Posts Tagged ‘Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal’




I brought my own chair

and I sat in an empty space


where the plains were surrounded

by absolutely blue skies.

I sat there.


I waited for the sky to turn dark

by staring at the sun.




I dreamt I was so hungry.

I ate my whole hand.

It started with the right pinky,

then the ring finger.

I devoured my middle finger,

then the right pointing finger.

The thumb took a bit longer

because I was feeling full.

I got my second wind and

I ate my palm all the way up

to the wrist and the wrist watch.

The dream was so strange.

It took about an hour for

another hand to grow in

place of the eaten hand.

The new hand looked just

like the old hand only a

little bigger and less rough.

I had new fingerprints that

belonged to someone else

that was not even human.






I could have been gentle.

But you would have thought less



of me.  I am no angel

and trees cover my light.


My soul basks in its own

flame.  Rivers capture my


reflection. I look still.



I am a day star weeping

without a tear.  I take



no pity on the world.


My name is the sun.




Between songs
the old drunken woman
spit in my drink.
She wanted to get it on
and it was not happening.
She was the black cat,
the gum in the hair,
the winged fly
flying into your soup.
The old drunken woman
wanted me.

In the city of sin
the old drunken woman
wanted to get between
the sheets, but that train
left the station.
She was twenty years too late.

I deserve a drink now and then before life slowly assassinates me;
a frivolous drink just for fun to leave all my troubles behind.
I have had enough water and coffee.
Do me a favor and drink with me.
Pretend we could fly like eagles.
I would love for you to join me.
Let us drink until the moon
fades along with our agony.
I have a few dollars in my pocket.
At least they will buy a few drinks.
Do me a favor and drive me home
if I cross the point of no return.


The grandeur of my thoughts

lifts me to places I cannot climb

in the real world.  I see things

others are too blind to see.   In

the real world my hands are

tied.  In my thoughts I can fly

to heaven and I bury my head

in soft clouds.  I talk to my

guardian angel who calms me

down when I go insane.  In

the real world the sky is too

high and I remain below.

Mist fills my eyes.  In the real

world everywhere I go is

nowhere.  Armies conspire

against me and madness is

everywhere.   In the grandeur

of my thoughts I am made

of steel and I can do anything.


Four horses
came to me in a dream
with their mouths bleeding.
The horses
talked; their red saddles
dripped. They spat
blood and broke off running
like demons from hell.


Make yourself invisible and you could go around like a cool breeze. You could go around like the invisible man driving a car that would seem like if it had no driver. Make yourself as small as an atom, small like a grain of sand and walk a mile for three days. Make yourself so small no one could see you dance on the head of a pin. Make yourself a ghost in a bed sheet bumping into tables and walls because you forgot to make holes where your eyes are. Make yourself a black ant eating sugar cookie crumbs like if it was your last meal. Make yourself anything you want if you want to if it pleases you to be anything.



It is difficult to pretend you don’t care for someone. You look them in the eye and glance quickly away. You say hello to be polite. You say you are fine when they ask you how you feel. You don’t make small talk. You know it does not matter anyway. You cannot fall in love with someone who just wants to be your friend or worse just an acquaintance. It is better to make yourself scarce. It is difficult to hide a broken heart when you wear it on your sleeve.


I never had the chance
to have fun. I was too
busy taking medications.

Life isn’t like a movie.
In movies they have
goals. I can’t really act.

I got stretched out
when I was in school,
which is why I stopped
going. It was too hard.

Just let me go back
to the streets. Going
to a home is never
going to cure me.

I don’t know who the father of my child is. I never got his name and he did not pay me enough money. He left me at the hotel drunk and in a daze. He must have put something in my drink or gave me some bad meth. This will be my third child. I don’t know where the other children are. The state took them from me because they said I was an unfit mother. But look at me doctor. I am in good shape. Men pay me good money to lie next to this body. Do you want to try me? I won’t charge you a cent. I made it with a doctor before. I think the father of my unborn child was a doctor. At the bar where we met he told me he was a boobie inspector. He told me that when he bought me my first drink. After that we ended up in a hotel room. When I woke up there was a 20 dollar bill on the dresser. I usually charge ten times that doctor. How much would you be willing to pay?


They have Tasers
on the ceiling
pointed at me and
burning my skin.

There is a bloodspot
on the ceiling.
In the attic the
bad people hide.

The Mexicans want
to take my house.
They are going to
control the world

because they don’t
stop having kids.
They will start a war
and kill us all.


Full of echoes,
this house
makes me feel
as if I was
hearing voices.

The chairs squeak,
the floors
too, and every
step I take
my ears burst.

It is hard to
sleep when
you’re all alone,
but in your mind
you’re not.


I worked as a neck breaker. However, I was never paid much. You see, I was self-employed. The only time I saw a dime was when I was a pickpocket or when I panhandled near the Cathedral in Los Angeles. My hands were smooth when I broke necks. I used baby oil and talcum powder. Now my hands are rough and dirty. I became a rock tosser. I was pretty good at that too until I got arrested. Jail scared me straight. I met other neck breakers there. Lucky for me I was transferred to a county hospital away from the professional neck breakers. I think I want to be a doctor. They have snazzy shoes and get paid lots of money. I could buy all the baby lotion and talcum powder I want if I was a doctor. Eventually, I would go back to my passion, breaking necks. I read this Michaux guy in prison. He liked beating people up. I like that concept. I would like to do that too as long as there would not be too much resistance. I have a low tolerance for pain. Maybe I’ll just get me a gun.


I often wonder
what other patients
hallucinate about.
I wonder if they
see and hear the same
things I hear and see.

Ever since I was
stung by a scorpion
in my ear I have
been hearing voices
that won’t let me sleep

or think correctly.

When I took a knife
to the curtains and
tore them to pieces
I thought I was a
killer who could just
kill inanimate objects.