Two Months After Hurricane Maria, Published at Califragile today!

•December 2, 2017 • Leave a Comment

via Two Months After Hurricane Maria by Sergio A. Ortiz

 

Two Months After Hurricane Maria

 

 

1.

And the world

disagreed

with its own blood.

The wind blew away

sanity and today

we pull against

the riptide.

 

Time and space,

wooden shacks,

flew in an unknown

direction

and love lied

on the image

of a moon

tired of

unfaithful

lovers.

 

 

2.

night undressed

and all could see

her nakedness

 

she stopped weeping

and wailing

over lost paths

to rescue

what was left of her

pride, seaports, airspace,

enslaved hearts,

and raised fist

 

without knowing

the shackles

were so heavy

that even her silence

had toppled

 

  1. And if I
    were to expand
    to the point
    of bursting
    into thousands
    of pieces,
    if my suffering
    should reach
    that level
    do not sanction
    my heart
    or my body
    do not let me

escape
into nothingness
like an insignificant
hot gas

 

 

4.

toilet paper

or disposable towels…

insensitive son

of a bitch— do we really need

to kiss your presidential ass?

 

can we afford

another one hundred and nineteen

years of insults,

grave diggings, war deaths

and stupidity?

 

 

The Last Threshold

•August 9, 2017 • Leave a Comment

The Last Threshold

 

The promise to return
to the place where life began

Failure, to be banished
from an endless happiness

Shadows that wandered
the desert carrying their own past

A leaf-storm-fear
thrown to the felines of night

A beggar’s desire going door
to door and sitting on the steps

of last threshold
to discuss his ragged loneliness

his bones, a premonition
of the mirror where death calls

The indelible imprint of pain
and undaunted scars

A history of humiliating executioners
and false fabulists

The unsatisfied thirst of gods
who bully us with their vengeance

and a tree who in its old age
only nests birds of prey

 

Four Poems

•February 11, 2017 • 1 Comment

by Sergio A. Ortiz  A Matter of Habit “…you must say words, as long as there are any, until they find me, until they say me, strange pain, strange sin, you must go on, perhaps it’s done…

Source: Four Poems

Submission Call! Yes, we are Open for Submissions: for Issue 10 Send your very best modern Haiku and Tanka. Art is also welcomed, they must be surreal. Send up to 10 haiku and/or tanka to undertowtanka@gmail.com http://undertowtankareview.blogspot.com/

•January 19, 2017 • Leave a Comment

“No Time to Lose” by Sergio Ortiz

•January 19, 2017 • Leave a Comment

It’s cold here. Its color, a ninja turtle orange, and only 5 days left for el Presidente Electo to inaugurate his burned hair, his head de mal parío, his enano politician tweets.

Source: “No Time to Lose” by Sergio Ortiz

Adiós y 6 otros poems que han sido publicados en revistas

•January 18, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Adiós

“Cuando te hablen de amor y de ilusiones,”

José Alfredo Jiménez

 

 

Soy melodía

de un amor que no es mío,

álgebra del aire remoto

que asciende desde

los sepulcros.

 

Quiero

ir perdiéndome

en aquel espacio perfecto

donde la piel

termine de pudrirse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sal

 

 

Caes más allá de tu savia

como un pálido recuerdo

trocado en blasfemia

de lágrimas.

Y en ti mi corazón

es un círculo de fuego

que se torna en sal oscura

sobre tus playas.

Soy naufrago de sombras,

sueños confusos que guardan

el recuerdo silencioso del agua.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cruzando el Mar

 

 

Me vi llorando

sobre la piedra más dura,

en el rincón más perdido

donde comienza el viento …

 

Cruzando el mar

con remos de roció,

abandonado, derribado

en las sílabas de un “no te quiero”…

 

Y pasó la agonía de la noche

muriéndose en el fondo de una rosa…

Y pasó el alba aupándose

sobre mis montañas…

Y fue tan solo una ráfaga húmeda

que se izó en mis pupilas.

 

Dos siglos de auroras

tirándose al paisaje.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Esto Quiere Ser

 

 

La Imaginación

 

Este masticado agri-dulce ajo / esta asimétrica

pierna de Greta Garbo / esta gruta de silencio involuntario /

este inédito presagio de beso rígido / este anticiclón

en la topografía de un suspiro / este gentil lubricante

de orgasmos bovinos / esta obsesión kyriopascha

de convertir lo abstracto en lo concreto.

 

 

Las Palabras

 

Estas cartografías oblicuas /estas canciones corales

con destellos lejanos / estos guantes de cesti

del Foro de Augusto / estos pequeños momentos

de nuestras “visiones del paraíso”.

 

 

Lo Imposible

 

Esta bolsa de lona desnutrida /

este pintor de dientes rellenos de cemento / este gato

algebraico resuelto / esta tarjeta postal invisible

para el hombre invisible / este retumbe

que aterroriza la boca de un niño / esto

/ todo esto / quiere ser un poema.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Duelo

dedicado a mi tía Ruth Ester Rivera Sobá

 

 

El día de tu partida

te soñaré perfumando albas

vestida de orquídeas híbridas

frente a la casa vieja,

a corta vista de la abuela

Gacela que por las venas recorres

el mapa de mi escuela

sentiré furia de olas

batiendo la arena capital

de mi memoria

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

putos zapatos

 

 

mi pobre pueblo

decenas de ranas y reptiles

políticos invadieron su pozo

ahora todos nos odiamos

virus de zapos con “putos zapatos”

de cocodrilo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poema  # 1

 

 

Infinita llanura,

cordillera helada,

tumultuoso río,

 

navegación por el mar de colores apagados

o deslumbrantes,

 

desierto de oro

y noche,

 

litoral que alarga al horizonte hasta parecer el horizonte,

terminas tocándome

 

aunque no tenga rostro.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poema  # 2

 

 

¿He construido mi casa como quien hace

gestos correctos en lugares errados?

 

Mis lágrimas caen sin duelo,

desechando la corrección de la hojarasca,

 

sugiriendo un nuevo disfraz,

guardando el secreto de su frescura.

 

Lo irracional es siempre lo más bello…

Un cuaderno abierto de aventura y libertad.

 

 

 

 

 

Submissions are open for the 4th Issue of Undertow Tanka Review

•December 14, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Submissions are open for the 4th Issue of Undertow Tanka Review

Kindly submit up to 10 previously unpublished tanka, tanka art, &/or 10 sequence.

“Undertow Tanka Submission” to:

undertowtanka @ gmail . com

Or use Contact Form to the right

*** by January 26, 2015 / Fourth (4th) Issue

to be online by January 30, 2015

At the end of your submission, please include your full name and country of residence. All rights revert to authors upon publication. Your tanka must not be under consideration elsewhere or submitted to any contest. Hopefully this will become a print Review in the near future. We accept submissions year-round.

logo_1264033_web

Best wishes,

Sergio Ortiz, Editor

A new Tanka Journal

•June 18, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Submission Guidelines to Undertow Tanka Review

 http://undertowtankareview.blogspot.com/

 

Kindly submit up to 10 previously unpublished  tanka &/or  1 sequence, tanka prose,

“Undertow Tanka Submission” to:

 

undertowtanka@gmail.com

 

 

At the end of your submission, please include your full name and country of residence. All rights revert to authors upon publication. Your tanka must not be under consideration elsewhere or submitted to any contest. 

 

Best wishes,

Sergio Ortiz, Editor

rumble under your feet tanka sequence

•May 23, 2014 • Leave a Comment

rumble under your feet tanka sequence

I’m coming up from hell

with all you’ve suppressed–

hermetic texts

with stories of hot & dangerous

homosexuals

I’m coming up now 
with all that was hidden
get ready, big boys, 
I’m pushing up the ground
O censorious ones

BOO!
I’m thrusting 
into your point of view, 
your private parts
O men of losing battles

Remembering

•April 25, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Remembering

 

 

he sponges

the grit of loneliness

from my skin,

and dabs the salt water

of self-esteem over my body

 

I carry my life

like a stone  

in a tattered pocket,

yet I have a weaving song,

a healing tone, inside me

To Jose Manuel Otero

•March 17, 2014 • Leave a Comment

To Jose Manuel Otero

I am that angry and lonely child of always,

that throws you the insult of that angry child of always…

Reinaldo Arena, Viejo Niño

 

 

 

I’m breaking in new point shoes.

The skin around the edges bleeds,

un-stitches the sky like the odor of madness

… when I pull down his zipper to fill my mouth

with Andy Warhol copies of Marilyn

I find the camera’s light on my lips.

 

Her eyes sing; “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”

It’s all mine but I’m giving you a taste.

