Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal



I have stood
one is company,
and even a
shadow's too much.

I am with
the crickets at
night, breathing
in the dark watching
nothing, hearing
every single sound

those critters
make: a language
I don't understand,
but enjoy a great
deal. It makes me
feel I'm not alone.



I'm too ripe.
I'm not raw
like I used to be.

Wisdom seems
to have skipped
out on me. I'm dumb.

But I have
always been
too hard on myself.

I'm standing
in the sun
decomposing: no

shady tree
near to find
some needed solace.

I avoid
small talk, but
I can be a good

But these days
I want some quiet.

I don't want
wisdom or

I have had
enough. I'd
like to get some sleep.

Count some
white and black
sheep jumping backwards.

I'm too ripe.
The sun has
had its way with me.



When I am sick and dying,
almost losing my voice,
I hope I have enough
strength inside of me
to flirt with a nurse or
two; not be crass or rude,
but able to point out all
the small things that
make such a difference:
how pretty their hair
looks; how sweet their smiles.
I'll keep the R-rated and
beyond thoughts to myself.
When I am sick and dying
I want to have enough strength
to hold a pencil or pen
to dash out a few lines:
go out writing while I
still have one breath inside.


Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
      “No one can teach you how to write a poem.” I have been writing for several years. Pygmy Forest Press will publish my first book of poems sometime this summer (2003), title, “Raw Materials. I have poems and short stories at unlikely stories and pemmican press

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