Self Exploration

inventory

/ mbrazfieldm / 8 Comments

It took about three hours to get back to Los Angeles Street from Mission Avenue with its grandiose blocks of junked cars and guys who waved flags like bull fighters guiding you into their shop driveways to get your muffler repaired for $75. I thought about Hemingway’s story. Looking down at the dirty greased earth wondering why I wasn’t dead that afternoon trying to find the lesson or the meaning of that particular event in my life. I became aware that at some point in my journey I would have to take control. My higher mind would have to take control of myself come hell or high water, against all gods, all demons, against all angels, against all saints, against myself, against the world.

My body hurt and the concrete was harder than I had remembered. My feet were pulsating with exhaustion. The worn sole of my right Chinese girl shoe mouthed slowly at every step as it “peeoed-peeoed” at me like baby birds demanding food. My left shoe was now a casualty strewn under a fire escape at Werdin Place. I imagined my shoe embalmed with bum urine and cigarette ash. My shoe had served me well. I just needed to get to the Cecil.

I never felt pity for myself until that moment. My one black sock was still on my left foot and I stank like cigarette and latex. My navy blue hoodie was torn at the nape where the hood connects to the body from where I was pulled. It had scabby matted clots of blood and snot on the arm cuffs. I could smell the blood iron sickly sweet rubbery odor ground into the fabric mesh of my clothes. Memories of how well-groomed and perfect my mother and sister always were wafted over my mind. Impeccable make up, pressed clothes, matching jewelry and exquisite scents. Jasmines, roses, spices, musks; all offerings to the heavens and here I was dirty deep into the marrow. Blood, spit and skin ground into the tar. My body and feeble sanity violated.

I consoled myself by tearing the bandages off my throat and my left ring finger. The bandages caused me to admit defeat or worst yet, victimhood. I felt guilty thinking about my mom and her baubles. Those were her drugs and her costumes hiding scars my dad gave her both inside and out. I sat on the curve of Sunset and Spring St. amongst the scent of Peking duck and taquitos. I cried for my mother. I hated myself for crying just because I needed her. I didn’t deserve anything, so I just allowed myself to feel her pain like I did when I was a kid. I needed to punish my stupidity and my addictions. I didn’t like silks or jewelry anyway. I was too ugly. My mom never liked my nose, eyes or my boyish body. I was too short for her taste. I guess my father’s Portuguese genes were stronger than my mother’s German ones.

Dedicated to my friend Nick Reeves.

