womb

good morning mother i’m inside of your womb this is

the first time that i’ve noticed it it’s blue with

gray cotton candy covering father Sun drenches me with Holy

Light and spindly arms grow strong my legs regenerated it feels good to be

frenesi

my eyes held captive by the metamorphosis of the Cecil a born again building with the stench of human history between its concrete bones no longer a child not yet at the biological end the choices i’ve made dumbfound the soul but if viewed through a lens in the night that i’m alive is sheer bewilderment in the hustle of her of him of them i silently record fragments of life that are not my own if i do it long enough my old memories will be pushed out a tender girl walking her pink bellied pug is a better replacement for watching the forensics team rip open the rape kit or a child chasing a moth is better than being reminded of the day your mother died or when lovers kiss by the stop light is better than when the needle broke in the arm then my pupils chose to focus on a single mossy brick Artie in the 40’s swinging clarinets booze loosed women and ripoff con men coca cola lollipops the book says a time to laugh or cry to live or die the last is nonnegotiable

Sunday with Hank

pain without reason you said i understood immediately but Hank aren’t we born into this situation

forever we seek to understand is pain the ultimate secret knowledge Hank you’re there with Buddha is that what he found

women understand but in the end we are all human what’s between our legs is incidental

i’ve stood on city sidewalks on the streets you’ve lived on and everything is the same the rat race is quiet in most places

i love watching the angels downtown we are a rainbow of gray brown and black

some in the name of ethics money and pretense call it trauma or grieving or processing events

to be beat raped tortured sodomized insulted belittled ignored and cast aside drugged whipped lied to and left to die some of us in shame and lies in the most dangerous of nuclear families

Hank you’ve been away from me remember DeLongpre i used to stay there too and how many more places we have been it’s been so very long

your thoughts and absolute surrender to the madness of our lives you painted beauty in it’s natural form although it wasn’t what they thought

hey baby since you’re up there in the clouds can you ask the Main Man for me when you aren’t too busy now