Baby, it’s not a cunt, but I look just as good

as she did in that beautiful white dress,

chichies and all. I’m hard-on-pancho—to you,

fuck better than Juana la Loca too.

to the small throat of sorrow tanka

•March 17, 2014 • Leave a Comment

to the small throat

of sorrow…

I am that hungry

yellow boy

from the third world

the slow hours tanka

•February 24, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Image

 

the slow hours

and stone lanterns

of a night garden—

musical symphony

that some god forgot

Tanka Collection – amazon.com

•February 13, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Tanka Collection – amazon.com

•January 25, 2014 • Leave a Comment

I enter

the bat cave

and feel  

the flutter of those

many hearts

 

we see

our world upside down

and wonder

whose altars those are

encrusted with shit

by Sergio Ortiz

•January 23, 2014 • Leave a Comment
I stop to rest  in a field of sunflowers  all of them halos without saints  to weigh them down

haiga

A la Orilla Lenta de un Ocaso

•January 22, 2014 • Leave a Comment

A la Orilla Lenta de un Ocaso

 

 

Por

  Sergio A. Ortiz

publicado  2014-01-16 ©


 

Llegaste . . .

 

 

Llegaste.

Eso es todo.

Una garza

en fuga

acortando distancias.

 

Llegaste.

Intima de atardeceres.

Lo lloro.

No lo olvido.

Lo sostengo.

 

Llegaste.

Tan definida que asombra.

Sin nada de intentos,

presente.

Desprendimiento.

 

Llegaste.

Y en mi solo hay silencio.

 

 

 

 

entre el viento y la cortina

 

 

desde un mar sereno

y la oquedad nocturna de la mina

desde la profunda quietud

de tu silencio

detrás de un mundo liquido

en calma

desde otra realidad

de ecos de campanas

o el enmarañado tiempo

que me llama 

a la orilla lenta de un ocaso

 

 

 

 

 

Sin Puntuación

 

 

 

Insistes

en lidiar mi silencio

con una crueldad infranqueable

buscando que nadie

surja donde mis rosas

brotan y huelen

a tranquilos perfumes

que abren cerraduras de orificios

y pestañas para escuchar

algo propio

 

Nada de distancias interminables

nada de monstruos

escondidos tras las puertas

nada de la nota baja

entrecortada

finamente

por una voz quebrada

 

poder cantar

poder cantar asombro

poder cantar

 

sin puntuación

 

 

 

Náutico

 

 

escarcha

que no se desprende

de mis manos—

entre flor y canto,

rosa y viento, logramos vivir

 

sonámbulo

existiendo en ambos lados

de una frontera—

las primeras campanadas al alba

en una aldea silenciosa

 

siempre me halle

en el limbo de las palabras perdidas

el murmullo

cimbró la tierra insular

y fui aires del pasado

 

que descienden

a nuestras zonas dolorosas

colocando a un lado

la miseria,

la ternura y la violencia

 

 

 

Tristeza

 

 

Se funde la luz de tu vida

sin embargo esto no es una plegaria

ni un reclamo de herencia

no consigue ser ni una disculpa

tampoco es un adiós

la casa que me arrancaron sigue viva

 

visitada devotamente por sus muertos.

 

 

 

 

Caminé

 

 

Quiero corroer los busques

que desataron la lluvia

con vientos mutilados

para bañarme de sal,

porque soy faro de lo indefinido

y traficó voces de ausencias,

murallas de esqueletos

que contrabandean libertad.

 

Mi tierra es un poema

que da sombra a los ilegales

pensamientos de una noche

perdida entre tu tiempo antillano, y

el sol lleno de cámaras transita

sobre mi piel como un fantasma

que reclama lo suyo con evidencia.

 

Caminé al frente de los ecos

de mi huida

hacia un corazón

disfrazado de delirios teatrales

con mi historia arrugada y mi

amor negro bailando la intensidad

del jazz.  Recorrí tu cuerpo con mi sangre

revolucionaria dejando huellas

profundas sobre tus ojos color canela.

 

 

 

 

Me dejó atrás . . .

 

 

Me dejó atrás—

Fue la distancia

de tu cadáver

que perforó un agujero

dónde estabas tú.

 

Fue el imaginarse

esa inimaginable travesía . . .

Mi Ulises

sin cuerpo

sin Ítaca.

 

Fue ese tácito clima

al que nos referimos cuando

no hay más voz

ni consuelo

en nuestra morada.

 

Fui yo

al no saber cuál cuerpo

tu tomaste

en mis sueños—

yo, deseando más que una visión.

 

Fue el no querer clausura,

una memoria sencilla,

el desvanecerse de tu voz,

tus ojos,

la calidez de tus brazos.

 

 

 

 

Sublevado

 

 

De que me sirven

tus abanicos rotos,

o el sudor del tiempo

licencioso, o tu espalda

en el ocaso de un abrazo.

De que me sirve la memoria

de tus ojos pardos, o el perfil

incendiado de tus labios tristes.

De que me valen tus pisadas

robustas de anhelos fértiles

e invisibles corrientes

en las aguas sin playas

que contienen las noches

frágiles de un sueño intenso.

De que me sirve la canción

para dormirte, o cien pozos

callados.  De que me vale

un “adiós” si todavía

te veo arrancando

sombras en la playa

de mi histeria.

 

 

 

Llegar con luz . .

 

 

hilando fino y sin planear,

soltando amarras,

que los ardores de este cuerpo

me devoren,

allá yo,

allá voy,

allá…

Empezando a darme cuenta

que no siento nada

al escuchar tu nombre

pasearse como un reptil

sin cola

por mi diáfana mañana.

Eres despojo

de infancias, el intermedio

arbitrario de un pasado

cauterizado con la luz

del vientre

de mi madre.

 

 

 

 

Sal

 

 

Caes más allá de tu savia

como un pálido recuerdo

trocado en blasfemia

de lágrimas.

Y en ti mi corazón

es un círculo de fuego

que se torna en sal oscura

sobre tus playas.

Y soy naufrago de sombras,

sueños confusos que guardan

el recuerdo silencioso del agua.

 

 

 

 

Amanecida

 

 

Qué escuchas

me pregunto.

Has colmado de raíces

mis espacios,

urdiendo, exhalando

la melodía de mi hambre,

urdiendo, exhalando

la sed de mi piel.

Yo busco mi propia

habitación en este hotel

en ruinas.  Qué escuchas…

Sino la lluvia.

 

 


 

Mi Soledad

 

 

Calma mi soledad

con el placentero anonimato

de la muerte.

 

Alarga la vía de regreso

hacia el mar infinito

de mi infancia.

 

Camina despacio sobre el incendio

de un amanecer que detiene

todos los sonidos.

 

Oculta la palabra y sus sentidos

bajo el anzuelo desnudo

de tu mirada.

 

Ignora el temor del bañista

en el turbio eco de un océano

guiado por intuiciones de colores ahorcados.

 

Separa la noche con tu rostro de hambre

de la estéril lágrima

abandonada al descuido.

 

Ay, mi soledad, tertulia insatisfecha,

acertijo de bastos para la ausencia

del lenguaje figurado.

 

 

 

Hacia Adentro

 

 

Llegaste a mi vida                                           

removiéndome el polvo

de los años,

inundando el corazón

de muelles.

 

Ahora el mutismo

es la fórmula de tu arrogante

orgullo, y tus surcos

enredan mis pasos.

 

*

 

Yo caminaba

a ciegas

sobre mi propia senda

ceñido en el misterio

de no ser hembra.

 

*

 

Mi isla abrió de nuevo

sus heridas

para hacerme ausencia

en tus palmeras.

 

¿Dónde está la muerte?

¿En qué agujero acompaña

al juego de luces de una vela?

No quiero este tiempo repetido,

ni el tímido silencio de una dalia.

 

 

 

 

Crepúsculo

 

 

Soy resplandor

de madrugadas fijas,

eco sin tiempo

que vuela al infinito.

 

Eres el seductor de mi reposo

que escala el acantilado

de mi geografía

donde todo se convierte

en fuego.

 

Raro que no nos sigan

vertientes de ríos negros.

 

(Será que el espejo se deshoja

como una emoción refinada

en tus manos…)

 

¡No hables! ¡Tu silencio

lo quiero salvaje!

 

 

 

Tu Sexo

 

 

Extraño tu sexo ciñéndose

a mi lengua.

 

Amo tu racimo de sudores

olvidados,

 

la gota de coñac que resbala

por tu muslo

con la indiferencia de una nube

que se aleja.

 

Amo tus claras humedades:

las de tu esperma tramposa

las de tus ojos lacrimosos.

 

Mi silencio con sus fauces

te rodea.

 

 

 

Un Solo Dolor

 

 

El sol se destroza en pequeños arcoíris para cruzar mi piel

y hacerme sudar como si estuviese acostado cerca de una tortuga

en el piso de un jardín botánico.  No quiero seguir viviendo,

solo espero que se apague mi corazón de un solo dolor.  Luego

me iré a dormir con alguna serpiente mansa en el casco de la ciudad

para no aburrir a los gallos ni provocar tormentas.  

 

 

 

 

Aproximación

 

 

Esta quietud

que mora en la imaginación

calma mi marginalidad,

la viste de mujer

para aproximarse

al lago y cantarle boleros a los astros.

 

 

 

No todos los silencios . . .

 

 

No todos los silencios

son iguales,

no hay poemas perfectos

como la sombra . . .

En ese lago

de cerrada indiferencia

donde cruje la cama

como una bolsa

cargada de lluvia

todos fuimos talla 30.

