lost on the way

mbrazfield (c) 2020

ya ever listen to sister Tharpe wailing on her guitar while spiking up your mohawk

strumming and tugging at my strands as her sweet sultry honey melts into my ear veins

getting ready for TSOL to play on the Sunst Strip in LA balls to the wall sexy hell

underage but i don’t care the way i’ve been living i’m going no where

life was too lively growing up at home so i ran from the folks

and broke all the rules danced on the shore at 7 past noon

big black ugly boots Cinderella slippers were for fools

stick my tongue out at the sky fill my nose up with white lies

scratches cuts bruises and tears bloody trousers fists in the air

scent of cars black smoke and politicos resign my gender go underworld

Christ Savior i see the Son can You explain why i felt at 3 like 21

riding on the bus with the ladies of the night shift who went to clean the houses of the rich

indignation in their smile as bright brown eyes fell on my style

echoing in the length of the trains how can this child spit on the American dream

missing the point in what i conveyed symptom of the American nightmare lost on the way

used to

mbrazfield (c) 2010

the mania left

no confetti on the floors

just bits of distorted senses

peanut butter jar lady fingers but no one to lick them

i’m out of maxi pads

but i dont really want to

go out now

closing my lashes pills on my tongue

to keep death from threatening and being a fool

when i was young i saw the gold sound of BBs Lucille rising like smoke when a pope is chosen

life has come and stayed in the mess next to me

thrill in the last throes of something long gone

insomnia

the clock in my mind
doesn’t really tick tock
it’s more of a low cruel scalding grind
like a rusty cog from an old Slavic car
i lay on my mattress the linen pulled tight big fluffy pillows to hold in my thoughts
the colors are sanskrit oozing in sunburst lotus in buds
every so often when my body shuts down
the beat of my arteries scats like old Calloway
from a past filled with poisons textured with scars
then the grinding is noticed by a runaway synapse and my eyes they go shut
the cat’s by my footstool and the dog’s by my side
yet it is lonely the spirit is gone
she hides in the closet
where her wings were cut off
diagnosis haven across the bookshelf
eating disorders sadness depression societal crud
the plant upon the dresser silver and wide reminds me of Warhol and incense and wine
then the phone pings and i go rub my eyes
i hear that new song sent from afar
i wonder about mother Hubbard and the Kennedys the story of pauper clowning the kings
so i get up to empty the voids in my throat
i walk to the kitchen and touch a tea pot then i look out the window and think of your mouth the back of your head
do i look for what’s final or do i trudge back to bed

Thursday morning

last night i hung out with Jimmy and Janis

and in the shower i sang about foxy Kentuckians

not sure if it meant anything at all but yet can’t help to daydream about his guitar and her vocal chords

making coffee the feeling persisted why am i still here

just feelings i guess no need to worry the squirrels are in the tree the sidewalk exists from what i can tell

i do an LOL i’ve kissed the ground so many times with my ball and chain gang of personal fools

could it be that it truly is just semantics me wonders whilst the refuse truck crawls by on Thursday morning

intervals in session

pic mbrazfield (c) 2020

the reason:

the lighthouse built in 1874 and lit the same year stood like a resplendent bride against the blue and lavender aging father sky giving her away the edge was just there one four inch move and then

the back story:

i would gulp my chocolate milk shake with my little fat legs dangling from the counter stools peering down at the green and white checker board linoleum floor

an hour before the reason:

with the wind blowing in my ear i catch a few notes of  “House of the Rising Sun” emanating from somewhere in the bowels of the tightly knit drunken biker crowd

trigger A:

child-hood memories float slowly into my head as i breathe deeply the Pall Mall smoke wafts by intermingled with the sea weedy odor from below the cliff

the back story’s back:

my mind wandered again into my mother’s ghost i loved studying her design patterns thousands of silk spools and the sequins and crystals God’s firmament in my mother’s house

smiling at Dr. Pang:

i loved to listen to my mother talk in that sophisticated German accent for most of my life she was as far away from me as the horizon i was looking at now

good Samaritan getting complicated:

a scratchy voice tore at the rice paper breeze midway he turned back to look at me and blew me a kiss as he melted into the small crowd

flat lips move at Dr. Pang:

my mother whipped me with yellow nylon rope every time she struck me on the legs thighs or torso the rope would welt up my skin and leave a red hot sting i could move but i didn’t

trigger B:

later that rainy night i awoke in the lobby from a very young age i discovered that an aching soul however would need a stronger analgesic

eclipsed mental decomposure:

i squeezed the memory out of my mind and as i removed my fingers from my eyelids a most beautiful black canopy covered the sky as diamond stars throbbed simultaneously i focused and marveled at such beauty it still causes such wonder in me to remember the night that the moon ate the dark

Dr. Pang concerned at the options:

for years i only spoke if spoken to and i kept my answers to only seven words or less i counted them i laugh about it now i was like Coppola’s Kilgore surfing through my own metaphoric napalm bombs

breakthrough perhaps:

she cut me up and sewed me back together again in her way the welts on my body were the fibers of strength that have helped me endure physical pain her harsh words were the sleeves and pant legs covering me protecting me from infinite poisonous tongues her rejection and unfair judgments were the thread holding me together when life’s sharp scissors cut into me

roman candle

snow fire light thunder the hummingbird speaks

the peacocks have been here for all time just their beauty royal blue tears

heart desires stretching reaching for infinite nothing it seems

i stare the moon frowns at me a spotlight on my shame most gracious lady my eyes downturn

pain and mystery are beautiful holy at times demonic only at someone else’s pleasure

if He wept at His abandonment who then am i to complain

agonizing rainbow look me in the eyes roses die in mid December

that all of treasure’s soul lays bare the blood not on the spear this time but splattered all to see

that a twisted existence didn’t always weave and the past a few exceptions made

that leads me to this Maypole game where spirit and soul are sewn into the coat of many colors

to light the sky in flames of glory and my spark to soar on angels’ arms

for Hunter S

kleiner clown

stars twinkle quietly pretty shards of diamonds distorted by millions of eons away from my finger tips

surfing in my mind thinking of my mom Lou Reed starts to rise and my heart falls apart

the bitter melancholy comes in sputters black roses start to wilt

thoughts float about in icy sky line no snow or eastern blocks in California

my mother where did she go where was i left to the mercy of the gravity among the milky way

Klaus Nomi sits in shiny triangle black space to my right singing opera lullabies

the water from my eyes wells up but doesn’t spill instead it boils down to dust which i use to bury myself no more lingering on

reading books of talismans in the pitch of the darkest part of night purple pinks blues and blacks

with the soot from the bottom of my foot i draw a wide smile upon the center of my soul

where in daylight for your pleasure will always be radiant

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

the photo

there you are ever so elusive little girl in marching boots eyes full of emotions jaded and dry your face long hair going it’s own way and your lips couching words hardly ever spoken what happened to you can you tell me anything or do you assume i already know the pillow the dark room the old narrow bed sheets scratching and pricking like thorns and when it was over the negative processed in the infinite dark rooms of our mind days became stages of distortion where actors die to live but you exit right all the time the night’s cusp on your worried face the wider you smile the deeper the pain snapshot smile snapshot cry snapshot deny