Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in West Covina, California, works in Los Angeles County, and is the author of Raw Materials (Pygmy Forest Press). His poetry, prose, and art has appeared in Black Petals, Blue Collar Review, Mad Swirl, Cowboy, River Dog Press, and Yellow Mama Webzine. His broadsides, chapbooks and poetry books have appeared in Alternating Current Press, Deadbeat Press, Four Feathers Press, Kendra Steiner Editions, New American Imagist, New Polish Beat, Poet's Democracy, Rogue Wolf Press, and Ten Pages Press. Luis recommends St. Jude Children's Research Hospital.
Put on your headphones.
Turn on the television.
Bury your nose in a book.
We all do it. We turn our
back on what’s important.
I will not force any words.
I will not use the word allocate,
too late. I have no image,
no brand, no reason to be
someone I am not.
They fly into the sea
like a ghost's imagination
and its bewildered dream.
Upon the shore for a brief time
their songs echo, skip
released to his
own care after
promising to
take medicine,
a promise he
is sure to break
Blue was swallowed by night.
Red flower became black flower.
Day was overcome
and still all was beautiful.
It is getting to be a little bit
too much. Things are getting
a bit out of hand. I do not
want to make excuses. Life
is getting the best of me.
Poets, Whitman depends on you
for he cannot return but turn over
in his grave. Purge your words
and make a stand for freedom.
Wanton winds,
take my broken songs
to the riverside
and let them drown.
I need room
for new songs of hope.
Turn up the voltage
and burn out the light bulbs.
Step off the pedestal
and conform to nothing.
I shuffle the deck
and the world lays flat.
The bluer the sky the darker
astronomy becomes.
I will walk on my own, stand on
my own two feet, keep my distance
always. I cannot swallow what
she attempts to serve. I must
look out for my best interests.
conversation or a song
to fill its spaces. The night
remains quiet. I discover
