Poetry; Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
Born in Mexico, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poetry book and chapbooks have been published by Pygmy Forest Press, Deadbeat Press, New Polish Beat, Propaganda Press/Alternating Current Press, Kendra Steiner Editions, and Rogue Wolf Press. His poems have been published online and in print at Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Mad Swirl, Setu, and Unlikely Stories.

And the Sky Was Blue

I drew a red house without windows,
painted yellow and green beak-less birds 
without wings, and the sky was blue.
I painted skeleton-men with uneven bones.

I painted a flower with pink and gold petals.
I painted a complete city without trees,
a burning sun with a half-opened eye,
and the sky was blue.

Jealous of My Coat

I stand, a ghost at my burial,
the coat I wear fancies flight,
and off it soars above the clouds.
The coffin is lowered, and I feel
so cold. I look away and see
nothing unique about this rite.
The sun took a sick day because
it is nowhere in sight. I feel a
soft caress from the wind and
rain. I cannot deny I am jealous
of my coat. The spring rain seems
endless this gray afternoon.
I shed tears for the last time.
I am waiting for night and my coat.

The End of Time

Here lies my time.
It is up before
I take a step. I
need to get away

to when I was young.
It only gets worse.
I live a nightmare
life in a sea of sharks.

We are on this ship
sailing away to
the end of time. We
navigate confusion

with anxious minds.
We fall apart as
we mirror each other
as tomorrow ends.

Feeling Nothing

Feeling nothing,
I find myself happier,
without pain,
alive even,
without affliction.

Nothing affects me,
not the dread of fear,
not even one night
of terror sneaks
into my dream life.

I hardly feel
the sun on my flesh.
I slide into
my tomb headed
to a place I do not know.

Quiet the Voice

Quiet the voice

this nonsense
that seems to grab
you by the throat,

this flat voice
that wants to kill you

while the sun shines

down your throat.
The voice is on

a mission to
destroy your day

early in the morning.

The voice

is nothing like rain.

It is wrapped in sunlight.

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