Three poems

Posted on February 25, 2009


By Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal


I fall
into recognition
that I have
been sleeping through

Does it change anything?
If I would have
kept my eyes open, would
life have given me some gift?

I don’t own a fancy vehicle.
I hate driving to work.
I fall asleep on my way home,
the wheel guided by some angel.

I would trade places with a bird
or the bee hovering over roses.
I feel like my tears
will overwhelm me someday like
an avalanche.

Perhaps if I pray
for the sick,
my life won’t be a waste.


A cat follows me
when I step outside the yard
like a watchdog.

The birds of the sun
sing softly,
except for the crows
which drown out their song.

Music doesn’t escape me.
I hear a distant train’s whistle
and then it’s gone.
I think of the preacher from church

while I thought
of the girl who I used to love.
Her eyes big and brown,
her arms thin as a rail.

Why is life such a struggle?
I want to pound at its ears
or recite
my poem about the stars,
which fell from the sky
like a gift from the heavens.


The night staff allows
men into my room
to watch me sleep.
I know they do more
than watch because I
feel wet down there.

I know they take my
clothes off because I
wake up naked.
I had money and
jewels stolen from
my drawers by

the night staff, who keep
on lying on me.
They want to get
with me. I want to
go home because my
babies need me.


Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal is one of the founding members of the Guerrilla Poetics Projects. His first book, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. His last chapbook, Still Human, was published by Kendra Steiner Editions.

Posted in: Poetry