Sunday, February 19, 2017

Moonlight on a Frozen Sea Surf

Moonlight on a Frozen Sea Surf

Frost that does not detach
from my hands-I manage to live
between flower and song,
pink and wind.

I sleepwalk on both sides
of a border: bells ring at dawn
in my silent village.

I discover myself in limbo:
the murmur of cast away words,
the heavy air of the past

that descends to painful areas
putting aside tender 
and violent sea surf.

Bodies Traced on the Sand

Bodies Traced on the Sand

You and I scattered
on water and sand.

I look at you in silence
and remember that beach.

Your eyes the color of sky
your white skin

spilled on my

When I no Longer Want to Answer your Calls

When I no Longer Want to Answer your Calls

At the end of the day
the body gets rid
of its memory.

There is nothing
to confiscate from a mind
that does not exist.

Saturday, February 18, 2017

Where will Children Play

Where will Children Play

Their names, carved in the keel
of the vessel in which they traveled.

Their margins, our boundaries pushed
to the side in view of what really matters

in our fallible, sensitive lives, seek
a response from the unknown. 

Position yourselves next to the mystery
of their music. Is child play the glimmer

that does not bond to anything,
a mirror of water, the closed curtain

in the school of human affections?
Gunshot signals the rescue,

yet you deny them entry.
A growing weakness reminds me

that there is no beginning or end in the life
of your phosphoric limbo, Mr. President.

Nobility of Blood

Nobility of Blood

Dear Lord, this congressional recess
the President's Cabinet promises
to thank you for AIDS, though
it has not made them transcend
into the 21st century. They are
still caught up in superficial things

like fake news, taxes, bans, the wall.

We thank you for these tent evangelists,
brothers and sisters alike,
breeders of hate crimes,
that reject the perfect beauty
of homemade remedies
and blood transfusions.

Lord, forgive their arrogance
toward the medical community
and appoint faith healers
to Obama Care, or whatever
Mr. Trump decides to call it.

Thank you for allowing me to live
on the periphery of society,
where nobody asks yet everybody
tells.  Thank you for the innocent
illusion of my open exhibitions
of affection toward Omar. Thank you

for not letting in immigrants
from Muslim Africa, where water, food,
and medical supplies have always
been scarce and costly, where rape
and violence towards women
is beyond control, where children
have no choice but to fight
for brutal warlords, where life
and death no longer belong to You.

Yemen, Iraq, Somalia, Iran, Libya, Sudan,
have you learned to die?

Our Wealth

Our Wealth

Is it now illegal to be gay in the USA?   Will we need to join underground to escape the fog of an orange tyrant?  Take off your shirt, tattoo a machine gun and a dove dripping blood from its heart. Join the Resistance. Become a poet.

Be a rainbow
in the gale of life
of heavily-lidded eyes
on the battlefield

“Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.*” Do not answer the middle-of-the-night-knocking at your door without resistance.  We are no longer children of the half-light.

Artless fog
man-on-man smithereens
in a moment
orange-on-orange blemish
without a purpose

*John F. Kennedy

Friday, February 17, 2017

Lucecita Benitez - Cabalgata

Letra de Roberto Carlos

Cabalgaré toda la noche
Por una senda colorida
Mis besos te daré en derroche
De una manera algo atrevida
Me aferraré de tus cabellos
Por no caer de ese galope
Voy a atender a mis anhelos
Antes que el día nos sofoque
Me perderé de madrugada
Para encontrarte en mi abrazo
Después de nuestra cabalgata
Me acostaré en tu regazo
Sin importarme si en ese instante
Soy dominado o si domino
Me sentiré como un gigante
O tan pequeño como un niño

Y las estrellas del lugar
Se nos acercan para ver
Y aún conservan su brillar
Después de nuestro amanecer
Y en la grandeza de ese instante
Mi amor cabalga sin saber
Que en la belleza de esa hora
El sol espera por nacer

Y las estrellas del lugar
Se nos acercan para ver
Y aún conservan su brillar
Después de nuestro amanecer
Y en la grandeza de ese instante
Mi amor cabalga sin saber
Que en la belleza de esa hora

Lucecita Benitez - Fruta Verde


Eros and his Hidden Lover

Eros and his Hidden Lover

Trapped in my surroundings,
my place of birth, a ray of moonlight
unfolded, revealing the fragrant lavender petals
of a desert flower. I moved closer,
desperate to express my longing,
and calm the madness
in Eros's eyes.

I found my way to his tent
where voices of distant seas inhabit me,
where fear blinks as I learn to die
from the multiple definitions of East and West,
empty like the cracks in dry desert earth.