 

 

 

Canción Triste para un Adiós sin Remedio

 

 

De la selva huyen

cotorras

con las alas en llamas.

Le prendí fuego

a la lluvia,

laceré al sol con mi navaja

para huir del tiempo

que agita

tu piel como un látigo.

Hoy salvo mis abismos,

huyo del frio

que agrieta

mis alas

para no disgustarme

con la muerte.

 

 

 

Envejezco entre sueños

 

 

Éste no es un país

para ancianos.

Cúmulo irrisorio

de partituras anticuadas,

aves cantando

sobre el árbol otoñal

la música sensorial que todo ignora,

abrigo andrajoso

sobre un bastón doblado.

Adolecentes 

sabios, parados sobre

el fuego sagrado

de Dios, giren hacia mí.

Sean los educadores

de la trova de mi aliento

arrugado.

 

 

 

Cruzando el Mar

 

 

 

Me vi llorando

sobre la piedra más dura,

en el rincón perdido

donde comienza el viento…

Cruzando el mar

con remos de roció,

abandonado, derribado

en las sílabas de un “no te quiero”…

Y pasó la agonía de la noche

muriéndose en el fondo de una rosa…

Y pasó el alba aupándose  

sobre mis montañas…

Fue tan solo una ráfaga húmeda

la que se izó en mis pupilas.

 

Dos siglos de auroras

tirándose al paisaje.

 

 

 

Infinita llanura . . .

 

 

Infinita llanura,

cordillera helada,

tumultuoso río,

 

navegación por el mar

de colores apagados

o deslumbrantes, 

 

desierto de oro

y noche,

 

litoral que alarga al horizonte

hasta parecer el horizonte,

 

terminas tocándome

aunque no tenga rostro.

 

 

 

Solo en un banquillo mirando a un gorrión

 

 

Racimos trémulos

de desnudas soledades,

estéril desierto

de pensativa escarcha,

tu vida sin recuerdos.

El otoño no quiere mirar tus ojos

pues estás muerto. 

Eres brisa triste

entre los narcisos pálidos.

 

 

 

 

¿Cuándo?

 

 

Corrientes de aguas dulces

que en mi se cuecen,

tierra y cielo girando deleitosos,

estallido de sangre azucarada.

Lluvia fina entre mis muslos

que derrumba al cielo:

la tierra revuelta

de tus ojos. 

¿Cuándo vendrá

a saciar la sed de mi piel?

Estoy desierto de música.

Soy aprendiz del oficio de los ríos,

erosión del tiempo,

tarde magenta

en la sonrisa de tu beso.

¿Cuándo estallara

nuestro paisaje de aullidos?

 

 

 

un virus con zapatos

 

 

mi pobre pueblo

decenas de ranas políticas

invadieron su pozo

ahora todos nos odiamos

 

un virus

con puñetero  zapatos

de caimán

 

 

 

Tu Piel

 

 

Me urge el mar

en la almohada,

el zarpazo

de, calor, tu piel

entre mis piernas. 

Me urge,

me urge el mar.

 

 

 

 

La Imaginación

 

 

Este masticado agri-dulce ajo / esta asimétrica pierna de Greta Garbo /

esta gruta de silencio involuntario / este inédito presagio de beso rígido / este anticiclón en la topografía de un suspiro / este gentil lubricante de orgasmos bovinos / esta obsesión kyrio-pascha de convertir lo abstracto en lo concreto.

 

 

 

La espera y yo

 

 

Como la niebla al día

el dolor agudo asecho al consuelo,
el papel vació aguardo al instante,
como la muerte, como la muerte
salió al paso de los amantes. 

Liviano te busco—frágil bálsamo, 
sutil te miro—tenue dulzura, 
sobre ti escribo mi desconsuelo,
como la muerte, como la muerte
salió al camino de los amantes.

Todo lo escucho para mimarte,
todo lo toco para obsequiarte,
todo lo hago por alagarte,
como la muerte, como la muerte 
salió al comino de los amantes.

Si lograse decir cuánto te extraño,
te lo diría así: ¡Urgente!

 

 

 

noches

 

 

sin saber de ti

clava duro

 

mi incomodidad

clava duro la separación

 

lo duro de querer

más no saber

 

clava duro

el consuelo

 

de estar a tu lado

sin el llanto

 

solo la risa

tus ojos claros

 

clávame

duro

 

 

 

Bestiario

 

 

disfruto la distancia. sentado

a solas en el bosque de sauces,

 

comiendo arroz con leche,

durmiendo con la luz. apagada.

 

no sueño. con sapos detrás

de las puertas. ni pescaditos

 

muertos.  no escondo. juguetes

en el armario. ni fósforos. ni velas.

 

no es. que no te quiera. papa.

es que la distancia la creaste  

 

tú. con el. régimen de humillaciones.

 

me acerque como colibrí.

sentí la escarcha. del rechazo.

 

el caminar sigiloso. de la pantera.

la mordida. de perro. rabioso.

 

un cardenal cantaba.

su magia. manteniéndome vivo.

 

cure las heridas que pude.

las que no.  las mordí.

 

queme.  escupí.

cubrí con ajo y lodo.

 

pero el mejor. herbario

ha sido el tiempo. adjunto

 

a la distancia. el más espectacular

de todos. mis actos. de magia.

 

 

 

Nanshoku

“nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos”

Pablo Neruda

 

 

 

I

 

sinfonía de alondras

obra maestra del desespero

voló de nube en nube

 

el vagabundeaba

entre mis magnolias

 

 

            II

 

se viste de alas luego

las poda para estar conmigo

tímido

 

como el otro lado

de la luna llena

 

 

            III

 

bellasartes

zigzaguean detrás de

su oreja

 

picaros callejones 

de mi lengua

 

 

            IV

 

encerré al mar

en un caja de música

mantendré… secreta

a toda costa

nuestra chiva

 

 

 V

 

boleros

 

se abaten como

cuando mis dedos caen

sobre tu cintura

 

trémulo recinto de partida

 

 

            VI

 

agua fresca demonio

enroscado en mi lengua —

el sorpresivo invierno

conquista la luna escondida

en el iris de mi ojo goteado semen

 

 

            VII

 

te alejas de la noche

como te advienes al día

 

devastado

 

por sus promesas

contra-ban-dean-do sus interrogantes

 

 

VIII

 

evito recordar

el revés de una sonrisa

tus manos

 

cinceladas a la perfección

en la espuma de cerveza

            IX

 

 

pecadillo

amigo y amante del verano

capricho del orgullo

 

despierto corriendo-

me en tu mano

 

X

 

debajo del olmo

al pie de unos picos nevados

dos amantes jadean

 

por encima del bullicio

de un coro de gaitas

 

            XI

 

arias cósmicas

ángulos tangentes

sesenta y nueve lagrimas

 

sudando setas

tallo y gorra

 

XII

 

ábreme

al rio del insomnio

perfuma

 

los soles breves

de mi crisantemo parpadeante

 

XIII

 

derramó vino

  sobre mi zapato

    floreció

      en la esquina de mi cama

        hoja de hierba doblada

 

 

 

XIV

 

¿dónde está mi Buda?

  ladeando sobre

    la madera

 

  seducido por mi

albergue

 

XV

 

estoy ausente

  en su cuerpo

    despidiéndome

 

de su ropa

  terciopelo arrugado

 

XVI

 

noche larguirucha

  desmayada en la saliva

de sus pezones 

 

mi sombra se inclinan

  hacia tu frente

 

XVII

 

pilares

  secretos bien guardados

deudas

 

pagadas con besos a hombres

  de mierda vestidos de agua

 

 

 

 

 

Murmuran

 

 

monstro         eso piensan

murmuran                que hago prosélitos

parado

en la cabeza de una aguja

aseguran                    mi erección aumenta

el color           de mi pelaje

 

que cavo huecos

para enterrar mi      puño dentro de su ano

 

a mí me agradaría

sentir algo de ellos

tal vez eso que                      nombran

calor humano

 

 

 


Al aire libre

 

 

El manjar de tu reclamo
corrió sobre mi río
hasta llegar a la arena fértil de la sabana
donde se deslizó sobre troncos,
piedras y alguna que otra hoja caída.

El gemido matinal,
la respiración de nuestros cuerpos,
despertó la música.

Regresé a tus brazos inquietos

acariciando las corrientes translúcidas
de tu aroma,

manchado por la fuerza torrencial
de tu lujuria,
sedimento sobre mi piel oscura.

 

 

Ara ra ra

 

 

Te

escurres

como

la

espuma

entre

el mar

y

la arena

 

mientras

yo sigo

trabajando

idiotizado

por

tu careta

 

de payaso

tallada

en

caoba, y

una docena

de

uniformes

planchados

sobre

mi cama. 

 

Así

de inútil

es tu

pobreza.

 

 

 

A los Semidioses y Tótems

 

 

Tu ojo ario vio al hombre-gato corriendo

sobre mi tejado y quiso acusarlo de venganza.

Tu ojo ario empleó a mi tío,

el violador, y a su hijo como asistentes

de mis tres hermanas corpulentas,

firme seguidoras de Estée Lauder y fotografía vintage 

de chicas sexualmente explicitas pegadas a la pared.

