Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- 3 Poems


When will the rifles leave
their troubled lives behind?
Their exercise in war
is an awful thing. Closed
fists are bad enough as
are slaps with open hands.

The skeletons pile up
in the bloodied landscape.
Their dead eyes are absent.
The rifles did them in.
They made a blasting sound.

Dogs walked around in the
rifles' dream. They were shot.
The rifles killed them. The
poor animals look like
if they were asleep, but
I looked at them and cried.


I lived in the wilderness
in the mountains
North of Hollywood
coming down for
part-time work
volunteering at a local
liquor store
sweeping up trash
and collecting change
I had no intention
of being locked up
against my will
I am ready to leave
I promise to try my best
to stay away from
this place; I want to find
work across state lines
this state has become
too restrictive
in the mountains
the trees are incredible
in the wilderness
I could be myself


I stole a glance
and you could not stop me.
I just needed
to see what I was missing.

Your green eyes were
not as menacing as
they were lovely
like tranquil mountains

like the greenest olives
in the greenest tree.

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