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

lost on the way

mbrazfield (c) 2020

ya ever listen to sister Tharpe wailing on her guitar while spiking up your mohawk

strumming and tugging at my strands as her sweet sultry honey melts into my ear veins

getting ready for TSOL to play on the Sunst Strip in LA balls to the wall sexy hell

underage but i don’t care the way i’ve been living i’m going no where

life was too lively growing up at home so i ran from the folks

and broke all the rules danced on the shore at 7 past noon

big black ugly boots Cinderella slippers were for fools

stick my tongue out at the sky fill my nose up with white lies

scratches cuts bruises and tears bloody trousers fists in the air

scent of cars black smoke and politicos resign my gender go underworld

Christ Savior i see the Son can You explain why i felt at 3 like 21

riding on the bus with the ladies of the night shift who went to clean the houses of the rich

indignation in their smile as bright brown eyes fell on my style

echoing in the length of the trains how can this child spit on the American dream

missing the point in what i conveyed symptom of the American nightmare lost on the way

used to

mbrazfield (c) 2010

the mania left

no confetti on the floors

just bits of distorted senses

peanut butter jar lady fingers but no one to lick them

i’m out of maxi pads

but i dont really want to

go out now

closing my lashes pills on my tongue

to keep death from threatening and being a fool

when i was young i saw the gold sound of BBs Lucille rising like smoke when a pope is chosen

life has come and stayed in the mess next to me

thrill in the last throes of something long gone

tired

time what is it really just illusions how can one waste what is a lie just a mist in a dark cold swamp a little village of my mind it sits there and wallows remembering memories that never happened like kisses from my mother i have full control when the birds sing time what is it exactly me thinks of time as the breath of the gods the heartbeat of the mermaids the haircut shavings of the gnomes in the forest deep green cool moldy forest located in the left side of my heart untouched by time still waiting still haunting time

Thursday morning

last night i hung out with Jimmy and Janis

and in the shower i sang about foxy Kentuckians

not sure if it meant anything at all but yet can’t help to daydream about his guitar and her vocal chords

making coffee the feeling persisted why am i still here

just feelings i guess no need to worry the squirrels are in the tree the sidewalk exists from what i can tell

i do an LOL i’ve kissed the ground so many times with my ball and chain gang of personal fools

could it be that it truly is just semantics me wonders whilst the refuse truck crawls by on Thursday morning

if Dylan knew

Zimmy has an old soul

if you look at his eyes

they are other worldly

the color of Earth’s face

from up in space

it means just what is

but when i heard him this morning

while drinking my mud

these words telegraphed

out from Alexa .1

“Oh my name it ain’t nothin’
My age it means less
The country I come from
Is called the Midwest
I was taught and brought up there
The laws to abide
And that land that I live in
Has God on its side”

the shame i felt

rose to waterlines of my

green lined eyes

and the liquid it spilleth over

perhaps it’s the hormones

or the brow beat quarantine

and my cat she ate the dog’s food

but i couldn’t tell her to quit

shaking it off

turning the vacuum on

the dog he shakes his

fluffy white tail

and my thoughts run asunder

white hot sun beaming

brown wood flooring

a meeting of the titans

debacled by the cat

does God pick sides

Nutella

fruit

lavash

rye bread

ramen

and a good fuck while i’m on top

chewing on ice

these things that i like

why am i this way

could it be in black vain

that i ask these strange questions

a dandelion of thoughts

cast into the humidity

answers might or might not

germinate

does God get to decide

from where do i find

recourse for sinning

early i rise

eating my heart out

doing what’s right

one moment gets wasted

my faith goes in haste

my spirit is stuck wild horses help me am i on God’s side