happy

/ mbrazfieldm / 11 Comments

sometimes in the middle of the night

i take the train from one part of town

and then back to the other side

i can’t sleep so i face my curiosity

tipping into the cleavage of the city

and her girlfriend moon

outside of the rolling cab my eyes

they register that it’s dirty

i swear i can see the car exhaust

black sooty pungent belching vulgarity

in the lungs of LA

behold the automotive crack pipe

then my attention flutters to the men

velvet skin plastic smiles and silver tongues

selling me a piece of Jesus and His hotrod

Hollywood Boulevard how much to eat me tonight

i burrow my alien feelings into the tunnels

and the cocky rail rides me to the platform

where humanity scrambles at the truth

of how small we must be to the Bitchgoddess

of everything all poets in history

have lamented about

to chase and purr on the formidable

lies that we are fed

only to show who kindness i wonder

i’m too old and out of time

to place gender or definition on my pleasures

the time to gamble with the rules and regulations

is quickly ending

at dawn pink and gray

with the smell of the city and

her beautifully cruel courtesans

on my hands and lips

i stagger up 7th street

and bum a cigarette from the Meals on Wheels guy

chat up Bang Me Billy and ask about his truck

we stroll to the rich folk Starbucks

he waltzes me up to the lines

we both feel very alive again

and smile at the young savvy people

when they turn up their nose

advice i’d give me if i was my mother

/ mbrazfieldm / 18 Comments

go ahead eat the three cup cakes

jay walk across the mischievous waters

buy Big Mac’s for the street kids

ask the hookers for beauty tips

church hop if the Spirit insists

wrap your thighs around whichever boy you wish

on your terms and not his

go against the family tradition

ride the Ducati instead of the Harley

crank up Led’s Black Dog as you’re lighting a fatty

stay home and read books and howl at the moon

at 3:30 past doom if that’s what makes you happy

talk about the Bard by the water cooler

turn the page when you’ve mastered your spirit

nurture your brain and balance that heart

if you punch punch with your left

but remember they got to swing at you first

if you look wicked good don’t hide it

and every compliment offered to the sisterhood

should come from the heart

don’t disrespect tit for tat the brotherhood

flash them your smile as you’re crushing that Zen

to Clyde with love

/ mbrazfieldm / 4 Comments

the vinyl floors were what i really loved about King Eddy’s bar i just never ate the nachos or any of the bar food cooked in the back i just drank their booze the storm clouds had passed i was on long weekend from school by choice of course not because it was any particular holiday secretly i was hoping to see Clyde he was an older gentleman with property out in the desert valley not rich a Salton Sea Hawaiian shirt straw fedora wearing kinda guy he was smitten with me but for a long time he thought i was a very effeminate boy we couldn’t tell each other’s intentions my heart grew fond of him over the months in a time span of almost three years i knew he had been a hustler back in the 50’s and 60’s he knew the entire history of Pershing Square the seedy stuff of course not the pretty ribbon cutting ceremonies and the ice rinks at Christmas i came out i suppose by accident i was cramping pretty badly one Tuesday night and the girl bartender wasn’t working that night but Clyde was there many times before i had seen him hand out aspirins to friends so i thought he might have something with knitted brows he whispered jaggedly you’re a girl and i said yeah i’m not very femme but i didn’t think i looked that butch either ok goldilocks he laughed i was gonna ask you out on a date you see i prefer the company of gentlemen in my private life too not just in my industry wink wink i was confused but flattered thus began a deeper relationship my excesses slowed down i put on weight and i went to school more i read all of my books wrote all the papers took all of the exams and actually enjoyed it because of Clyde’s interest in my education there was a time buttercup he’d call me that when i thought i wanted to go to law school but i got lazy and time just passed me by you’re young kid i’ve been eyeballing you i know what you do why do you go to the Cecil he asked knowing dam well why i went i wasn’t angry at him but rather surprised and then creped out dude are you following me no he said but don’t forget i know lots of people around town buttercup don’t throw your life away is all i’m saying the feeling of genuine care felt like a boulder it was too overwhelming so i split

i-40e/nm-41s

/ mbrazfieldm / 3 Comments

                                before the sleep comes in the place where the parrots crow and gangrene defaults for a beauty mark of the ones who cant afford the trip into the stars that shine on borrowed gleaming blinks and NASA goes on break the supper crowd waits til 6

             to catch the train by a frazzled skirt that has sat on its last desk at the home of doll house diplomats did you ever see the stippled sky after the new year came and we owe money that has not been invented yet the people have

                    spoken but our dictionaries have faded we want wine and glory the oyster bar awaits the hookers call the other girls and the priesthood has lost weight if i chew and spit

               out codes that only fleas can understand i might take the interstate and go to Las Cruces and bake out in the sun then back to Lady Angels arms but i wont know about the after

in the room

/ mbrazfieldm / 15 Comments

the edge of summer is always rougher in down town the garbage cooks in the hot August sun and the mango pits baste in the pigeons’ bath water but i can’t help to be in love with the complex and undeniable lived in beauty of the city

as soon as i step into the lobby i see Mr. Petrucchio’s grand daughter with a mile wide smile because granpa will be moving in with them today i agree the Cecil is no place for an aging refined man or anyone else who didn’t have the junky sickness or the negotiating with the devil credentials

half of my life has gone by although i count my birthdays in dog years so old in my soul and experience but too young in some circles a gen x’er with no money too many bills the last of the missing generation child of war birthday cake candle blower outer low brow collector little girl but i still have me rickety cracked me

sitting in my bed room with my cats and dog we laugh and talk as i finger bang the keyboard i think about smoking a cigarette but i don’t i miss the Cecil the old Cecil full of the residue of Adam’s sin i miss a phantom childhood you know the one where we become our parents’ parent yeah i’m not bitter i got to play with real barbie dolls mainly holding their hair back in my mom’s bathroom when they were throwing up too many cocktails diet pills and i guess too much cock that made them pregnant who knew i was just seven

its August 2019 the edge of summer again its rougher now we have placeless people stewing in the system stewing in the tents waiting for a breath of help the Cecil has cleaned up mostly serves to house tourists looking for the LA experience i shy away from their questions like where’s the best Mexican Food where can we find parking how much are you asking for a blow job baby and being me i have to answer back i’m too big to fit down your throat sweetheart i’ve learned to disarm some but not all yet i love my city it’s my home and she’s disarmed me any way she’s wanted to my sweet Sensei i’ve been a good student though she can’t deny that

where has life gone and my summers and popsicles hot dogs and fireworks on the fourth where has the magic gone i’ve missed much so the Fall is coming along with the adverts of pumpkin spice everywhere the new Fall collections the new laws that question the very validity of what the Gods have created and the pangs of sadness come but also the reminder that life goes on in spite of decree or tears or me i’m learning to love something greater than the world at long last hobo girl i say don’t worry you can still smile a mile wide

some time back on Franklin ave.