Tu ojo ario no tiene moral, pero tiene percepción.

No se adhiere a nada, pero es crítico,

no llora porque no conoce las fases de la luna,

y nunca ha visto una charca,

ni ha tenido a un hijo que pueda llamar suyo.

Tu ojo ario creó un universo ojo-céntrico completo,

lo lleno de semidioses y tótems.

Tu ejército de ojos arios se enemisto con otros ojos

para sacarme de la contemplación y llevarme la acción.

Tu ojo ario opina que el pobre teme a la naturaleza

cuando el rico teme al aburrimiento

y que ninguno de los dos sabe a quién honrar.

 

 

 

 

Los Afortunados

 

 

En aquellos días íbamos a la playa

a practicar el tiro al blanco: la seducción.

 

Aprendíamos a hablar inglés, o francés.  

Leer quitaba un poco la mancha de plátano

así es que no faltaba el bestseller.

Se usaba el arte de la palabra tersa.

 

Éramos los afortunados, nacidos

después de la última guerra.

Los que desecharon la zafra.  Los que no aprendieron

a matar y desplumar una gallina. 

 

La turba de futuros empleados públicos

con palancas políticas,

desempleados.

 

 

 

Piña

 

 

Tus labios cayeron sobre mi espalda,

torrente de gorriones picoteando la piña

 

agridulce que hincha lenguas y amortigua

respiraciones como mortero de boca ancha.

 

¡Toma, golpea a las setas tailandeses

de mis nalgas perfumadas de estrellas de mar

 

y de hojarasca!  Tus dientes laceran la piel

de mi nuca que late frente al abismo

 

de pensamientos mojados, historias translucidas

que arrancan a besos la pulpa de mis labios

 

al compas de un ligero ritmo tropical:

Danzón que no tiene descanso, que retumba

 

como los dedos de Ismael Rivera sobre mi cuero,

lasca de piña redonda y azucarada

 

con la morena dulzura de tu melaza.

 

Erótico

 

 

tu  piel: ardiendo por dentro

quema, cubre

 

apretado — preciso, mojado,

seco & otra vez se revuelca en mi hambre,

 

tu prepucio.

 

 

Dedicatorias

 

 

Al enemigo:

un cara a cara.

 

Al insomnio:

peras ó manzanas.

 

A la espera:

un celador Sur Africano blanco dormido

sobre una mina de diamantes.

 

Al salón de clases:

un reloj, la sobriedad del agua.

 

A la lejanía:

lo que recuerdo de Omar,

resplandor sigiloso, desnudo

húmedo en lo más profundo

de mis pupilas.

 

Al amor:

una tregua, y otra tregua.

 

 

 

Asteriscos para lo intacto

 

 

contigo  todo es:

sin testigos

 

algo nuevo

 

empero, números reales

é imaginarios, líneas cruzadas

 

bajo la primera capa

de mi epidermis,

 

cartográfica

 

 

 

Topografía

 

 

esta es mi historia,

mi alumbramiento.

 

soy silla de ruedas,

cuerpo envuelto en un saco,

 

niñez jaloneada

por una maldición injusta

 

y el inútil, terco deseo de un par de manos

hechas a mi medida

 

escalando mis muslos.

 

 

 

 

que importa

 

 

se me tiro encima

quería ahogarme. 

estaba enfermo.

luche, le partí

el labio, lo patee.

 

busque dos

pedazos de madera

dura, los cosí

clavé y clavé.  Hice

 

un hoyo, lo mas

profundo que pude.

enterré el madero

al revés y a latigazo

limpio lo obligue recitar: 

“yo soy puertorriqueño sin na’, pero sin quebranto

 

Y al echón que me desmienta 
que se ande muy derecho…” 

 

que importa.  aquí no hay

desiertos de cenotes mayas

solo crepúsculos

de saliva.

 

 

 

Discreto

 

 

tomó un jalón del cigarrillo

observó cuando alzas la cerveza

al otro lado de la barra

 

luego me prendes este Newport 

y preguntas si se puede

 

me interpongo 

entre la luz 

y tú

 

mi sombra 

es toda tuya

 

 

 

 

 

The Knowledge of You

•January 22, 2014 • Leave a Comment

The Knowledge of You

 

 

It appears we are rivals, two unfriendly grimaces frolicking in the power game, gladiators staring at each other, suns hounded by the tail and debris of a comet.   You are the rubble that keeps us connected.  You fear and envy my voluptuous body, my dark skin, and these years of intermittent sexual encounters.  Yet I have been here longer than you have.  I have played the role of spouse, of geisha concubine.  You must be asking what he sees in me, what he searches for between my orange flavored thighs.

 

 

Ennis del Mar . . .

how costly our life together

nothing holds my eyes

like your words

I press your heart in speech

In Darkness and In Light: A Colaboration Sergio Oritz, Puerto Rico Sonam Chhoki, Bhutan

•January 1, 2014 • 1 Comment

In Darkness and In Light: A Colaboration
Sergio Oritz, Puerto Rico
Sonam Chhoki, Bhutan

Published in Cattails a haiku and tanka journal

I was the sin,
a wild horse galloping
from the horizon—
everything I saw
was spoken into her ear

she was a tightrope
walker, the enduring smell
of a snuffed candle—
facing a certain wind
she was always in danger

now that I’m done
with the malicious idea
of what is eternal,
it is easy for me to look back
at what’s destroyed

we stand
in a hall full of exits
reeking
of invisible tremors
and bloated corpses

birds covet
the seeds of the honey locust—
I don’t protest
as she lays me down
on the cold, bitter ground

certain losses
are irreparable—
hard seeds
in a field made fallow
by a fire set long ago

wounds
hollow and unrecognizable—
the husks of ships,
sheets of dark water
ghosts of what has been lost

leaves shift
as we fade into a pattern
of grass and shadow,
return elated and haunted
to a dark sunrise by the ocean

the fibers
that knit us to the old—
origami
another side of silence,
the breaking of sphinxes

I am a river
that flows past
the city . . .
its soft moaning song
of a child, a belonging

I said,
it’s like lifting a cello
out of its case—
“but what do I know
of love’s lonely office”

tanka

•December 18, 2013 • Leave a Comment

I dance on my heart

when stars are spaced

so far apart

that doors opened to lovers

close around them like a book 

Haiku Sequence for Nelson Mandela – Invictus

•December 6, 2013 • Leave a Comment

a lion in the

wilderness of his flesh

Mandela

 

from prison rock quarry

to honored scholar

Madiba

 

Soweto under attack

Mandela

 

this river

that leads me into despair

gender apartheidImage

•December 4, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Unusual Pets

 

 

 

“One cannot say: ‘Here are our monsters,’  without immediately turning the monsters into

pets.”

 
—Jacques Derrida

 

 

We don’t know what a goblin or a vampire or a troll is.   Could be many things.

You can’t throw them into categories with labels and say they’ll act one way or

another.  That’d be mad.  They’re people.  People who do things.

 

 

crickets

and dragonflies—

the sage asks

you to understand

there’s a beast within you

tanka

•December 1, 2013 • Leave a Comment

life seems

to slow and sorrow

as the field

turns its face into the winter

hollow                        adjusting the light

5a172fd3-9de9-472d-b277-0d866dfaade6.jpg

•September 23, 2013 • Leave a Comment

•September 19, 2013 • Leave a Comment

A Distant Planet

 

 

and there,

Beside the thundering waterfall of his heart,

I rubbed my eyes and thought, “I’m lost.”

                                                Rafael Campo

 

 

Foster parents raised Roger on the El Paso-Juarez border.  He spent his youth filling knotholes, and caulking seams in other people’s houses.  He tackled every ceiling like a master builder.  All he needed was a beer, and some music.

 

I said,

it’s like lifting a cello

out of its case—

“but what do I know

of love’s lonely offices”

 

We were inseparable, and that gave me the right to question his sex life.   I knew better than to jump into bed with Calvin Klein angels lined up against discotheque walls on Saturday nights, ghost disappearing for days or weeks at a time, but Roger didn’t seem to mind.

 

I’m positive,

he said…

so I chanted

the sweaty shaman’s

painted curse

 

Life was already sliding out of him.  He was traveling to Tennessee to die.  His lover’s family had welcomed them there.  There was nothing else left for me to say.

 

I’d look

inside his throat

to see his misery,

he’d touch his genitals

and think of sin

 

The Poetry of War, Part Two […Syria]

•September 2, 2013 • Leave a Comment

The Poetry of War, Part Two […Syria]

This is about waiting,

shifting from one foot to another,

the fog thickening the high branches

of the sycamores.

This is about combat, the last one I’ll see

if I walk barefooted on a wooden floor

with a month’s supply of pain killers

in my pockets

lying to myself about

the secret of life being

the resurrection of a worm.

This is about the writing in the air

of swallowtails and the armies

of destruction waiting underground

from Syria to Mexico.

—A moment is a warehouse

where armies are stacked

to the ceiling—and there’s no other way to say “No.”

This is about soft porn, masturbation, invasions, and nerve gas,

and children, and food shortages, and coffins,

and the right to pick plums from the Emperor’s courtyard.

