Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal was born in Mexico. He now lives and works in Los Angeles County. His first book of poetry, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. His latest poetry chapbook, Overcome, was published by Kendra Steiner Editions and includes photography by Cynthia Etheridge. His next chapbook, The Book Of Absurd Dreams, will be published by New Polish Beat.
SINGING OF MURDER
The dead leaves scrape against each other when the wind blows back there where the body was buried. There is a black crow on the telephone wire that sings of murder. A witness to the digging and burying on a starless night, the moon covered by clouds:
the crow
spotted
by the flashlight
A dead dog’s scent permeates throughout the night wind, blood, and damp dirt on the shovel. The black crow flies to an adjacent yard, singing its twisted tune, as if to wake up the neighbors. The dog killer flings a small stone to shut the crow up.
in his mind
he digs a small hole
for the crow
One dog and then another dog begins to bark in the darkness, picking up where the crow has stopped. Lights are turned on throughout the block. The dog killer scurries back into his house, feeling guilt, and persecution. A light rain begins to fall.
in the yard
the shovel lies
on the ground
beside the grave
in the rain
TALKING TO THE CORN
I am nothing.
You, nourish.
I grow old.
You grow for a greater purpose.
In times of drought
we suffer.
I shake my fist
at the sun.
I hold a
pink corn necklace: sunburned I rest
on the dry earth
and I cry.
I am nothing.
You, provide.
Nations
will live through your nourishment. I
dance for rain for
each of us.
FIRING SQUAD
He smokes his fingers. The flavor is not what he is accustomed to. He smokes a pillowcase. He puffs at the corners. It tastes like wet cotton. He smokes imaginary cigarettes. He still is not pleased. He keeps his dignity by not begging for cigarettes. He has no money. He does not want to smoke discarded butts. He said he has tried that and he never will again. In his dreams his mouth is filled with cigarette after cigarette. Even though blindfolded, he can still smell the aroma. The only thing is he can also feel the bullets fired after each cigarette is lit. He is on the firing line in this dream: a captured soldier in this war inside his mind.
counting sheep
the green grass fills with smoke
in this distance
THE MAHARISHI
The night we went
to the Olympic
Auditorium,
between rounds,
an old bearded
man, that looked
like the Maharishi
Yogi, jumped
into the ring
and threw shadow
punches and
danced in a circle
in the middle
of the ring,
obviously drunk,
he didn't see
the two burly
security guards
coming up
behind him:
they dragged him
out like a rag doll,
heavyweights
against a flyweight,
they beat enlightenment
into him as he
struggled to get
free from the swarming
yellow jacket
punches...
FREEDOM
The schizophrenic
can’t recall the name
of the president.
Jealous, I wonder
if he knows there
might soon be war.
The schizophrenic,
too old to be enlisted,
too confused to
handle a gun, believes
he is Jesus, and
can end all strife.
Looking at his long
beard, and thin frame,
something like
the Jesus in paintings,
I hope for a
miracle just this
once, a schizophrenic
was misdiagnosed.
He turns water to wine,
disarms the Christians,
Muslims, and all the others
isms and thisms.
He saves everyone,
including himself. He saves me
from agreeing with
the psychiatrist, to lock him up
against his will,
and I watch him go free.
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