Severed at the wrists,
I might as well be.
They took away my guns
And brought me here.
The court won't let me
Have my guns. I will
Write my congressman and
They'll be sorry.
My hands palpitate.
My trigger finger
Feels naked in this world.
I will make do.
Bring me some paper.
I will write Charlton
Heston for this ruling
That robs my rights.
I'd grind my teeth, if
I had any left.
I'm missing all my guns,
Each one of them.
Are you number one?
The big cheese?
Numero uno?
You can't get me out of here?
Then why am
I wasting my time
Talking to you, boy?
Get out of
My room, poor bastard.
If you can find my
Dignity,
Be sure to let me
Have it back. I'd take
A couple
Of cigarettes if
That is not too much
Trouble for
You, boy. Otherwise,
Close the door on your
Way out and
Watch your useless ass.
I want to give you my sight.
I want you to see what I see.
The fish eating cottage cheese,
Head as big as a grapefruit,
Scrambled eggs for speech.
I want you to you hit
Your face until it begins to bleed.
Have the blood going into
Your eyes and blurring your sight.
This is what I see.
I want you to run into
The streets like the Spaniards in
Pamplona, running with them
Bulls, only this time it's cars
You must watch out for.
I want you to stop your
Whining and take the medicine
Like I had to all these years.
This is the only way that
You will know me.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, 37, was born in Cuernavaca, Morelos (Mexico), and has lived in Los Angeles County since age 7. He works in the mental health field. His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in The American Dissident, The Blue Collar Review, Pemmican Press, and Struggle Magazine. His first book of poems, Raw Materials, is from Pygmy Forest Press.