Magazine
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal: “Do Not Be Afraid”
Rose Mary Boehm: “Dead machines”
Aarik Danielsen: “South 190th Street, Omaha”
Jade Kleiner: “Blood Draw at MGH”
Jeremy Nathan Marks: “Cattywampus”
Samuel Prestridge: “Drab Horses (America, 1958)”
Anna Saunders: “One whistle to go after”
Savannah Williams: “Cell”
Sarah Angstadt: “Counterproductive Side Effects”
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal: “Hearing Aid”
Sue Blaustein: “Serving Orders at Brother’s Foods”
John Brantingham: “The Greening of Creatures”
J.D. Isip: “Triceratops”
Paul Jones: “Two Flamingoes at Pea Island Reserve”
Samuel Prestridge: “My Father, Hailing from Ignorant Hill, Texas…”
Diana Rosen: “NEWS ITEM: Westside Pavilion to be UCLA Biomedical Research Center”
Nadia Arioli: “Sam Insists Only Oak”
Jon Bennet: “Petty Dreams”
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozábal: “Thoughts”
Sarah Carleton: “No, I would not like to ride”
Bart Edelman: “What Happens Here”
Marc Janssen: “Dog Days”
Linda Lerner: “Twenty-Four Hour Non-Stop News”
Anita Lerek: “Song for Blood Vibrato”
Jim Murdoch: “The Great Ledger in the Sky”
Timothy Tarkelly: “Long Night”
Robin Wright: “Nesting”
The Green Lizard I felt like a prisoner in my dreams. I was under lock and key at a prison in Paris like Verlaine, Villon, and Voltaire. In a dark cell drawing sketches was a green lizard. It spoke French and a little Spanish. The sketches were painted on the walls. The green lizard was my cell mate. Its bleeding tongue was its brush and the walls were graffitied with red moons, red stars, and red mountains. Through a window in the prison, the green lizard would come in and leave through the bars in the window. The prison guards would beat me mercilessly every morning, never believing that it was the green lizard that bloodied the walls with art. They asked me where I hid the paint and why the sketches were red.
About the Author: Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Escape Into Life, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. His latest poetry book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press in 2021.
Image Credit: Thomas Barbour “Dasia Smaragdinum” (1912) Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
Beautiful Mournings
Do you object
to beautiful mournings?
The path to the
cemetery with stones and
roses. Do you like
the fumes from open graves?
Who are you to
whine and complain? You’re dead.
The rotten sun
is the cook of your skin.
Nature’s gift for
one and all. Keep your dead
eye on the sky.
Watch the flowers bloom as
your stench
perfumes the collapsed trees.
The flies buzz on
not worrying of health.
Their stinking breath
worsens in summertime.
In this world the
babbling mouths speak and shout.
The dead man sleeps
soundly and with such ease.
About the Author: Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA. His poetry has appeared online and in print over the years. His poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, Pygmy Forest Press, Red Fez Publications, Unlikely Stories, Yellow Mama Magazine, and ZYX.
More by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal:
Image Credit: Caspar David Friedrich “Graveyard Under Snow” (1826) Public Domain
Eat Rain
We can eat rain
when our teeth fall
out; Mexican
beer from the bar.
The sky will be
the food mart; the
sea as well. We
can eat a tear.
No one will care.
Not Washington,
not the food banks,
and not the clouds.
We can’t eat fire.
New teeth won’t grow.
Ice cubes are
hard. This I know.
I have eaten
up my own sweat,
a pool of tears.
I am human.
I get quite starved.
I love the clouds.
The rain they drop.
I wait under.
And I eat rain,
and I eat rain,
fabulous rain,
clear, falling rain.
About the Author: Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, born in Mexico, lives in Southern California, and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA. His latest poems will appear in Fearless, Former People, Piker Press, Right Hand Pointing, Winamop, and Yellow Mama Magazine.
Also By Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal:
Image Credit: Claude Monet “Belle-Ile, Rain Effect” (1886) public domain
Dracula
Dracula is in charge of the blood bank.
His bloody mouth smile sickens me.
His lips make sucking motions.
Sometimes they appear to tremble.
He’s like a kid in a candy store; I can’t
imagine how such things can happen.
The sinking feeling has sunk in.
I see him swallowing blood as if
blood was going out of existence.
I cannot believe my eyes. I cannot
believe the things they see, Old
Dracula at the blood bank, eyes
looking up at the sky where the moon
reflects his shadow as blood spills
from his lips. He imagines that’s how
dreams should be. He has painted
his face and feet red with the blood
of men and women just declared dead,
from the suddenly wounded, even children.
Old Dracula does not care how small they are.
Sometimes he sleeps. Sometimes he’s up all day.
When the sun rises he remains in the blood bank.
I see him covered with blood. He is always covered
with blood. He is a mosquito addicted to blood.
It must be a curse to have such horrible thirst
and never feel full.
About the Author: Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, born in Mexico, lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His first book of poems, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. His poetry has been published by Alternating Current Press, Blue Collar Review, Counterpunch, Deadbeat Press, New Polish Beat, Poet’s Democracy, and Ten Pages Press. His latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine, was published by Kendra Steiner Editions.
More by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal:
Image Credit: Still from Nosferatu (1922)
When I Was a Child
When I was a child
I had no need for tennis shoes.
I walked the unpaved
roads of Zacatepec in sandals
sometimes barefoot and shirtless.
We ate small green mangos
from the neighbor’s trees
plucked sugarcane
from passing trucks.
We had no need for money
to entertain ourselves.
Video games were not yet invented.
Shooting marbles was our game.
We played futbol in dusty fields
pretended to ride horses
on broomsticks.
Our black and white television
only had two channels.
I watched the Lone Ranger;
he spoke Spanish like me.
.
About the Author: Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, born in Mexico, lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His first book of poems, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. His poetry has been published by Alternating Current Press, Blue Collar Review, Counterpunch, Deadbeat Press, New Polish Beat, Poet’s Democracy, and Ten Pages Press. His latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine, was published by Kendra Steiner Editions.
Image Credit: “Calle de Guadeloupe, Mexico” by William Henry Jackson Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program
As It Ought To Be 
