February 21-27, 2005: Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal and Janice Gero

week of February 21-27, 2005



Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal and Janice Gero


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Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Cuatemochi@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal lives in West Covina, California and has been publishing poetry here and there for the past five years or so He is the author of the book “Raw Materials” which is available directly from him A review of his book can be found on the online journal Rumble.

The following work is Copyright © 2005, and owned by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Rosemary

She was evil But I didn’t mind I got off
on her cruelty
I listened
to her sweet voice
whispering
all that crazy talk
I didn’t think
She could swallow my
tongue, but
she left me speechless.


Skull Soup

I lifted the spoon
to my lips The most beautiful
large green eyes
looked back at me
from the spoon
The tender flesh swam
in my bowl I had some forehead,
some cheek, and
some neck skin But the
large green eyes

were to die for I
left the skull
in the pot to boil The soft brain
was pulled out and frozen
for dessert.


Janice Gero
jangero@pacbell.net

Bio

Janice Gero likes watching birds with her English Pointer, and loves spending time in the kitchen with her husband and friends Her primary interests are design, nature and food She lives in Los Angeles and currently works at Descanso Gardens, a public garden

The following work is Copyright © 2005, and owned by Janice Gero and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

A Good Day for Emily, and Me

Today,
I will study
the “Cornucopia of Edible Plants”
and the stance of the English Pointer;

Today,
the shy wren will be courted
by the wild parrot;

Today,
the gold freesias will come inside
for a fine tea; and

Today,
the elves
will believe in me.


A Soft Kill

Tonight, I soft killed
a little poem;
the small birds, and
sweet thoughts were lost;
smiling kindly
they slipped away
I had tweaked them
unmercifully, and
they’d had enough
lost identity,
lost emotion;
the clever thought
faded to gray
Only the flashy
beginning line
begged me to stop,
the whore that she was.


Ida Mary

Flipping through the bible,
near Revelation,
I saw an illustration
of the perfect Pomegranate, and
the respected Olive,
opposite Christ’s Thorn
with slim, fingerlike knives, and
leaves of poison,
near the innocent
Lily of the Field,
her pink blossoms
bowing to Christ (or Sidney Poitier)
I didn’t know Frankincense has
baby, star-like flowers
(that fits the story)
“Flora from the Land of Israel”
remind me of you,
perhaps they belong to you
and your tribe Noor’s placenta still
nourishes the Pomegranate tree
you planted at her birth;
a tradition I always meant
to adopt.