The Poetry of War [Syria]

•September 1, 2013 • Leave a Comment

The Poetry of War [Syria]

 

 

If I could catch up

with the rhythm of things

I’d stop talking

 

and sink into a deep

historical silence,

the poetry of the dead.

 

Ghosts and gyres,

sages and tyrants,

expressions of longing

 

for a lost world.

The misplaced shoes

of a gassed girl.  

 

Silence studies

the unregarded floor,

the effect of Sarin

 

on the lungs,

the involuntary

twitching of the legs.

 

Yet we must dig

deeper into the earth

to find the epiphany

 

of these actions.

Perhaps the temple

was a defective construction.

 

Or “Nothing” is more

than an absence

whose advent is to be welcomed.

 

“Nothing,” a furiously

crossed-out something.

 The absence, the whiteness, the silence.

 

Tanka Art

•August 24, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Tanka Art

for those who

•August 20, 2013 • Leave a Comment
I live

I live

I live

in secret cities,

travel

unmapped roads . . .

I’m never where I am

Tanka Poem

•June 24, 2013 • Leave a Comment

your body
moonbathing on my bed
in its dream state
I stop to surround your breath
and hear other songs

Published in, Fire Pearls 2: Short Masterpieces of Love and Passion, Vol. 2

Tanka Poem

•June 24, 2013 • Leave a Comment

if rain knew
loneliness and fear
could it still be rain. . .
am I just another man drifting
to the edge of your life

Published in, Fire Pearls 2: Short Masterpieces of Love and Passion, Vol. 2

the crescent moonis her reflection,tilted backwaning wide open.

•June 24, 2013 • Leave a Comment

the crescent moon
is her reflection,
tilted back
waning wide open. . .
I step inside her kiss

Published in, Fire Pearls 2: Short Masterpieces of Love and Passion, Vol. 2

Tanka Poem

•June 24, 2013 • Leave a Comment

I relish you
as the meeting of wind
and spinning vane
as a child worships the newness
of the world

Published in, Fire Pearls 2: Short Masterpieces of Love and Passion, Vol. 2

two tanka

•April 29, 2013 • Leave a Comment

grounded

in shadows and sudden flashes

of wings…

I see the ocean

the salt spray hits me

 

 

only the dead

can afford to forgive

this uniquely

felt life saturated

with the texture of glitter

three tanka

•February 21, 2013 • Leave a Comment

alone

reading his letter

once again

the sound of leaves

falling all around me

 

 

 

there’s not a single wind

that doesn’t know my shadow…

dead butterflies

overpower the dawn light

on my eyelids

 

 

 

 

  if this were a map

  it would be a map of man

  in the snow…

  picking mushrooms

  at the edge of dread

Tanka

•February 16, 2013 • Leave a Comment

I pray I won’t die

alone in some dark corner

of a hospital ward—

singing an opus

of horseshit and pearls

Tanka

•February 15, 2013 • 1 Comment

learning
to say goodbye…
a fraction
of myself touching you
in secret places

tanka

•February 15, 2013 • Leave a Comment
sparrows peep
as I walk to the drugstore…
searching for the day
when nothing remains
but a quivering mayfly

•February 15, 2013 • Leave a Comment

December Lights

Back then, under a cold
December sun, you’d arrived naked.
I’d ask for permission
so you could to stay under
my shadow.

You’d close my eyes
and open your skin

to walk me through brief appearances
of galaxies, infinite transit of heartbeats, death
strolling down our legs.

tanka

•January 12, 2013 • Leave a Comment

the house I build

will stand forever . . .

a smile

at the corners of my mouth,

stars sitting on my tongue

tanka

•January 12, 2013 • Leave a Comment

humidity

trickles from chest

to belly button…

the memory of his abdomen

as I moisten my lips

For the Men to Come

•September 20, 2012 • Leave a Comment

For the Men to Come

1.

Your young face
is the line. I touch, follow
the point of departure
when I go down,
and almost regret it.

2.

Constrained, motionless
in your sleep, I place time
on your body.
Always willing to wake-up
you are my present

.

3.

late wintery day…
your whining
doesn’t sound like you
but like a voice
living inside other voices.
.

4.

I mold you
but you choose your own dream.
Then you shatter.
If you only knew
the answer.

5.

I am torn
between you and your eyes.
A monologue:
Does one divided by nothing
equal infinity?

6.

exiled
from the bedroom
I swallow a tear
at daybreak
my passion in tatters

7.

Your young body
in the sunlight
still in its dream stage.
I stop to contain your breath
and hear other songs.

8.

Glancing at the mirror
makes me forget.
I continue,
a drop of blood reminds me
my flesh still exists.

9.

I leave you amid
your moment and return to mine
between the two of them
I set aside hope, you leave loneliness
and I go back to a name

10.

I’m about to whisper
it when all of a sudden
you turn back
and say it… There’s an empty
pillow on our bed.

11.

summer’s end…
your body travels
through my mind
a hurricane
on an indiscreet corner

•September 10, 2012 • Leave a Comment

XXXIII

crystal clear,
your young body
in the sunlight
still
in its dream stage.
I stop to pick-up
your breath
and hear other
songs.

XXXII

•September 10, 2012 • Leave a Comment

XXXII

It’s useless to cover our naked bodies
with page numbers from a book.

The end of words.

XXX

•September 5, 2012 • Leave a Comment

XXX

I glance at the mirror
time makes us forget

I continue

a drop of blood reminds me
my flesh still exists

I stop
and wait

XXIX

•September 5, 2012 • Leave a Comment

XXIX

seagulls
and waves
draw near
to feel me

but they’re not you

XXXIV

•September 5, 2012 • Leave a Comment

XXXIV

a tear descends
on daybreak

in your benefit
forgetfulness and passion remain tattered

I swallow the tear
in exile

Wind and Soul …

•June 3, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Wind and Soul

 

 

Wind comes from the sea

with such vehemence,

and its elementary sounds infect

the silence of night.

 

Alone in your bed

you listen to it insistent

on touching the chimes,

crying and calling

as if lost without anyone.

 

Yet, it is not he who has you

sleepless, but another force

in which your body is jailed,

a soft carapace that was

free breeze and recalls.

A Memory

•June 3, 2012 • Leave a Comment

A Memory

I am only
the memory
of a stone buried
among stinging nettles
on which the wind
escapes
its insomnia.

IX Loneliness …

•May 14, 2012 • Leave a Comment

IX

 

Loneliness is a seraph

with a stilted dagger. 

X  No volver…

•May 14, 2012 • Leave a Comment

X

 

 

No volveré a los lugares

que atravesó mi llanto.

 

No, no quiero volver,

sino morir aún más,

 

Desclavar una sombra,

olvidar-olvidar.

to a future poe…

•May 14, 2012 • Leave a Comment

to a future poet

 

 

i know these men

too well.

they drag their feet

to find a chunk

of life,

anonymous statutes,

shades of grey,

misery,

rulers of fog.

a spark

of the forbidden pleasures

shines

at the moment of vengeance.

its effulgence can destroy

their civilization,

because I sense

in this human seclusion

how mine

shall be the men to come …

 

VIII  You con…

•May 11, 2012 • Leave a Comment

VIII

 

 

You contain yourself,

pick up the word,

and collapse into silence. 

 

The numbers

on the pages keep

us naked. 

 

Now I’m the one

that embraces

silence.

You part 2

•May 6, 2012 • Leave a Comment

VI

 

I think about you

and devise your tribute,

my Ulysses.

 

I think about the Gods

that have accompanied you,

 

do you think they might

let you return?

 

I’ve been in pain

since the day you left.

 

I go towards you

 

attempt the eco,

the impulse, the gaze

the flight,

 

and still no sign

of you.

You

•May 2, 2012 • Leave a Comment

You

 

 

I seek your sleep

in the sea of my loneliness. 

 

You are my earth, and populate

 

my new silence

with air that does not return. 

 

I pass through your body,

young rapist that lives in the forest

 

dancing for life.  When love dies

freedom is born. 

 

I stop to pick-up your sigh

wasted

 

on my nipples

you close the eyes

and plead.

 

Your gaze amazes me. 

It remains in my ear, a whisper. 

 

I walk fast.

(from a collection of poems on how to drive a child insane)

•April 30, 2012 • Leave a Comment

He was playing the organ, or at least
the keyboard made out of cardboard box
his stepfather had brought him in place of a real organ.

His stepfather forced him to practice on that cardboard box for months.
When the organ finally arrived,
it was as if he were deaf. The sounds that came out
of that hellish machines were nothing like
the sounds he had practiced.

Back home on the island his cousin was renown
for playing the organ. His stepfather must have
thought the ability was inherited, and that after
practicing on a cardboard box for six months
a miracle would occur.

