Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal



Talk to the tattoo.
You'll be surprised
how much wisdom it has.

Don't fear its rough voice
and violent
depiction of war.

It won't penetrate
your heart. The gun
and the knife are mere paint.

It controls no mind.
It has given
up gambling and drug use.

The tattoo is clean.
The blood is pure.
The blood inside this man

with the tattooed arm
has no disease,
and neither does his mind.



In this belly
I have a lump.
It's incurable.

It's an alien
demon sent to
destroy my health.

I need to have
a small angel
inserted to drive

the alien out.
The weight alone
is killing me.

It is the worst
I've ever had.

This demon needs
a good reading
from The Good Book to

make it leave my
body free of
sin and evil.



Other than the implant
turning into a worm,
which wiggles throughout
my cranial cavities,
everything is fine.

If it is not taken
out, I may have to do
the job myself. I've
bought a real sharp razor blade
and some cotton swabs.

These will soak up the blood,
which has a tendency
to obstruct sight once
it gets deep inside the eyes.
Everything is fine.

I have drank plenty of
beer to numb the pain and I'm
ready to begin
the search for the worm feeding
with lust on my brain.

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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