I'm undercover
in this madhouse
searching for
assassins feigning
mental illness.

I was hired by those
with the need to
know and I
will never reveal
their names because

I took a blood oath
to keep my mission
a secret
to those who might
do me harm.

So far I have no
evidence of
such killers,
but I suspect
everyone here,

myself included.
I suspect I've
been brainwashed
and have no memory
of what I've done.

Wasting Time

I held an hour
in my hand,
wasting it,
reading a book
without pictures.

I learned little,
found my time
to be but
a fleeting dream
far from reach.

I held the next
hour in my
hand, drinking
beer and wasting
my time and myself.


The streets smell
of dead leaves,
wet after the rain,
as bums spill
out from sidewalks
in search of warmth.

They piss on
walls and leave
their mark for a
new year, not
different from
the last ten years.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal has had poetry
appear in Open Wide Magazine,,
and Shotgun Mouth. He works in the mental
health field.

2005 Underground Voices