NaPoWriMo 2010

•May 11, 2010 • Leave a Comment

She’s a homophobic warlord with a miniature bible carefully tucked in her bra
It started before she could read
at Sunday mass
she’d stare at the faces of immovable angels—
La Madonna and byzantine saints
in cut-glass windows—imagining herself
speaking to the masses.
When her boobs started growing
the junior high jock,
a prodigy bible-belt-preacher,
invited her to Watchtower
study classes.  They graduated from high school,
got married, and filled-out
their NRA applications
on the very same day.
Everything is stasis, but she walks-in
on her husband and the church’s accountant,
a six foot love gift from the Castro district.
Two hundred nineteen years after La Bastille
she remarried,
joined a New Age theosophy movement
learned to suck her thumbs and self flagellate
while screaming slogans
about the Constitutional Rights of breeders
at a famous prime-time puppeteer
program in Puerto Rico.





©  Sergio A. Ortiz, May 11, 2010

Second Chapbook Published, May 9, 2010 by Ronin Press

•May 9, 2010 • 2 Comments



My second chapbook was just published and it is up. You are all welcomed to read it!




Chapbook Links:
topography of a desire
Writers List
Ronin Press



your friend always,
Sergio

NaPoWriMo April 2010

•May 9, 2010 • 2 Comments
Olive Harvesters
taken down for publication


©  Sergio A. Ortiz May 9, 2010

Judith Butler: Part 3/6

•May 9, 2010 • Leave a Comment

NaPoWriMo 2010

•May 9, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Interview # 1:  Apprehensions



—Did you ever recover
that stuffed replica
of your male body?
 A band of roaming gamines
brought it back after a heated
cha-cha-cha session with the police.
Through the scrims corps de ballet
cheer up every Parisian cliché.
—When did mannequins
lose their minds?
When they discovered
time was their tailor.
—What would you do
with a broken female femur
in a safe deposit?
I’d take it out for walks
and pet it, make sure this abeyance
doesn’t cause it inflammation.
Cook the sole of its black boot
until it’s tender?






©  Sergio A. Ortiz, May 9, 2010

NaPoWriMo 2010: Picture © Sergio A. Ortiz, April , 2010

•May 7, 2010 • 5 Comments

The Need for Thumbs
We’ve already spent too many
late afternoons creating a town
full of exquisite corpses.
What we really need is a new
Visa card. One we can access
without thumbs.
We’re flat, our mouths are full of
halcyon holidays and losing horses.
Two in the third, one the fifth.
Everything’s falling from us,
kindness, pieces of our nose.
Not even sugar crystals
can fix these fallen rings.
We’re dead and cannot smile
because the sky for us is silence.
The sound of jazz comes
from the blood melted
on what’s left of our eyelids.
©  Sergio A. Ortiz, May 7, 2010

Solidarity Against SB 1070, El Paso, TX 5-5-10

•May 6, 2010 • Leave a Comment

NaPoWriMo April 6, 2010: Picture, © Sergio A. Ortiz May 5, 2010

•May 6, 2010 • Leave a Comment



To Tamara





Don’t be afraid. That unlucky
bastard who turned his back on you
and the baby will haunt like an Irish potato
in the time of famine.

There is no career in denying
he’s the father. He rides
against a crocodile to become
history’s double-humped yellow camel

grazing on the margins of your lives.
Trust yourself. Rip that uncertainty
from your eyes. Stop hiding
the child you carry.

She’s blessed with mother-of-pearl,
Atlantic and Caribbean fragrance,
and deep-deep, blue-blue skies.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* this poem is dedicated to a beautiful young Ukrainian young lady I met at the bus stop in San Juan, Puerto Rico. She is six months pregnant and the Puerto Rican man that is the father of the child now denies he is the father. So she is having the child by herself. Tamara was really homesick. She was missing the support of her mother. Afraid and uncertain about her future, she was doing everything she could to have her baby on her own. She has a high risk pregnancy, and at six months she cannot change medical plans. The hospital she has to go to is very far away and in case of an emergency her baby will either be born prematurely on the way there, die, or be born with some kind of defect because they did not have what they needed to have on the ambulance to help her. The law in Puerto Rico will not let her change hospitals after a certain amount of weeks. She was bleeding one day, and had to go to an emergency room at a hospital but after about four hours of being in that emergency room she was told they could not accept her medical plan and that the doctor would not be in the hospital until the next morning to bill her for whatever it was they were going to do to stop the bleeding. She told them she didn’t have the money. They suggested she sign and later not pay and ruin her credit. Que cojones! I young single parent bringing up a child without good credit. This kind of thing really bothers me for some reason.

This is the face we give people visiting out island from other countries. It is the ugly face of GREEDY MONEY MONGRELS, AND IRRESPONSIBLE MAMA’S BOYS THAT HAVE NO BUSINESS HAVING SEX WITHOUT A CONDOM, IF THEY ARE GOING TO DENY THEIR RESPONSIBILITIES. THIS IS THE FACE OF PARENTS THAT NEVER ALLOW THEIR MALE CHILDREN TO GROW UP BECAUSE THEY BACK THEM UP EVEN WHEN THEY KNOW THE KIND OF INSECT THEY HAVE AS A SON.

Tamara, don’t be afraid to show your 6month belly. Or to tell everyone you know who the father of that child is. No one here will ever point a finger at you my dear, young friend.

Sergio


©  Sergio A. Ortiz, May 6, 2010

NaPoWriMo April 2010: Picture, © Sergio A. Ortiz May 5, 2010

•May 5, 2010 • Leave a Comment
Of The Boar


Another delay!  I’ll have plenty of time
to think about him.  Was he always two?
The one that disappeared with my boyfriend
that last year of college was the one I hated. 

He’d talk down to me and turn right back
into his original mannequin self, wave 
his hand in a fury whenever I interrupted him
while he gossiped on the phone.

That one never knew I heard all the ugly things
he ever said about me.  Yet I remained his
friend for over thirty years.  I should have dropped him
off on his head in the Ukraine as soon as I realized
why he fell from that balcony in Connecticut.

There’s a wild boar walking through the city
in the pouring rain.  He wears a traditional
Scythian neckerchief, but the foul odor of betrayal
gives him away.  Everyone knows when he approaches
and they move away.  And here I was thinking
I’d write about Tamara and her baby.  Another delay!
©  Sergio A. Ortiz  May 5, 2010

NaPoWriMo April, 2010: Photograph. © Sergio A. Ortiz, April, 2010

•May 2, 2010 • 2 Comments

Dream Prism
A cornlike monster with ugly tang fish gills
dreams of becoming a mermaid prodigy
dishing out rhymes to a clown farther off
than Australia.  She travels with a fat
English prawn and a psychotic pickle
renown for his voodoo medicine;
His license revoked after performing
a fatal bypass on an Italian bean.
Their eyes turned yellow in the shade-
less sockets of stillborn lizards.  Seven stop signs
grew from their toes.  They were thieves,
untouchables in the crevice of a very small toad,
comfortless as vinegar.  They found my chiseled
amethyst love letters and turned them to angels
weeping dead, icy heads.  But I budded 


as a May amapola and ascend 
just like my grandmothers
before me ascended.
©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 1, 2010

NaPoWriMo April 30: Picture © Sergio A. Ortiz, April 30, 2010

•May 2, 2010 • Leave a Comment


To the Zookeeper on the Hudson
When I was ten a pedophile
covered my naked body
with leaves and spider webs,
then left me for dead and oh,
I was so sick.
Fifty years later your spidery jaws,
and spineless back entered my bible
and boarded my ark like a baboon
courting the tree of knowledge
with its bare ass clambering around
like a deformed cunt on the long coastal
line of insincerity and oh, how you
made me laugh.  Knowing: is how to live
standing in the nude on the porticos,
the rotundas of my courtyard
watching you clean the manure
on the Hudson, barren mother
of an adopted albino blank face idiot,
heavy old cow with the dull stars.
The vowels of your last name fall
like an empty echo to the least
of all my canyons.


©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 30, 2010

•May 1, 2010 • Leave a Comment

If anything, I would advise you never to submit to this journal http://hudsonreview.com/new/

the editor, Paula Deitz, deleted all my gmail accounts, she also deleted my blog.  I had worked on that blog for seven years.  Because she wanted to whip all evidence of the correspondence between us.  But what she does not know is that I filed all of those emails in my computer before sending her my reposes to her.

Sergio

NaPoWriMo April 28, 2010 – Picture -© Sergio A. Ortiz, April 29, 2010

•April 29, 2010 • 1 Comment


On Their Eightieth Birthday
dedicated to the Governor of Arizona

His aunt thinks she’s a tapestry?

—First she thought she was a Tapir,
then a pole.  I stuffed a butt plug in her mouth,
but she asked for a loincloth.
She fell in love with my skin, wanted to peel
it, peel me—Our lady of the Broken Condoms,
Latina Americana gringa wanna be
with the sagging implants.

What was he doing with gunpowder in his pockets?
—You know why he wears those tight pants!

Yeah, but if you stare at his tray
he calls you every urban word he ever learned
from Justin Timberlake.

—He needs to go back to school
before he bad-mouth’s me.
Jell and visits to the hairdresser
twice a month to put on those caramel
highlights… metro-sexual?  Mmm, I don’t think so.

snap-snap – zip-zip

—She empties his wallet
before he puts on those condoms every time.
Dumbass gringo wanna be.

—Um-hum, like Osvaldo Del Rio!

