dreams of Patmos

it starts like any other dream i’ve had since around age 11 with the Black Clergy and the Orthodox Cross of course Ivan the Terrible riding on a school bus horse in the diary for today there is written about John the Revelator who in my opinion had the dream to end all others forever more my phone screamed the LA County Emergency System warning safer at home lock down starts and the tranquil panic ensues can’t sleep the rapist may come blowing trumpets can’t eat boogey men come with sanitizer to wipe out my individuality can’t complain i’m doing great in contrast to so many of my brothers can’t stop thinking is this war Patmos makes me hungry in the soul talking to churches down the hall but we can’t help we are human no i say no no no sweaty panicked girl remember Big Bird and the age of innocence in limbo as the only romantic countries rage with the the horsemen double plus cut on the loose around the neck of Hemingway’s beloved

to appreciate

in days my thoughts muddle i welcome the sun on my skin with sounds of wind


off the sand dirt tarmac wacks ready of the yet not a time for happy let ye olden wire zap the conscience to open the eye to come what may if knees are to be bent bend to Who saves the soul in the alley no one’s told if what when why how could they for what vision yourself fluffy cloud grandmother’s pie in the morgue of our contrition emergency suddenly emergency was were we not official then just continue to wash your hands

can’t figure out

why we dream so distantly where the planets question who we are

black holes surrender in perplex look at each other in their deep blue eye

and say forget them

could be that in Tennessee my heart i left there beating

nature are you a conscience forcing me to look at the destruction of the muffler in my car

this morning she a strange lady clutched me in a surrender of half breed slumber

children screaming for their cereal and when i come to they were asking for some pop

non sequitur zoo

go to the junction where the crow caws and feel like coffee grounds are sacred don’t trample them with emotional support gobblers in the wind do you think pterodactyls clucked the motor is stuck in the mud skipper makes no whistling rattles die they steal watermelon slices from the post man in Cairo i don’t think so but Henrietta will investigate the portfolios of one hundred gazelles with tiny hooves drilling and crunching across the moss that could potentially grow in the Sahara over by the airport where the sea gulls screech holding up old ladies for their drinks pigeons collect the Groupon deals cooing at the seams of insanity

speed metal hiidiin buree

early on laying on the warm gray beach with tiny fleas hopping from foam bubble to foam bubble my cheek is tanned by the white ash sun then i see him long black hair chains everywhere eating rice balls and drinking Heineken my thoughts wonder off to speed metal a sea gull zips down to take a piece of Twinkie from my hand the shore it lays tranquil divider of land primordial real estate agent the music in the waves loud clanking slow motion at high speed the Buddha with sun glasses spread out on Venice beach uneasy vibes orient depress let’s chant for new year but awareness comes from remote controls he’s done with rice balls Lama of my dreams Leonard Cohen can you hear me look to the sea my third eye boils my peace upside down hearing the call of awareness while being chained to madness and the singing elephants trample by


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


the fusillade below my heart signaled a transformation that i hadn’t planned visions of blood fodder fingers crushing the innocence of flowers all for goodness sake further down the tunnels men bent in half praying to their shrink meanwhile ticker sounds of acreage burning does Herod have a bodyguard and the soup kitchen has run out of toe tags can we breath the breeze of ancient orange one last time before the refugees of peace become the next on your waiting list of morally inclined to do whatever to fit into the culture of the day


it’s metal cold in the room stings the surface of the skin a little cheeks flushed 104 degrees cotton fever nothing new thoughts of owls race through the mind far away New Mexico hills in a trip that failed to yield once what was expected seconds hop scotch off the arms of the clock apparitions in white cheap cotton come to check numbers and pulses disgust visible on the face like dust on grandma’s table the owls again the color of wild grain bare footed running with the breeze and the bugs birds of all congregations there to sing solitary ears robbed it’s cold please don’t leave but please don’t touch the New Mexican hills spread out Triple A magazine cover left in the lobby by the father who lost his son the owl took him the Yaqui say fever breaks gauzy cloak frosted from the sin and ignorance lips shiver pale so pale and deformed thirsty for baptismal waters wild wild girl the apparitions come on time oh no it’s her again when will she die my taxes deserve to pay better societal debts please don’t touch the owl she’s my mother looking at me hoot hoot hoot synapse without soul blood without spirit apparition grab the leg and tug cruelly get up it groans tax liability get’s up roughly like a broken transmission New Mexican hills will not be reached like that good bye owl

mbrazfield (c) 2020 gouache on paper

on the sidelines

the sun feels tender on my face on Saturday mornings the pushcart prophets dive deep bent at the waist looking for daily bread the blessed or lucky or trust funded or me we sit on the sidelines safety nets in special edition knapsacks and gluten free snacks me just a cup of coffee and a head full of lucid dreams that the year has nursed with me in thoughts so little spoken feeling not the slightest obligation to mill through success and failure and measurements of poise dignity and strength i sit there golden sun strokes my she dong and life is lived in various circumstances i for some reason only known to beloved Dharma bums have the privilege to sit inactively here today and tweedle my brains smiling at my chances to my left an angel cries out the gospel in a fevered torrent hexed and exhausted but delivering a message for free without the complications of mega centers and fine Italian suits