Five Poems by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

 

The Light of Day

 

Stacked in boxes

out in the yard,

the late poet’s

writings and

other belongings.

 

There are price

tags and some of

the work never

saw the light

of day, much like him,

 

in prison cells,

where KGB

agents followed

orders and

slept well or not.

 

One million bucks

was the price for

the poet’s work.

I am sure more

than he ever

 

made when alive.

I wonder how

much my meagre

will work fetch in

today’s market?

 

I am sure it

could be worth more

when I am dead.

It is worthless

as I still breathe.

 

 

Grow Silent 

 

I lived enough

and loved enough

and have felt so much sorrow

I can no longer grieve.

 

I find a blank space

and roll my eyes.

I find a still cloud.

I block all thoughts.

 

I grow silent.

I grow cold.

The blue skies and

the sun smile upon me.

 

I wait for a star

to grow out of the sky.

 

 

This Day Must Go

 

Put this day in your back pocket.

Fold it into paper squares.

It is too heavy to roll into a ball.

I have no other thoughts.

Turn this day into paper boats.

It will sink for sure is all I know.

 

I want to drive away from it.

This day must go on no further.

It pretends to be a beautiful day.

I do not fall for its snow job.

 

I want this day to fold up its tent.

It needs to go into retirement.

I will not hold my breath. If I scream,

a fly might go inside my mouth.

 

Do not tell me that cannot happen.

 

 

Burn Through the Day

 

Burn through the day.

Gold skies go grey.

World go to sleep.

Life interferes

with dreams. Torn skies

love the darkness.

God, save us all.

Friendlier days

elude me. This

house is so cold.

Flare up the heat.

I wonder if

dancers can sing.

Heads up, I quit.

Now is the time.

Move far from here.

Rain fill my thirst.

Dead tired of life.

 

 

Talk to Someone Else

 

I am not speaking to you.

I already told the judge my facts jack.

What do you want from me?

I have nothing at all to offer you.

 

I told the court everything.

Talk to someone that gives a care.

Talk to the judge. She can tell you what

I already told her last week.

 

I live in the streets because

the landlord does not charge me rent.

The landlord is the Good Lord,

who does not need a dime from me.

 

Leave me alone. Talk to someone else.

It is time for me to pray to the Lord.

I am sure he will spring me loose

if I pray a little bit harder this time.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal - Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in Beatnik Cowboy, Fearless, Lothlorien Poetry Review, Mad Swirl, Piker Press and Unlikely Stories. His books and chapbooks have published Deadbeat Press, Kendra Steiner Editions, New Polish Beat, New American Imagist, Poet's Democracy, Propaganda Press, Pygmy Forest Press, Rogue Wolf Press, and Ten Pages Press.