No, that’s the Puerto Rican Actor
that beats up his women.
You know who I’m talking about,
that Mexican guy from Univision,
Fernando Del Rincón.

He can brush his hair back all he wants,
he still looks like a mestizo.




©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 29, 2010

Cancion Para Un Niño En La Calle ..Mercedes Sosa-Calle 13

•April 29, 2010 • 2 Comments

Residente Calle 13 – Papi te hago promo y to’es jaja

•April 29, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Queridos amigos, (Dear friends)  

Quiero invitarlos a que escuchen a Calle 13 – Musica urbana from de Island of Porto Rico, BORICUA!!!!   Allow me to turn you on to Puerto Rican Urban music-  RESIDENTE CALLE 13
MUA!  pApI TU SABES QUE TE AMO!

Calle 13 Ft. Ruben Blades- La Perla (Official Video) [HD]

•April 29, 2010 • Leave a Comment

NaPoWriMo April 28, 2010

•April 28, 2010 • Leave a Comment

On My Own
Will there be a change
in your voice next winter? 
—I prefer to shelter it with rum,
walk through the monkey-puzzles
in the Andes.  Their leaves are as thick
and tough as my hands, scale-like
with sharp edges, heaving like my heart. 
The winds coming from the Pacific
fan out my reptilian branches.  Black-faced
Ibis fly overhead.  At least I know
they will return next spring.


©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 28, 2010

Marvin Gaye "What’s Going On / What’s Happening Brother"

•April 28, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Canto a Lorca

•April 28, 2010 • Leave a Comment

NaPoWriMo Monday April, 27 2010: Picture © Sergio A. Ortiz April 27, 2010

•April 27, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Dead Cats and Poisoned Frogs




The feverish python made you shrink
like all the other little Hamlet’s
Cerberus bribes: Business men
in silk ties, boogieing Isadora’s
whose scarves tangle when they
trundle around the globe
choking on meth-amphetamines.
They grease the bodies of social
security millionaires
in the back of warehouses.


You bring me Mariachis,
or Japanese paper moons
on my birthdays, but I am a virgin
attended by banana breads,
and an old withered Madeleine.


Money is the sperm fluid
dead cats and frogs take
to your bed—your breakfast,
along with freshly cut roses
imported from Iran while you listen
to drums announce the countdown
for yet another electoral confrontation.

The Youngbloods – Get Together

•April 26, 2010 • 1 Comment

NaPoWriMo Sunday April 25, 2010: Picture © Sergio A. Ortiz April 25, 2010

•April 25, 2010 • Leave a Comment
The Rival
taken down for publication





©  Sergio A. Ortiz April 25, 2010

Adobo Criollo: The Protest the cutting of trees in Old San JU

•April 24, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Adobo Criollo: The Protest the cutting of trees in Old San JU.

The First Lady of San Juan cuts down trees, poisons cats, and endangered frog endemic to Puerto Rico,

The Protest the cutting of trees in Old San JU

•April 24, 2010 • Leave a Comment




By Sergio A. Ortiz


Dear Friend,

        I went to this protest thinking it was going to be a community protest of no great consequence. I had no idea of the seriousness of the problem in Old San Juan, a city that is hundreds of years old. Four days ago, I walked through this very site and took photographs of this garden on the side of La Casa Rosa. That photograph is in an album at Facebook. Yesterday, this was all that was left of that garden. To make things worse I walked by a couple cats that had been poisoned. 




        Some of you may already be wondering who to hold responsible for this atrocious act of stupidity and brutality, in Spanish we call it a “BURRADA”. Well I have been informed that the donkeys on which to pin the tail for this criminal act are the First Lady of Puerto Rico and her friend, the First Lady of the city of San Juan. A city that is hundreds of years old and that has been the victom of donkey-monkey behavior in the past by our government. There is a Soap on our TV right now that describes our government’s longstanding affections to this picturesque kind of mentality: Un Perro Amor. I wrote a poem entitled “Un Perro Amor,” it dealt with the same kind of unconscientiously idiotic behavior.

        The organizers of the event did a spectacular job, but I noticed there was no Puerto Rican media present. That got me wondering, but there were about 7 state police officers. Why, why does something so barbaric have to happen on an island already full of violence, and senseless criminality? This was not the kind of protest that could end up in a scuffle, there was no need for the state police to be present; even though we were close the governor’s residence. 

     When heard these two stilts artist ask a little girl who was responsible for the cutting of the trees, she answered in our very typical expressive way, a way that denotes a certain kind of respect while still belittling the person which is being pointed out. She puffed up her lips and with a movement of her head she signaled the governor’s mansion.


But the problem is greater than just cutting down trees. To date over 30 cats have been poisoned, it is so upsetting to think that the First Lady of our country is behind a criminal act of this nature. But live and learn, sure enough, she is. A poet I met not long ago, the person to invite me to the event, tried to explain the sociological motivations for this kind of a violent crime. She said that we need to take a closer look at the history of violence, specially during difficult economic times. People in government become fearful and they end up cutting down anything and everything that could obstruct the view, anything behind which a sniper could hide. I thought she was insane, or at the very least a nature fanatic. Then I remembered that I had recently written a poem about the very same thing, the title is “Platforms.” I wrote it thinking about how the Mayans drove away the Spaniards from their empire in the Yucatan. It will be published this summer.  But I am going to post it again for you to read here:



plataformas de lanzamientos


entre el odio y la guirnalda
vive un lobo esperantista/
entre el cacto y la dulzaina
existe rudeza de viento/
entre el borracho y la brújula
se emite el hedor que colma las distancias/
entre el pergamino y el volcán
surgen borrones de luz/
entre la zarzuela y los mayas
yacen institutrices neuróticas/
 poetes maudits /
entre la adivina y el granizo
se esconden riachuelos
y francotiradores.








launching platforms
translation
between hatred and garland
their… lives the esperantist wolf
between a cactus and a lute
there’s roughness of wind
between a drunk and a compass
emanates the stench that fills distances
between parchment and volcano
smudges of light arise
between a Zarzuela and a Mayan
lie neurotic governesses,
poetes maudits
between fortune-teller and hail
there are hidden brooks and snipers



When you walk through Old San Juan you will see hundreds of mutilated trees.  The strategy is to gradually mutilate them until they finally die and once that happens a crew of workers from the city show up after midnight or shortly before dawn and bulldoze what is left of the tree.  Now, I am sure the office of the First Lady, or even the governor’s office is going to want to provide evidence that this is not a strategy, that is only due to the fact that the walled city is already facing a traffic problem during the day and that bulldozers would only heighten that problem.  Russia had all sorts of excuses to pick up the people they considered to be a threat any kind of government control.  Let’s not be naïve about these power issues.

This is the frog that is also being poisoned.  It is on the endangered list.  If anything, to poison an animal like this, for an intelligent and powerful public figure to poison an animal like this is a moral crime, let alone a criminal act.



NaPoWriMo April 22nd

•April 22, 2010 • 1 Comment
Postcard to Willie Perdomo April 22nd 2010

*

*

Willie, papi,
Sorry I missed you at my alma mater
But judging from the way you’ve cut the amapolas
And all those barrio pitchers and jungle leopards
You write about, I thought it would be best if I waited
For the right milky constellation before we actually met.
*
So much as gone down in a couple of years.
I still don’t see men like me in your poems,
But if the barrio is anything like the island
I know I’m there somewhere.
*
By the way, listen to this:
You didn’t just toe me an inch, no —
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course…

Negro, you should know better than to take me
Seriously, it’s all the all Klonopin
And lithium, gang rapes and the LSD.
*
Promise you’ll read my manuscript.
It won’t disappoint you, or the guys in the barrio.
*
tuyo toda esta fucking vida
sergio
*
*
*

©  Sergio A. Ortiz April 22nd, 2010


NaPoWriMo Thursday April 22, 2010

•April 22, 2010 • 1 Comment

Posted by Picasa


Postcard to Willie Perdomo April 22nd 2010
Willie, papi,
Sorry I missed you at my alma mater
But judging from the way you’ve cut the amapolas
And all those barrio pitchers and jungle leopards
You write about, I thought it would be best if I waited
For the right milky constellation 
To appear before we actually met. 
So much has gone down in these two years. 
I still don’t see men like me in your poems,
But if the barrio is anything like the island
I know I’m in there somewhere.
By the way, listen to this: 
You didn’t just toe me an inch, no
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope
Negro, you should know better than to take me
Seriously, it’s all Klonopin
And lithium, gang rapes and LSD.
Promise you’ll read my manuscript.
It won’t disappoint you, or the guys in the barrio.
tuyo por el resto de esta fucking vida
sergio










©  Sergio A. Ortiz April 22nd, 2010

Men At Work – Who Can It Be Now (1981)

•April 22, 2010 • Leave a Comment

NaPoWriMo Wednesday, April 21st, 2010/ Picture © Sergio A. Ortiz, April 2010

•April 21, 2010 • Leave a Comment






To the Crying Venusians

dedicated to Ashley Santiago and Steven López Mercad
both brutally murdered trans-gender people
living in Puerto Rico

My skin shrieks,
a cave dweller notified
of yet another death,

filaments by which the eagerness 
of penguins annihilate
memories of dwindling
oceanic twilight. 

