Saturday, November 26, 2011

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal: Three Poems


Without words,
books, and dictionaries,
the silent type might rule.
Without language,
there’d be no use for pens
and ink.  Our tangled
nets would fill with fish
and their smell could not
be described.  They would
not be fish.  On cold nights
we would shiver and cough.
The rotting corpses would
not have names.  Home
would be a place and there
would be no word for it.  Sound
would fill our ears and
the sky would just be a thing
like the sunset would be something
without a name.   Home would
be where we dream and like
everything it could not be
described.  The wind would be
soothing like your soft kiss.
There would be no word for love
without language.


I heard the crying woman in the yard last night.  She does not come around as often as before.  I have never seen her.  I only hear her cries.  She is an apparition, a ghost.  She only appears to some of the neighbors, who describe her as lean, with fair skin, and long hair.  I hear she grew up around these parts.  She died after she lost her husband in the first World War.   She drowned in her bathtub leaving behind a small note.  I am going to meet my soldier.  She did not sign it.  I cannot sleep a wink when I hear her cries.  She makes me feel like crying too.  It is so infectious.  It sounds like she’s pouring out her soul to love long gone.  I could not comfort her because I have troubles of my own.


The invisible woman wept transparent tears.
She sealed her heart away.
She walled her heart and remained at home
inside her homemade grave.
In the airless room the disappeared woman
welcomed no strangers.
She preferred to be alone because she could
not be with her one true love.
The invisible woman believed heaven was
in her room and thought
she was blessed and completely dead
inside her homemade grave.

Luis was born in Mexico.  He lives in Los Angeles County and works in the mental health field.  His last chapbook, Digging A Grave, was published by
Kendra Steiner Editions.   Alternating Current will publish his chapbook, Peering Into The Sun, and Poet's Democracy will publish his chapbook,
Songs For Oblivion.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

David Nix: Two Poems

Midnight Meanderings

Dark and twisty
The ash of a cigarette
Spiraling down to oblivion
Never good enough
Used and tossed away
With the filth

Tired but conscious
The ache of an old scar
Pondering endless nothings
Endless everythings
To only return

Alive but dead
Blazing into silence
I am alone.

So It Goes

Cultural boundaries hide nebulous           

All I see are dull people,
arguing dull topics,
with other dull people.
Is it enough to live?
It is enough to die, apparently.
I can’t express my deepest feelings,
but I can ride a mule.
Let’s pick and choose
because it suits our idea of perfection.

Ambitions outweigh our commissions      
          and omissions.

What even is perfection?
Is it our elitist, exclusive
communities of righteousness?
Letting no one in
and no one out?
Fuck that.
It’s not about you.
It’s about everyone.
And everything.

The meek are on a losing streak, so to      

I’m not arguing the idea,
only the practice.
I have no doubt.
I’m just fed up
with the bullshit.
Cliques reject you,
parents hate you,
job enrages you,
and you’re left with the one
who loves you.
I get it.

No one is mistaken, they just need to        

It’s global.
It’s viral.
When devotion becomes zeal,
that’s when you have to watch out.
I just don’t get it.
Live and let live.
Is my point.
Because murder is ok
if you’re told to do it.
You know.

I’m comfortable with the     

People are going to be petty and vile.
You have to accept it.
I don’t know I’m right.
I don’t know much.
But what I do know
is when that sun chases the moon
around the Earth to bring the night,
it goes on.
And on.

A few words for David Nix
Hey everyone! My name is David Nix and I am currently a student at George Mason University and an English major with a concentration in Poetry Writing. I started my college career as a physics major, switching to English because I decided I liked the power of words more than the power of numbers. I hope you enjoy my poems!

Sunday, November 06, 2011

Editor's Note

All poets waiting to see their contributions appear on this august page are advised that we will be approximately a week later than planned in publishing them. This couldn't be avoided, but once we get back on schedule we'll let you know. The Beatnik.

Neil Ellman



In Love

I am in love
with stars, tarantulas and you
porcupines, pyramids
and mayonnaise
Picasso and gumbo-limbo trees
the frost on the morning cloak
shredded paper raining down
on streets
crowded with asteroids
and caviar
with you as well
as the smell of lavender
and the touch
of a stranger on the train
no stranger than
the love I have for you.


Coiled conceit
in arms
cold to the touch
the cobra springs
           shedding skin
                   (not  yet her own)—

and I trusted you
for what you were.

From Your Side of the Sun

On your side of the sun
       this     &      that
          in cold colors

         white fireflies
         contained in
         incandescent jars

it never stops
                these rumors

                age define

       dark spots on an old man’s face
       suggesting spittle from its mouth


      when there is none.


Vodka becomes me
i, it
we are friends
from the playgrounds
of our youth
old lovers
behind a barn
in the grass
we climbed
it and I
plunged to the soft
of the Mariana Trench
where no neighbors
could see us
nothing touch us
we had no shame
where shame itself
was light
no remorse
we grow old
really old
i and it
fulfilling our pledge
till death do us part.