| |
|
|
| jenny-alonzo |
| |
| by luis cuauhtemoc berriozabal |
| |
Courtesy
In the asylum
the patient kept
a journal in
his room. He would
fill every line
with poetry.
He never shared
one word. He had
the courtesy
to spare us. Some
poets do not
demonstrate
the same restraint.
Street Wise
Protestants,
Catholics,
Muslims,
Jews,
Atheists,
the hell with
them all.
I don’t want
to hear about
Buddha,
The Virgin Mary,
or Jesus Christ.
I prefer
no religion.
My goal is to
get out of
this mother-
fucker
between five
and five thirty
today.
I did not
go to Yale,
Harvard,
or Princeton.
All I know
is that I am
street wise.
I do not
like bullshit
medication.
I do not
see spirits,
devils, or
hear voices.
I know I
have cancer.
But I won’t
stop smoking
because I
want to die
happy.
Jenny-Alonzo
The bearded man
with crooked teeth
shouts and pushes
his weight around,
all three hundred
pounds of him,
“I am too a
woman. I am
Jenny. It does
not matter what
others say. I
know who I am.”
Fighting cocaine
withdrawal and the
voices in his
head, Jenny flips
over tables
and throws all the
chairs around. He
cannot stop the
voices. It took
several men
to take him down.
In restraints he
sings and shouts like
a diva. He
disrobes, showing
the tits of a
fat man, the limp
dick of a man
named Alonzo |
| |
| |
| |
|
|
|
| |
|
| |
| like what you see on this page? tell your friends about it on twitter, facebook, myspace, or digg. choose your social network (from the icons below) and click |
 |
|
|
| |
|
|
|
|
