i want to rip my hair out

i’ve seen multiple coroners tents these few weeks white tiny like a fortune teller’s but there are no chances no predictions no suspicions just finality i’ve not felt myself murder being televised 5G capitalized on death’s dealings my smile and gentle nature up on stage demands the talent and strength of an opera singer the gall of most world viewed presidents laying down or standing still mind woodchips all of my plans palms to the sky warm sun light reminds me that there is a God i’ve seen the death of my father dressed in blue he brought down by what he held up all of his life i’ve seen the death of my mother and the sting of unfamiliarity that divided us i alien child no umbilical cord on my feet walking slightly off smell of medicinal debauchery from last night peppers the air snippets sensationalized wishing shards of words empty whirling eddies of promise obscure delicacy is what i want when i want to be alone middle age was always middle age at any point in time imbibed in the yolks of many situations took on the foil as well as the queen as well as the beggar as well as a fiend feeding rats in the alley in the middle of the day with words that mean nothing but carry weight just the same i’ve seen too many coroners tents bottom line no one gives a fuck is the appropriate cause of death on the only certificate some of us will get privilege tells me to take some time trim my cherry tree smell the air inventory what i have and be grateful count the finches outside fighting on the bush that has a doctor and expensive fertilizer i want to tear my hair out at times rage knock over bureaucratic tables like Christ in Jerusalem

where crows go to bury their dead

a tight jawed loon that’s what i’ll be

silently i will slink

behind the dying ugly trees

they die like a Shakespearean villain

across from the dirty river

their dusty peeling trunks

looking like they wear shoes

but its only beige mushroom caps

growing from an addict’s turd

ant trail metropolis up and down

the droopy branches bound by old cassette tape ribbon

the sugar burdens on their little thorax

weighing just as much

as the burdens on my curved shoulders

obscure illusions and esoteric lies

the native boulders akin to WCF’s face

emblazoned with red stripes and nonsense

the names of petty thief street artists

stretching down from the lived in hill

where crows go to bury their dead

dime sized nettles in my unkempt hair

will tangle with the strands in silence

and with a little time

the thorns of broken thoughts ruptured memories

will burrow even deeper

like wet mud i step into it

but quiet i will be

be silent the people have spoke

a stone chorus in space

i hear them on cold nights

they are getting colder by the way

i’ll glance beyond the conniving lights

alone out of the way and in silence

post med

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

when i was

mbrazfield (c) 2020

in a room 1942 there i stood walking slow lights aglow in silent agony

across my street i heard the feet of the walkers in the dark

my eyes they’d dart inside and out of those walls that did contain me

on my lips a hunger creeped that caused my throat to scream in silence

and in these halls the books do hold the history of everything

my arms they mourn that he is gone away from the safety of my hold

and in this home i live alone because outside there stands the lie that is the bane of my existence

fleeing

nine in the morning it rains there are no clouds
just a dark gray block in the sky angelic concrete
i am longing for something or someone to come
in to this rain with me
alas the freight train
she won’t come
she has never been here
nor can i see her smokestack on the horizon
and when the sun sets
the sun does set in the rain
but i can’t see it
the freight train will still have not passed me by
what would i do in that train you ask
i would get out of here
to another place
another time
another land away from the nightmares
away from the cures
at this point
this point right here
we are all mad
the disease is the Garden of Eden
i give into the garden
the garden is in the freight train
there with wood paneling
like an Irish grandmother’s home there with drinks
there with spirits
the freight train rattles and my longing evaporates
it is now nine at night
i have not slept
i have not slept
i will not sleep
the freight train
i don’t see her
she won’t come for me and my longing
the rain will not come
i was born on a rainy day
the rain she is my lover and my companion
and she also sits with me in longing for other skies
that only the freight train can give or take away

done a little dance

right in the middle of your eyes where the universe glows
i can see the future there i go
i tango to the middle
of the nuclear bomb
evaporated into the nothingness of everything in the world
and the world above that world and so forth and so on
i don’t claim to be a physicist
i don’t claim to be anything because i want to tango into the middle of your nuclear bomb
i don’t understand how it got this way
there are sunsets and there are sunrises
and there are suns and there are moons and stars
and i suppose i’ve been told there is a God
but the one who told me is merely a human
how can we know
there is fire
there is hot hot fire
there is very cold ice
there are lights that are just imagination
of those who’ve come before me after they’ve tangoed into your nuclear bomb
in the midnight puddle of water
where the crazy heard the call
to tango into the river of everlasting
that went inevitably wrong
with head underwater
as the oxygen bubbles pop
the cries of angst
burst out at me
mirror mirror in the dark
fade boom atomic tomb

mbrazfield (c) 2020

purgatory

time appears to have gone on forever and there is a big chunk of me whatever i am that has not changed on this day a very long time ago i was granted permission to come into this world to a big city that is just made of legend i learned very quickly that when the sun went down we all bled shit sleep fought hated just like each other no big difference not from the next city over not from the next country over and probably not from other planets today that old cautionary statement we only live above our demons but we never get rid of them swirls in my head i confess at times i don’t know how i think how i see things i don’t even know sometimes if i believe in pain emotional spiritual physical i don’t know the difference at times what does it feel like to be without pain does it feel the same as being in pain don’t know so here i am back at the Cecil Hotel right where i have always been obviously not in body but in soul sometimes when there is no one around to question the fuck out of me and why my face looks or doesn’t look how they want it to look that particular day i wonder am i a ghost i wonder have i been reincarnated i wonder when i look up and down Broadway and Main to the left or to the right and then i look up and turn around and i look at empty shells of buildings where gargoyles used to be decorations masonry ballrooms perhaps so much and then there will be a particular window that enraptures my eyes and i can’t look away and if i squint my third eye i swear i can see her young dark hair big green brown eyes i don’t know what her name would have been maybe Hazel maybe Dorothy who knows not a modern name and then when my third eye blinks she jumps