Poetry from Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Crack His Head 

Push him down.
Crack his head
like an egg,
blood yolk on
the cement. Push the old
man down on
the pavement.

Dominate, so shameful. 
Was that worth
it? Really?
Is that your
training? Push
old men down. Protester
down, peaceful
protester down, his blood
on your hands. 

A slap on
the wrist, paid
leave, is that
punishment for assault?

Captive Wind 

You cannot hold the wind captive.
If it dies, it will kick back up later.
It will pick up the pace in a hill,
gently at first. When going downward,
pity to those who stand in its path.

Do not take it lightly. You cannot
hold the wind captive for too long.
Its ghostly breeze will topple you.
Its memory will be imprinted in
your thoughts. If you fear the wind,
you better bundle up to the neck.

It will leave you in misery. It is a
sea wave on land, and it could strike
softly or with immense cruelty.
It will slap your forehead like a
backhand. The wind does not play.
You cannot hold the wind captive.
It will make a great escape and
bring silence a world of sounds.

Drowning in Fire 

As if drowning in fire,
burning through and through,
it is clear that passion
and desire are running through
my veins.

No amount of water
can slow down this inferno.
Night cannot cool me off.
The water in the moon is not
cold enough.

Like a burnt stone
under ashes I remain. I am a
shadow of flames burning like
stars. My passion and desire are
burning for her. I throw myself
into a lake of fire and I go down
to the deepest depths. I come up
still burning from head to foot.

I take my agony to the frozen lake,
halfway from the frozen mountain.
A flaming shadow follows. I close
my eyes and she is still there, the
woman that I burn for.  She is there
when I am fast asleep in my sub-conscience,
in my dreams, she is
the burning woman, and I am the
burning man, burning in splendor. 

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