The Roof Ate Itself

By Luis Cuauthemoc Berriozabal

The roof was eating
itself. Suddenly
there was nothing
to stop the rain
from coming down
inside the home.
From the street
you could see
the water rising
inside the house
until it overflowed.
The roof belched
and the chimney
crashed down on
the wet carpet.
The next day workers
on ladders and
building materials
put up a new roof.
The rain was gone
and the sun was
shining. The new
roof was hungry.
But the owner made
the roof promise
it would not eat
itself, just the birds
and cats who would
find themselves on
the roof. It ate
Frisbees, baseballs,
and soccer balls.
Sometimes it would
lick the tiles, but it
kept its promise
not to eat itself.

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Being Human

By Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

I used to be a dog
when I was born.
I became human
when I was between
two and three years
old. I never had
a tail, but I always
had a good bark.
My ears would ring
when I heard sirens. I
lost my bloodhound
sense. I have to
work all the time
and wear a suit.
I liked being a dog.
Being human is
for the birds.

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Neologisms

By Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

My brigade feels all stretched out.
I got a train in my trees.
Is this why my grandmother
stopped loving me?

It is not as if I snatched her hair off.
The birds laugh at me
because I have female parts
like my grandfather.

I was assembled at PBS.
I look a little like Ironman.
I hear metal sounds.
I don’t know who controls them.

Where is my royalty check?
I need to go to San Pedro.
There is a job waiting for me.
I got rain in my brain.

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Strips of Bacon

By Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

An airplane dropped
strips of bacon
onto the street.
The bacon was
the pilot’s gift

to the people
below. His gift
was a stuffed cat
in a different
flight, a stone when

he was all out
bacon, and a
bunch of waxworks;
bird candles, six
inches in length.

He threw out wine,
twigs, and the arm
of a dead man,
his shoulder, and
a piano.

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