Block Party
Out here in the tent
they are having a block
party.
The table is a tree
stump.
It is the best party
there ever was.
Someone busted a knee.
Someone lost the ability
to see.
Someone set fire to the
trees.
Someone discarded their
sex appeal.
All were invited to
come.
The scene was far from
serene.
All were invited to
come,
except for me, except
for me.
All were invited to
come.
It did not take long for
everyone to be gone.
Someone brought a baby.
Someone brought the fog.
Someone brought some
barking dogs.
Someone brought some
cold hot dogs.
Someone brought their
cat.
You should have seen the
chase.
Someone brought a carrot
rope.
I am so glad I did not
go.
The Voices in My Head
Sleeping last night
as the voices in my head
talked and talked
in my dreams.
Any time of day
my head fills with voices.
In my dream
they talk about nothing.
I have learned to ignore them.
I would love for
them to divorce me.
It is getting to be too much,
For years and years
they are happy to share
a space in my head
and in my dreams.
The inquietude of
the voices leave me drained.
I need my rest.
A good night’s sleep.
My mind needs a reset.
It feels so paralyzed.
I hope tomorrow
will be a better tomorrow.
But it is always the same.
I get so sick
of their presence.
Each day my life gets
a little more strange.
I write this poem
to the most fatiguing voice.
Shine Out
In sad silence
I watch
the stars
clustering.
The bone-coloured
moon shines
out across
all regions.
There is twinge of
gold on
its face and a
blood-red glow.
In the flowers
lament
there is a
bright spotlight.
The tender petals
blush with
grief, no longer
concealed in
darkness and
spinning thoughts.
Out Of My Control
Here we go,
Who took the rose petals
from my thorn flower?
What is this?
I took a low blow straight
from the depths of hell.
I’m alive,
but I’m fresh out of dough.
It’s out of my control.
My money’s
spent as soon as I’m paid
for shit bought years ago.
Do the math.
Life is so unkind when
poverty hounds us all.
Go to bed.
Wave the white flag in
the air and retreat.
Hit the streets.
Put up a mansion tent
where there is no rent.
Pay no tax
like that crooked old Prez
and save your money
for rain days.
Tell the creditors it
is out of my control.
My money’s
run out to pay for shit
bought many years ago.
Count The Stars
I count the stars,
those that have watched me
in my darkest days.
I have my eye on them.
I come announced and unannounced.
You know who you are,
you stars hidden behind the clouds.
Slide down, let’s talk about light.
No one’s going to hurt you.
You will be closely guarded.
Do you know my name?
Tell me yours.
I am sure-footed at night because of
you.
I walk under a cradle of light
practicing in the silences of
solitude.
The light is all yours and mine.
I have reached out for you.
I have been told you are dead.
I only see three of you
this evening.
Make the light mine I beg you.
Let me count the ways.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in Californian and works in Los Angeles. His poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Escape into Life, Kendra Steiner Editions, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Unlikely Stories, and Yellow Mama Webzine, which included his drawings in their latest issue.
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