photo by Gabriel Jimenez
Grave Concerns I have grave concerns as I dig up my past a thousand miles below and all I find is more dirt. I say this with a grain of salt and sweat like rain thicker than morning dew. I have no uplifting tales to tell. Birds in flight do not sing for me. Stars do not shine for me. My grave does not want me to die. Rules and Regulations I feel much more comfortable at skid row. No one tries to shove pills down my throat I never asked for. I can choose all the things I want to put in my body. I never been one for rules or silly regulations. I do not need a room or a roommate. At skid row I can sleep in a tent or a box or just lay on the sidewalk. If they say I am mentally ill, I am probably the most sane mentally ill person in here in comparison to every person in here, including the doctors, nurses, and social workers. Best believe me. Good Boy These chicken wings look like cockroaches with wings. I rather dig through the trash and find something much more appealing. You would not believe the things people toss in the trash. There are treasures there. No diamonds or pearls mind you. But what if? Look, all that really interests me about this place is the poetry in which the patients speak. I want to stay just to listen to them. The voices I hear are far from beautiful. They are not kind at all. I am a good boy when they are not getting me in all sorts of trouble. The Longest Day The longest day never ends. Everything is a grind. The miles are longer than usual. There is no right way to go. Suddenly, day becomes night. The beautiful moon shines. and a woman catches your eye. The scattered stars twinkle and the woman disappears. The night drags on. This is your life’s longest day. The stars will not fade away. The moon is full like never before. Tomorrow seems so distant. The moon is betting against the sun never shining again. An Ode We are the readers of word-makers. We read their dreams. We wander where they wander. We make time for their words And worlds they bring to life. We take voyages to desolate lands. We get our feet wet. We sing and die, With every flip of the page We go forth searching Finding our way through A wilderness of words And of the imagination. We learn new songs. We search for the truth Between every line. We look to the past, where word-makers Howled, wept, and walked Alone. Many lonely days And lonely nights they wove Their tales of woe and wonder. We are the readers of word-makers. We share their dreams. *An Ode appeared in the defunct "remark." in Issue 35, July 2005. "remark." was a poetry journal founded by Justin Barrett. This issue was edited by Kathleen Paul-Flanagan* Bio: Born in Mexico, Luis lives in Southern California and works in Los Angeles. His most recent book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press. His work has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories.