Less Than Immortal
She had a sun tattoo
on her back.
A savage sun blinded
her eyes.
She aimlessly walked,
heedless to
advice to wear
sunblock. The days
grew warmer as she
walked block
after block. She was
living as if she
exhumed immortality.
She borrowed
fruit from the garden
of earthly
delights. Her snowy
years were
covered with hair dye.
Her limping
came from tight
fitting shoes. Her
pale skin was
brutalized at high noon.
Her fancy dresses were
tattered and
old. I could see her
withering. She
seemed like the
walking dead. Her
long dresses scraped
the pavement.
She was bound for the
cemetery
where corpses are less
than immortal,
a vast cemetery with a
lake and trees
that made the grounds
not so gloomy.
Her hair was falling
out. She felt like
her love of life was
slipping away.
A heavy rain began to
fall like if it had
not fallen in a
thousand years.
Beginners of Sorts
Offer me nothing.
Take all I can give.
Beginner of sorts.
Sane just in my mind.
Together let’s find
hell and its lost
souls.
You and I are just
beginners of sorts.
Open your heart.
Same as I will.
Song and dance begins.
Mountains fill with
haze.
Ocean welcomes fog.
Films are being made.
Reason has no clue.
Times are getting
strange.
Lines are filling up.
True love lies
dormant.
Happen to be free.
Shake the cobwebs off.
Beginners of sorts.
Stake your heart with
wood.
Smiling as you bleed.
Need a transfusion.
You know we are just
beginners of sorts.
Love is all you need.
Succeed and go on.
Song and dance ensues.
Mountains clearing up.
Heartaches come and
go.
Films are being shot.
Reason has no clue.
Times are so bizarre.
Lines keep getting
crossed.
True love starts to
breathe.
On the Porch
I sat on the porch.
I saw her leave never
to return.
I sat on the beach.
I saw her leave and
felt the sun’s burn.
She is far away.
I said all I can say,
even goodbye.
I sit here at home.
I have no reason to
keep beating myself up
like a boxer fighting
himself.
I can see the sky
from this porch. I can
see the birds.
I wave at neighbours.
I see them walk their
dogs all day.
I sit out in front
of the house. I stay
here for hours.
There is nothing to
cry about anymore.
I see the sun coming
up.
There’s something
beautiful about it.
It is relentless like
a
boxer training to be
the next champion.
I was a punching bag,
so I know.
I see the cars drive
from my seat on the
porch.
I only wave to the
drivers I know.
I see them leave to
destinations unknown.
‘Round and
‘round they go. I stay
here all day.
I stay here for hours.
I will stay here until
I am ready
to go on with my
life.
Grandiosity Blues
On Thursday
I declare myself
a cop who
only kills killers.
On Friday I
will be a judge
overturning
fascist
laws by lunchtime.
In the evening
I will be Friday’s
blind date for
Miss Universe.
I will take her
to my castle in
París, France
on my private jet.
Saturday and
Sunday we will take
a cruise on
my yacht to the Greek
islands and eat,
drink, and be merry.
Monday I
will sleep through the
day;
Tuesday and
Wednesday too.
Thursday
I will be
God, creating new
worlds.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozabal - lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles,
CA. His poetry has appeared online and in print. His work has been published by
Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, Nerve Cowboy, Pygmy Forest
Press, and Unlikely Stories.
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