Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

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.

Mister Arrow
may your aim
not stray to
my eye or
to my heart;
may you split
the apple
on my head.
Give Mister
William Tell
accuracy.
I do not
like pain or
would like to
go blind like
all the folks
elected
to work for
us and not
for themselves.
I have too
much trouble
to worry
about than
to face life
with a hole
in my face.

I will not go crazy
when my wish is granted.
I may be generous.
I may burn some bridges.
I can’t say what I will do.
Blood is thicker than water.
I hope that turns out to be true.
I could keep it all to myself.
I could go off on my own.
I feel vengeance for no one.
I forgive, but sometimes I cannot forget.
I could leave it all to charity.
I could leave and not look back.
I am uncomfortable with forced smiles.
I will listen to my heart.
I will listen closely.
There is great bitterness in the world.
Everything is going to be fine.

editors note: Wish well, win maybe; whatever is fine as we make it. – mh clay

Who wants to be the cold shoulder,
that thing that fills the heart with snow,
that thing that wounds your dearest friend?

The rain makes it much colder.
You feel it in the organs of your body.
It leaves your heart frozen and raw.

The cold shoulder leaves you beaten up.
It draws a different kind of blood.
It becomes emotional abuse.

It is brutal like the monkey’s fist.
It’s a silent killer, a slow burn.
It takes you to the ground if you let it.

The gaping wound gets wider.
It plants its roots deep inside you.
It makes your life a living hell.

Walk away from the cold shoulder.
Save your heart from the discomfort.
Go about your business and breathe.

Only the ground could break my fall.
Only the ground could cover my bones.
Only time will tell where and when.
Only time will buckle my knees.
My feet will go out. My torso will weaken
and slink into its coffin. I will fall
headfirst into the darkness or light.
I have no idea how it will end.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
eternity will meet its finality.
Only the ground could break my fall.
Only time will buckle my knees.

I feel like a human experiment.
Thieves have stolen my brain.
I have no sense of timing.
The mirror does not recognize me.
I feel a dimness of sight.

I walk the streets confused.
I lose myself in these streets.
I am in search of my brain.
I am stuck in traffic.
I am deaf to the sounds of birds.
I am at a loss for the simple things.

The old house is haunted
by things that should be
tossed away. It holds
on to memories and
turns on the nostalgia
of broken dreams.

The old house needs a
new owner or a good
cleaning. It pulls you
in and throws you out.
It makes you long for
things that worked,
but now are broken.