if the reason for our mortal pain is so we will seek Him out

Bell and Howell

pic by mbrazfield (c) 2020

the sun slides down

lays her golden head

on Dodger mountain

i look around the apartment

notice that i don’t have much

just a few books

electronic essentials

some cooking utensils

work files and water color trays

an old nonoperational

Bell and Howell

and i wonder

was it ever

my intention

to live like an old

widowed bitter sailor or

to be a neat little wife

to have douching schedules

and cook kosher Shabbat dinners

and worship at the west side Temple

roll with the punches like ladies do

claw at my chest with dignity

and gasp at the lukewarm horror

that Stanley cheated on Sherryl

while my praised dentist husband

works her very late most nights

or was it ever my intention

to be rich and famous

with lovers of all intersections

and gleefully snort exuberant amounts of blow

while getting handcuffed away to the station

wearing my sexy Nirvana ripped collar t shirt

now stuffed away in my mid week LA night

freckled with hoarse tooting car horns

and blinking half dead street lights

i breathe deeply and smile

wondering what my intentions

will be when i grow up

and painfully emancipate from this

spiritually bereft confusing mess

that squeezes me tight

as she coyly stands

quietly in front of

that old thrift store

Bell and Howell

meine patina

mbrazfield 2019 (c) gouache on paper

Buk it’s 2020

my hero Hanky baby

and i’m still alive

these last few days

i’ve surveyed her face

our whore saint city

don’t fret she loves us still

these last few days

i’ve driven by

the schools i’ve been in

i don’t remember a damned thing

my first day of pre school

i was late

on account my dad had to wait

in the Mobil lines for five hours

hey Buk

do you remember

these last few days

every grade year the same old shit

the Pilgrims the marches the maths the farces

the Nina the Pinta the Santa Maria

Sesame Street Hee Haw Fat Albert and Lawrence Welk

and by the time Ronnie Raygun came around

i was branded diagnosed exposed and pigeonholed

the patina of fine psychobullshitary

casted on my soul

these last few days

intuitively speaking Buk

i don’t feel its right to blame

after all i have a conscience

id ego and a touch of naughtiness too

i don’t want to go down that way

remember the time over on Las Palmas Ave

when i called the principal

the devil’s panty liner

i had more class

than to just call her a knit wit

verbal theatrics have been

my little blue bird

these last few days

my bones hurt more

i linger by the antioxidants

and pay some attention

to the collagen talks

my hair line fractures

from the days of Face

are bald and angry

so i take turmeric supplements

during the day

these last few days

the stains of my sins

are rinsing away

leaving a fall hued patina

glazed on my spirit

these last few days Buk

the beer bottles on the streets

cigarette butts and paper sheets

blowing in the wind

make me feel sentimental

where has most of my life gone

is this what happiness is

to feel the bumps upon my skin

the knuckles of my hands

being cupped by my finger tips

as i walk under the bridge

where the many roads

to numbness took me

these days i swear Buk

i have felt

an orgasmic magnificence

flow through my veins

but there are still

some challenges

element

if the rust stained bones in my frame

were to ever get a chance again

to glide across the universe

look into Pandora’s jet white eyes

and smell the lighted stars

like people sniff the roses

my soul to keep i’d give away

to plug the holes

and pave new ways

for dusk to kiss the lonely hearts

for dawn to inter the bitter crop

from where my old roots are rotted

i’d be a renegade of love again

with bombs of ear drums

i would fight

to give a spot to everyone

in God’s angelic choir

if the sacred morning dew

can forgive me

for not being wide awake

in baptizing my sinful state

in the worldly river of life

reason being i was up all night

marching behind my sisters and brothers

blinded by the poisoned dark

with intent to guide them out

of their imposed upon madness

or if the maidens of the light

would prefer to bring me back

i would want to be

a lightning bolt

looking to correct

the wicked negatives of the cold hard ground

with the positives in the celestial clouds

to quench the crops of kindness

that are drying out

yet in all honesty

i’d be more than content

to come back as a rainbow colored bubble

making some kid laugh

recusants you and i

pic by mbrazfield (c)2019

night drive slow speed

body tired windows bleed

city light a million times

soul sucker dynamite

blare the sin out from below

steel cold brick you sunk me

my fingers crooked now

with the countdown of this town

but don’t underestimate

the heart mine least of all

look me in the silence of that eye

i dare you to deny

that after you’ve torn

us both down

spit on our ancient right

that a tree of force will not emerge

from where my human blood’s been shed

from where my love everlasting powerful

and pure will for all of time

triumph over you

and our perversions

desperado

when the armor sheds

and the spirit is bare

he likes to sit on a swing

legs spread across the grass

thighs dangling between heaven and earth

he doesn’t have to plot

on how to bear the brunt of sin

when the struggle rises yet again

instead yonder down by the willow trees

the children playing hide and seek

remind him of when he was a kid

teetering between his mother’s hallowed hand

and the inevitable curse of becoming a man

sunrise prayer while whistlin’ to Shonen Knife

Lord it’s me

Grady the Rh- monkey

tuesday morning

Chicago scene

eyes are watering

but it’s not the wind

i haven’t talked to You

like i think i should

just want to thank you

again and again

life flashing

on the right side of my brain

the train car rails

are really cool

if i had a stray thought

it’s all because

of the architectural allure

but i’m mouthin’ too much

arigato for all you’ve taken from me

arigato for all you’ve given me

arigato for all those whom i’ve battled

and for those who have kicked my ass

for all the ones i’ve hurt

and the things i’ve thrown away

thank you for the violence

and especially when peace runs through me

thank you for the fight

thank you for the lessons

thank you for this river

and the beggar by the bay

for the nature

and the phantoms in my bed

and thank you for looking down on me

when my demons ring my bell

social worker

in the dawn

when bodies intercross

that stage of simultaneous

exhaust and regeneration

my mind becomes of another plane

where the primitive fears

gargle up before i can close my third eye

my getting beat or a fork in the road without its tines

i wake for a few millennial seconds

then heavy weariness weighs me down again

smelling Jewish rye bread toasting

i’m at the house on Rodney street

wearing my mother’s clothes

and my lips sewn shut

phone alarm buzzes on

and the cats start to call me mama

slowly i rise

unconsciously tap my lips

while dragging my feet

to the bathroom mirror

another day in hell

and all i got is a cup of ice chips