/ mbrazfieldm / 10 Comments

i love it when youre mad at me

and i try to lick your salty nipple

as you mutter in uncertainty

in between gulps of rye

i love it when we play house

you smack my ass

unzip your pants

and demand me to please

i love it when you ask of me

about politics and i say

i dont know i cant relate

but ive got to go and serve

the broken today

i love it when you yell at me

i shoot to the moon smiling

nodding on the fourth

like when Idris met Azrael

it breaks my heart

to come home

while youre lying on the floor

Gulliver tied down by

tiny airport bottles

i hate it when

i make you cry

after my lips no longer blue

call out your name

right before vomiting

my weakness you on your back

cock hard me on top

losing myself without regard

but right before

i come bouncing back to you

turning my tide

your palms on my thighs

laughing as we die

cover my eyes on your way out

it hurts me when i know

that i will be leaving

in a few hours to get away

from you

ill really miss

that ethereal tiny kiss

gifted from you to me

upon my forehead

when you asked to marry me

there really is no comfort

knowing that i love you

two grotesquely beautiful

liars contending

upon the mirrors of our eyes

flagelación cerebral

/ mbrazfieldm / 13 Comments

me gusta caminar de noche

preferible sin la luna

esconderme en mis pensamientos

reír como niña como nunca pude

pensar en dulces y juegos

y olvidar todo lo que fui

flagelação cerebral

eu gosto de andar a noite

preferível sem a lua

esconda-se em meus pensamentos

ria como uma garota como eu nunca pude

pense em doces e jogos

e esquecer tudo o que eu era

cerebral flagellation

i like to walk at night

preferably without the moon

hide in my thoughts

laugh like a little girl like i never could

think of candy and games

and forget everything i was

moment of clarity

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

july evening warm humidly noisy

in the city i sit between Spring and Broadway streets

at a mall downtown where i’d like to fantasize Bradbury

could be found drinking coffee

looking to my left there are the kids joshing and cussing

rolling on skateboards zephyrs with iphones

to my right hipsters with credit cards today green means something else

micro chips smart chips designer chips vegan chips

i smile Mona L style and sip my Vietnamese coffee straight up

pigeons coo me out seductively with the waffle sound

of their aged wings dusty with the history of my time

here in this old new modern city

a tiny crack on the wall

by the fire department’s emergency pipe

holds my attention but i knit my brows

dainty lilac flowers

offered up to the most attentive student

the teacher dark green weed shows the little creatures

exquisite tiny intricate jewels luring in the bees

another universe within my urban home

i don’t like hot weather

sweat panting and stickiness

should only be for sex

but if the retiring sun hadn’t drawn me out

for the night i would have missed the buzzing of life

and random thoughts of HST soul madness and did JD really

shoot his ashes out of a canon

crazy kids at times trapped by the freedom of the mind

i’m working on an espresso now looking around

twirling my ankle like a cat’s tail

am i happy today i must be

today i’m not running

as much

at the Cecil

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

any road north at this time of the year is cold and wet

       my neighbor said   coughing out gray-white swirled                                 

                                  menthol smoke

            your journey need not be postponed

if you can live here for more than 23 minutes

                    you’re used to the inclement weather

        i squinted up at Jeannie her pin curls once golden

              lighting up the strip joints along

the weary loosed boulevard  were now dull piss

                 yellow and very very sparse

she couldn’t remember that she walked into my room

                 believing she was home

    as Jeannie orchestrated a plan to cross her shriveled

        go-go booted legs    still i sat silent on the floor

    crushing pills to help me think    i was never one to

          bother reading directions 

by the morning when the birds bathe in the puddles of acid rain

             and snails ever so slowly smear their way

to the dying ficus tree       and in a moment of pre-contemplative clarity     i   look up again at my lady

       her crushed velvet baby blue robe   casketed what time separated from the wheat of life

          then wild cat eyes darted    past her   nodded head to look out of     the  screenless  cracked window

             with Tom  rasping something through the radio about      

                          a downtown train

                     and a torn paperback about Lenny Bruce’s life   on the milk crate  shelf

       i couldn’t help to wonder   if we were also waiting for            

                      Beckett’s

                                  immutable  Godot