but with Papa Hemingway by my side death might play peekaboo
at midnight’s xylophonic stroke
but until then my body bare will lay in suspended state supine and starring directly at the sun

in real time

no doubt i’m here real time as they say another year under my belt this late summer and what have i done jazz in my head most of the time now me more than ever two different people warm bubbly attentive to the rescue then the other me just like everybody else exhausted empty hurting under professional care but me thinks i need a tailor i’m falling apart at the seams the bigger my smile the wider the mess behind it but forward i confess and we must go in real time time what is time other than a sentence time time what is it keeping me in cages too little freak out too much freak out there is no middle ground God will i ever know why the time is what it is hey but on the bright side there is *Cassettes with Postcard from Kreuzberg in real time in real time not jazz but comfort looking out the window the birds and squirrels visit less often COVID wearing off i guess in real time hmm i wonder how the Traveling Wilburys would have covered Postcards or what would GnR have done Metallica is too harsh no me thinks Reeves is best in real time after work get food for pets hand out some change to the corner dweller for cigarettes so tired of you today L.A. in real time although you know i love you 

*Check this cool cat out https://nickreeves.blog/2020/05/29/her-anarchy-baffles-cassettes/

black

there she is on top of the ashen tree clacking away encroaching upon the mid inky night air

moon veiled like Italian black lace and stars tinier than usual so far so far away

her feathers drenched ebony widow’s gown bereft of her heart’s departed master me thinks i named her Lilith

perhaps she asks for the blackberries in the shallow gainsboro painted stoneware plate two inches from the window with the opened livid curtains

more troubling yet she reads my murky thoughts of Aqua Man playing Chopin on the piccolo dressed like Elvis with sequined fish tail

needless to say under my breath could she be the harbinger of death yet the polish from my nails flaked from the day’s excruciating angst