psychiatry

clouds with wires

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mbrazfield (c) 2024

i like my clouds with some wires
memories of kindergarten
Franklin’s kites and keys
corduroy jackets pigtails

i like my sky with blue infinity
endless forever high up
United Nations NPR
Joe Strummer high gas prices

wires are reminders to my eyes
finish lines running away from
eventually crossing them
grinning old girl am i

blue inks on papers change
trajectories of lives
bars in language community
null void twisted noise

clouds pure shamanic puff
feeding the ducks in Lincoln Heights
remember those we lost
immortalized on walls
ironically in life that’s all they’ve known

wires clouds blue sky songs
baking bread train track grease
cool wind cigarette butts
let my mind be silent today

mbrazfield (c) 2024

wanton bullets

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mbrazfield (c) 2023

tonight i have given up
trees comfort me for now
the light waves capture the tones of my tears
tonight the pain of my mind is entertained by the old dried chewing gum patties on the ground
i imagine a plucky child tossing the wad to the ground before his teacher catches him
or perhaps a love struck siren
preparing to kiss her sailor farewell
tonight i don’t want to doubt a higher power and i do not want to believe in the wickedness of us
tonight i stroll numbed to not smell the stench of misery misted by the atomizer of hypocrisy blowing from the Hall
instead my tired eyes are drawn to the gentle softness of the dust lanterns pummelled by wanton bullets of pidgeon shit
tonight i sit quietly accepting nothing and holding everything in my heart

trees

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mbrazfield (c) 2020

in dream i walk PicoUnion
Lydia Lunch hair do
fringe beneath my eyes
the hotdog vendor burns
her inventory
hands in jean jacket pockets
a gold Volvo stops an inch from me
i wear tap shoes to hear a click
because the LAFD sirens sicken me
in the sky there is a subtle sun
negotiating with the trees
one particular tree caught my eye
as he bent in an uproar
almost majestic in size
he blocked me from Hyperion’s
cancerous sighs
chewing Bazooka Joe’s
careful of my side eyeing
in case the fentanyl groupies
demand my food bank box
the city tired as she is
steady her sidewalks remain
in spite of the oppression
‘and the wind began to howl’
protested from a Tennessee plate
Robert England  cabin
suddenly the driver and i lock eyes
as lady Vyvanse begins to ebb inside
my pupils begin to show
but my dream turns out
is a hell bound reality

this whole again

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1. on the edge life sits
2. the sky orange with tinge
3. of the progress by man
4. if we tilt we lose footing
5. if we bend we lose grace
6. the compromise too great
7. so we sit unknowingly
8. but not silent
9. fingers say our words
10. our tongues no longer needed
11. my body moulded by ballots
12. but what of the soul
13. a spirit cracked
14. where the better angels
15. how to make
16. this whole again

mbrazfield (c) 2022

f 34.1

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she’s here again
my breath she
takes by force
fear her grip
my mind bending
soul hanging on
pulse pounding hard
tears all dry
moist hands shaking
thoughts race away
pupils open black
what is wrong
i silently ask
rituals mantras dissipate
falling into fog
again the silence
of spirit prevails

a drop of water

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

a new year began with new decisions set into motion life has become as tasty as it is to bite into a drop of water going along for a cruise Sunday traffic as it should be nicer cars whiz by yet the wind in my hair with tinges from the valley we pass the Fortress of Hollywood’s mysteries pressing forth on the one o one music from your youthhood fits you like a stretched out girdle particularly where the lace is falling off but i say nothing i nod in support of your choices instead my face is made up mostly the eyes my scars and wrinkles the tattoos on my arms they make me feel something the hills and horses grasses and trees stand around me like pall bearers to be i turn my face to the right and my lips kiss the warmth of the sun instantaneously i wonder if i placed my breast in the light would i get that effect of feeling again

valium crash the news looks bad the ship has lost its hull

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

there are walnut trees on Pluto i think
crystal diamond blue
horizon upside down
center dividers stars in bloom
Ernest H waves from a black velvet bull nebula
shooting at gazelles in heat
downtown city hall fenced off from vagrant free radicals steady to explore
news of the day inner tubes
floating up the ice tundra
teeny tiny core
liquor stores
barbershop
bank building
bikini lounge
margaritas screaming opera loud
golden arches
chicken all militarized
taco toll
franchise whores
open for business
Pluto has one cherry tree
at dawn we read thee Book
thee Morning Star’s dead light
we shouldn’t tell those lies
could the gropers mashers and fiends
grandpa killers darlings of infallible machines (wink wink)
dare to go where print castrates them
Pluto tired just like us
rotates on her side
ferns and fossil bones fuel
glistening surface ice
Charon chases Papa like a Marx brother
down a Cuban blvd
Che comandante semper fi
make a left on Broadway
Pluto grows tomatoes
shipped to Mars
on backs of rain forest mamas

post med

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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