I did not want to leave
a trail for redheaded dragons
with fiery tongues to terrify

empty lighthouses,
meadows and the jingles
of readers on my day
of resurrection.

Queen Lazarus unwraps
my feet with the grace
of a deer tutoring my hands
in the art of dying.

Daddy, daddy, daddy
my knees are skin and bone.

I wear a pink triangle
and numbers tattooed
around my ankles.


©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 21, 2010

NaPoWriMo Tuesday, April 19th: Picture © Sergio A. Ortiz

•April 19, 2010 • Leave a Comment
The Illusion


You punish me to provide
a spectacle of excess—tamp
my testicles with affirmations
of your power. Your mannequins blow
and breathe urgency like naked
bald-hydras morgue
between Santiago and Lima
where desert sands are voiceless.
What is different between us
is the intensity of our attraction.
Oh, how many nooses
I’ve stretch around the necks of gigolos
at cul-de-sac social clubs
where cellos moan
and mouths wilt as I listen
to tangos and pick up sugar
dropped on the table
trying to ignore the blood
on my recently buffed shoes.




©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 19, 2010

National Cemetary- Picture © Sergio A. Ortiz

•April 19, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Poems recently published in Letralia, a Venezuelan Literary Journal,

•April 17, 2010 • Leave a Comment


Poemas

cuando el otoño no se acuerda su nombre

el timbre tiene que cambiar
y así se ha hecho
todos los timbres suenan
para querer, devolver
la movilidad
de tu conciencia,
la que no te vale
nada
como el 
kayak que usas cuando
nadas por las nubes
tocando tu tendón de Aquiles
un poco envejecido
bombón
envejecido y embustero
a ti te mueve
el dinero
las conchas secas
la cintura estrecha pero envejecida
tu zapato derecho
la máscara que usas al correr
diez millas
de grama linda

putos zapatos

mi pobre pueblo
decenas de ranas y reptiles
políticos invadieron su pozo
ahora todos nos odiamos
virus de zapos con 
“putos zapatos”
de cocodrilo


La seducción

Para aquellos días íbamos a la playa
a practicar el tiro al blanco: la seducción.
Aprendimos inglés, o francés.
Leer quitaba un poco
la mancha de plátano así es que
no faltaba el 
bestseller.
Se usaba la palabra tersa,
voz sobre modulada, mirada acaramelada.
Éramos los afortunados nacidos
después de la última guerra,
los que desechamos la zafra. Los que no
aprendimos a matar
y desplumar una gallina vieja.
La turba de futuros empleados públicos,
con palancas políticas,
desempleados.

Duelo

dedicado a mi tía

El día de tu partida
te soñaré perfumando albas
vestida de orquídeas híbridas
frente a la casa vieja,
a corta vista de la abuela

Gacela que por las venas recorres
el mapa de mi escuela
sentiré furia de olas
batiendo la arena capital
de mi memoria

Esto quiere ser
La Imaginación

Este masticado agri-dulce ajo / esta asimétrica
pierna de Greta Garbo / esta gruta de silencio involuntario /
este inédito presagio de beso rígido / este anticiclón
en la topografía de un suspiro / este gentil lubricante
de orgasmos bovinos / esta obsesión 
kyriopascha
de convertir lo abstracto en lo concreto.

Las Palabras

Estas cartografías oblicuas /estas canciones corales
con esos destellos lejanos / estos guantes de cesti
del Foro de Augusto / estos pequeños momentos
de nuestras “visiones del paraíso”.

Lo Imposible

Esta bolsa de lona desnutrida /
este pintor de dientes relleno de cemento / este gato
algebraico resuelto / esta tarjeta postal invisible
para el hombre invisible / este retumbe
que aterroriza la boca de un niño.




©  Sergio A. Ortiz, 2010-04-17



NaPoWriMo Saturday, April 17

•April 17, 2010 • Leave a Comment

To the rock of Sisyphus
a tide, yes a tide of blood.
We say so weedy a race
only happens in mythology. 
There the famished plump
the bellies of their camels in wars
empty of complaints.
Unicorns thin out in paper jungles
to survive the vinegar of our contracted livers.
Uta’s stare, and the absolute silence
of slender bony people wearing
black cornflowers, and purple cabbage-roses
on their surgically-enhanced-lipped smiles
at funerals revive our fears.  There is no Shangri-La,
no forest, canyon, or wilderness far enough
to stand and guard against their stiff
and lean assault on peace.
©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 17, 2010

NaPoWriMo Thursday April 15

•April 15, 2010 • 2 Comments
Evil and Heart


He used to wake me up at five a.m.,
eight a.m. on Saturday and Sunday.
I’d stare into his eyes and ken that skinflint
angel caressing the most obtuse features
seizing my morning thoughtlessness.
All sorts of miracles occurred throughout
the day, tricks of the heart.  Then
he bought me an alarm.  I knew a rook
had made its nest in his trunk.  It was
as if he’d moved me back and forth
through dosshouses, I couldn’t sleep. 
My friends said I resembled a comma.
That was, of course, until I met Omar. 
He’d call me up at five a.m.,
eight a.m. on Saturday and Sunday,
and grunt like a grizzly bear
without constraints.

My teeth would actually chatter,
and my skin sounded like
roasted, crackling pig.
But my heart never did get over
those everlasting Monday’s when Steve
softly poked whatever cheek he’d chose
to kiss that day and say: honey, wake up!












©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 15, 2010

NaPoWriMo Wednesday April 14, 2010

•April 14, 2010 • Leave a Comment


Dear Reader,


I took this poem down because it will be published within the next few days at  Scythe.
©  Sergio A. Ortiz, 14th of April, 2010

Shakira – She Wolf

•April 13, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Recently I wrote a poem that will be published very soon.  The poem “Transparency” is a reflection on how little input most of us get to boost our self-esteem from the people that matter the most.  So much is overlook in family ties, lifelong friendships, and work relationships, we are left with the sensation of being locked-up in a cage like a neurotic animal reminiscing on the freedom of the wild.  Recently pop singer Shakira put out a video where while sleeping with her significant other she turns into some sort of a shewolf locked-up in a cage.  This is one of the most artistic videos I’ve recently had the privilege of viewing.  Our anger has no other option but to populate that cage with our imagination (in Shakiras case it is the many distortions her body goes through as a half-breed human/gothic animal) an imagination that struggles to find the balance between fiction and reality.  For some this is a good thing since it sets into motion the creative impulse, but for a good portion of people this struggle can lead them on the path to true isolation, apathy, and danger.  Our imagination is both artist and predator.  I believe the question that can help us keep a vigilant eye on this issue is: How transparent do we really believe our motives be?



©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 13

NaPoWriMo Monday April 12, 2010

•April 13, 2010 • Leave a Comment




Satan’s Bride
The great payoff
is over. Turn your mirror
to the caterwauls
of Satan’s bride
if superbly round breast
and two weeks
vacation in the azure
with Circe be your goal.
Death has a first,
second, and third prize
in the lottery of stars:
a rare rumpus, a magical orb
sweetly rolling around
your arm pits, and clouds
on their way home
along the seashore.
The streets sing as well,
to hydrocephalic
politicians reeking
of a haunt.

©  Sergio A. Ortiz April 13, 2010

NaPoWriMo Saturday, April 11, 2010

•April 11, 2010 • Leave a Comment


We Walk the Plank with Strangers
Dear friends.


this poem was taken down because it will be published in the next few days at Scythe















© Sergio A. Ortiz, April 10th, 2010


The Crying Game – Boy George

•April 10, 2010 • Leave a Comment

NaPoWriMo Saturday, April 10

•April 10, 2010 • Leave a Comment
Dear Friends,
this poem was taken down because it will be published at Scythe within the next few days.

©  Sergio A. Ortiz Rivera, April 2010

Collage

•April 9, 2010 • Leave a Comment
Posted by Picasa

NaPoWriMo Friday April, 9th, 2010

•April 9, 2010 • Leave a Comment

otra vez flores
maravilloso lustre
tu piel sin teñir


Haiku ©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 2010





Posted by Picasa

Pintura: © y cortesía de la Compañía de Turismo de Puerto Rico

NaPoWriMo Friday April 9 2019

•April 9, 2010 • Leave a Comment

A Letter to Emily
She makes the women think
I’m caught on her nail-dangles.
Although, I do admit
to a slight inclination, a tiny swoop.
I don’t blush. No, I won’t blush
like the gothic Bronte sister
& all her brilliant Oh’s.
For all it’s worth,
this rendezvous with tattle
teller dreams is all the marrow
I need.  Feel free to kick;
days beneath the high tide
cling to the wedding of words.
I’m never right!


©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 2019

NaPoWriMo Thursday April 8

•April 8, 2010 • Leave a Comment

to the oasis 
Dear Friends this poem was taken down because it will be published at Scythe  within the next few days.







©  Sergio A. Ortiz April 2010

Possible book cover.

•April 7, 2010 • Leave a Comment
Posted by Picasa

Pintura: © y cortesía de la Compañía de Turismo de Puerto Rico