Pablo Cúzco

Biography

I am a writer of philosophical flash fiction, poems & haibun. I grew up in France and Germany and spent my early twenties traveling across the US writing songs, jotting them down as I went. Now in the Southwest with my first love, my wife Maria, I have time to reflect on and share those experiences.

Samples

THE SKY CLOSES In memoriam (June 8th, 2018) ___________________________ The sky opens. Morning | the sound of footsteps on sidewalk | chalk and limestone. The soft samba of children paying tribute to the World Cup. A warm breeze of fragrant pastel on stucco. Weathered wood, flaking paint.    Anthony Bourdain is dead    murdered by a thoughtless celebrity    ---himself Reminder: smile at iPhone | send selfie to self. Or just die a slow death. As the sweet smell of gardenias stokes the night, a gut string guitar plays. Castañuelas and Cuban boots counterpoint hand claps. An arabesque in 6/4 time | Evening The sky closes.    an entanglement has gone   ---in motionless rhythm I stumble   between the sky A MESQUITE SUMMER A wet paper bag reminds me that yesterday's paper is now plastic, enough to stretch twice around the world, and suffocate our oceans with otters and seagulls, strangled. Tomorrow's paper will speak of wars involving the "liberation" of Ukraine and the "razing" of Gaza. My energy levels fluctuate, like a hot day in Texas. Cold by nightfall under the air conditioning, the stars and the cobalt blue skies of a mesquite summer. DRILLED INTO THE WOODWORK Sawdust covers the floor. The woodworker's shed is lit by a lamp dropped from the ceiling, its light shining on the lawn. The swimming pool is deserted, except for a dusting of leaves left from Fall. I like my coffee black but stirred. She insists actions that break require a fix. She drills that into my wooden head until it sinks in like the carpenter's awl digs into oak. THE DAY BREAKS The sun is a dark form of magic It appears every morning Birds chirp mysteriously Caught in the grip Dew, earthworms Mites and mosquitos Tempt the sun hovering over nest traps morning ritual's dance of death The sun heats hovering It melts wax from the windowpanes Clouds of gnats do battle But it dries them up in the assault Noon blows up like Molotov over pale blue skies My skin creases in a timelapse that takes years Visualized in slo-motion and a face Half-baked from too many one-way Trips down the coast

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Blog entries by Pablo Cúzco

Window of the Afternoon Sunlight (24/02/2024)

The Streets of Rome (25/01/2024)

Handle Bar Tape and Pinwheels - A Haibun (18/01/2024)

Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/pablocúzco