Five Poems of Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
poems
The world is a tomb
with rocks and stones
branches and twigs.It is a giant cemetery
branches and twigs.It is a giant cemetery
with debris left by everyone,
much of it ends up in the sea.
much of it ends up in the sea.
It is a live streamed funeral
with flowers everywhere
with flowers everywhere
and stop signs as far as the eye
can see.
can see.
Beneath are the bones of history
buried along with our literature
and language.
No mathematician could add up
the numbers of all that perished
buried along with our literature
and language.
No mathematician could add up
the numbers of all that perished
in the world’s tomb
or at least come close to the actual number.
*
*
Your Voice at Night
At night your voice sounds more
tired when you speak. I hear you
and I imagine myself at sea. The
rough waves refuse to let yourvoice amplify. It is devoured by
rough waves refuse to let yourvoice amplify. It is devoured by
the beach sounds, the boats and
their horns. For a stretch I hear you
clearly, only to be defeated by
clearly, only to be defeated by
weariness. The next day, your voice
rested, I hear you loud and clear.
You talk and you talk and nothing
even the sea could drown you out.
*
The World is Just…
The world is just
shopping and having
Starbucks for breakfast
and reading autobiography
best sellers on pop singers,
best sellers on pop singers,
while sons and daughters
end up in encampments
without their fathers and
mothers, unable to afford
to stay in cheap hotels,
to stay in cheap hotels,
or afford to watch
the latest superhero flick.
the latest superhero flick.
The world leaves its
mother’s daughters
without Barbies butwith real babies
without Barbies butwith real babies
in their bellies and
no father’s staying around
to take responsibility
or share their names.
*
or share their names.
*
What Am I Saying?
Surface slips inside oblivion
in a downpour of tears.
How do you explain
the spring in your step
not the same this year?
the spring in your step
not the same this year?
Pray it does not get worse.
Hope it will get better.
Hope it will get better.
Take a deep breath.
Plan for your demise.What am I saying?
Plan for your demise.What am I saying?
Get a little bit closer.
Perhaps I am losing perspective.
What should we eat?
Something better than before.
Do you want to help me
pick out fruit?
pick out fruit?
The weeds in the grass
are growing wild.
I want to stay home.
are growing wild.
I want to stay home.
I am green with envy
for the ones with the means
to stop working. Maybe
I can take a day off.
I tumble from my dream
and I can’t get up.
I tumble from my dream
and I can’t get up.
I pull the rain
out of my eyes and
find I can see.
I stay home.
I stay within reach
of the table.
I plan my next meal,
I plan my next meal,
not the last one.
I cut an orange in two.
*
The King of the Street
The poor man smiles
sitting on the curb
and having a long
conversation with
sitting on the curb
and having a long
conversation with
no one in particular.
He laughs and he
laughs without pause.
His shoes have no
laces and no soles.
laces and no soles.
There are worms and
maggots digging into
his leg right above
his leg right above
his ankle. The smell
is beyond compare.
His brown eyes are
His brown eyes are
teary, yet he does not
stop smiling. He waves
off the social workers
stop smiling. He waves
off the social workers
and street doctors
when offered medical
when offered medical
care and a place to
stay. Barely intelligible
he says he is the king
of this street and has
all he needs to get by.
of this street and has
all he needs to get by.
With missing teeth and
a matted hair, he laughs
heartily from dusk to
a matted hair, he laughs
heartily from dusk to
dawn. If he moves from
this spot he says, he
will lose his throne as
will lose his throne as
the king of the street.
*
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
West Covina, CA
(Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal lives in California and works in Los Angeles. His poetry has appeared online
and in print in Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Himalaya Diary, Piker Press, and Unlikely Stories.)
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