Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

I followed the procession of tiny mice
driven through town in a tiny motorcade.
I could not bring myself to laugh because
I was told one of the mice was the king
and that tiny king had the power to
sentence me to a life in prison where
the only meal I would be fed would be
Swiss cheese and scraps of copper
wiring. The tiny king mouse was white
as snow and had dark black eyes. The
queen was white as snow as well but had
one green eye and an eye patch on the other
eye. It was forbidden to gossip about
what happened to the queen’s missing eye.

The melancholy flowers
in their watered vases
perfume out their misery
in public and private places.
Some grow lonely in beer
pitchers without beer. Some
in their helplessness are
wrapped in paper. Others
gather dust and are sadder
than yellowing leaves.
The long afternoons are
spent weeping. Their delicate
petals lend themselves to
photography and film. Yet
their sadness goes on
wounding them
again and
again.

In your eyes,
buried treasures,
seeking an
explorer.

In your eyes,
an innocent
being, seeks
some goodwill.

In your eyes,
space exists and
sheep are counted,
same as clouds.

In your eyes,
the sweetest heart,
its best days
are numbered.

In nowhere place
I meet up with no one.
I am disguised as
a mirror and no one
is my reflection.

The hours move slow
yet still they are wasted.
I forget the sound
of no one’s voice
and yet it sounds so familiar.

In nowhere place
I discover no one.
I change her name
to artificial light
as she flashes her smile.

The hours continue
to lag as if daylight
savings time keeps
rolling back and I try
a do-over on my life.

I picked a little fat
Christmas tree
this year. If I had
to compare its
looks to any human,
I would say it looks
a lot like me. It
could use a trim.
I could use getting
a little trim too
around the waist
line. The red, green,
white, blue, and
yellow Christmas
lights look like a
lot of things on
the dinner table
that I like to eat
and drink. Red salsa,
tomatoes, and red wine;
bananas, squash,
and mustard; sour
cream, potatoes,
and white wine;
blueberries, concord
grapes, and blue
beer. The Christmas
lights make the tree
look so good along
with the silver tinsel;
just like I look when
I get dressed up
in my Sunday best.

A message from the radio.
Oh, it’s just a song.
Some break-up lyrics and
a bit of pleading.

I turn the dial for something
else less desperate.
I find nothing to my liking.
The radio just offers

the same old songs that get
stuck inside my head.
A message from a songbird
just outside my window.

I tune in to that for a while.
The bird lyrics soothe me
this morning. It’s probably
just another break-up song.

If only my poetry could
bring down my mortgage debt,

I would write a poem a day
for the bankers who own my home.

I write a poem a day and sometimes
two, but mostly for myself.

I never expect a dime out of poetry.
It does not lower my blood pressure.

It did not stop the cancer that
the doctors skillfully treated.

I am just thinking out loud.
No banker would take my poetry as

payment. They would not wipe their
noses with any page I have written.

I am just going to work until I am dead,
and write poetry as well,

until my mind is gone and
the banker forecloses on my home.

How much would you like
for this toe? It has walked
for miles and knows its way
around. There is still a good
deal of mileage left in it.
This toe will never lead you
astray. You could say it is
a lucky toe. It has avoided
the toe tag and arthritis. If
you are not satisfied, you
could send the toe back. If
you could be persuaded
somehow, I could throw in
the rest of the parts of this
man that come with the toe.

Don’t take it easy.
You don’t have to be happy.
Rage if you must and
be mournful for what is lost.

Tomorrow is a
new day and there is time to
make things easier.
We are human with many

moods. Pace but don’t tear
up the places you live. Vent
but don’t carry out
acts of violence. I sound

like a contrary
sort, giving advice, when I
should be taking it
easy. I’m still not happy.

It is just going
to take a little bit of
time. Keep fighting. Hope
springs eternal, I heard said.

The wait is long
to get your blood
taken out of
you, an hour or
so without an
appointment. I
never learn my
lesson. I wait
every time. I
do not take the
time to pick up
the phone or go
online to make
the appointment.
I pass the time
writing poems
on my phone like
I am today.