A needle stitched my tears.
Two thousand years in the thorny hands
of gods, a bitter pleasure.

Two worlds, two discernments.
Lost in the distracted indiscretion
of time. Stunned
and twisted.

Thursday, February 16, 2017

Mi Obra Maestra

Mi Obra Maestra

es un holograma
de cerezos
en flor
los pétalos de mis pesares
en un rayo de luz.

El olvido
es el laberinto
de lo desechado,
lo imperfecto.

La geografía
de mi memoria
es mi colección
de versos arrebatados
a la noche

donde un soñador
me salvo
del desespero
de arco iris.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

tiene sangre en las manos

tiene sangre en las manos

y vidrio soplado en los pulmones
el corredor del narcotráfico
donde mi isla muere

tiene sangre en la cara
y vidrio molido en sus fosas nasales
el corredor de la justicia
donde mi isla muere

tiene sangre en su pene
y vidrio cortado en su colon
el corredor de partidos
políticos corruptos
donde mi isla muere


iniquidad por la cabeza
por los pezones
por los pies
por la nariz
por el pene

y aun así  
es capaz de salir

I Refuse to Lose You

I Refuse to Lose You

I follow you to the street
where best regards
forms a corner wall
with the breeze.

Where my body fights
to enter the overflow of mist
in your cloisters.
Where clouds move inside a space
beyond grief or understanding,
and memory, my scandalous mirror,
always tells a lie.

Filled with longing
I came to you prepared for ghosts
and found whispers.

The Pianist

The Pianist

We buried him yesterday.
Night finds little, if any consolation
in embellished stars,
and although I’ve stopped crying,
I still sigh.

I listen to music
when there's nothing
but the luscious scent
of emptiness.

You were my fallen flower,
my one thousand gifts
of heavenly abundance,
my banquet of endings.

The Storm - new version

The Storm

A dog seeks a place
to sleep. Listen to it growl
at the boulevard; its broken sidewalks,
weeds in every crack.

Feel the rain
and cool your sweaty flesh
like a snuffed candle.
Forget your name,
the snare that gathers
in the mist of night.

Imagine someone sleeping
in a row-boat tied to a mangrove root
undisturbed by the rain or the dog.

Monday, February 13, 2017

We should Rehearse

We should Rehearse

 for the day when we are blind
We should all learn to read with our fingers
the braille of scars on arms and sperm
of melted candles. Remove for one night,
every fortnight, the white bulb in our bedroom.

Because before death
comes blindness. And Charon will not accept
our fear as payment to cross the river Styx.

For a winged birth
the steel must cut the meat
and throw away the body.
It's not the sky that grants us flight.
It's the fall.

Alicia Keys & Maren Morris The 59th Grammys Awards 2017

Just Published at CommunicatorsLeague

CommunicatorsLeague just published 6 of my photographs

Saturday, February 11, 2017

VALENTINE ROAD, HBO Documentary with Dir. Marta Cunningham

It’s a Wonderful Life Brandon - last poem in the Larry Fobes King series

It’s a Wonderful Life Brandon
Larry Fobes King “Leticia”,
January 13, 1993 – February 13, 2008

What’s up, baby?
It was the step that haunted,
the cold predatory act, the final step,
the chards of the glass.

I filled the rooms of this school
with the scent of ghosts,
built the classroom out of Leticia’s sighs,
colored the halls with Larry’s anguish. 

In school I wore a uniform
made from screams, like a window
between the cracks of air, or a leak
on its way down the steps of obsession.

“Baby,” the blaze of going to bits,
of keeping guilt and loss at bay,
of two shots in the back of Leticia’s head
the only solution.

The prosecuting attorney
walked through una hojarasca
on the way to her table. Her hair
full of dead, wet leaves. Hallway clatter
declared her ten pounds’ thinner.
The jury, untangling Brandon
and Leticia: What’s up baby?
The defense begged jurors leave
their conscience in the hallway,
and it worked. 

If you’re murdered,
but you were transgender,

it always works.

Friday, February 10, 2017

MARCAPIEL publica tres de mis poemas

MARCAPIEL acaba de publica tres de mis poemas en español:

Nosotros los Chicos Invisibles


Valentine Road

Valentine Road
Larry Fobes King “Leticia”,
January 13, 1993 – February 13, 2008

Invisible, given to roughhousing, Brandon,
white boy supremacist. What planet do you live on?

You love the hunt, the power of,
“No,” you can’t be Leticia

in a green dress, “No” knee-high boots
for you, Larry.

The women of this seaside town
cannot be the night behind the mirrors.

There are faces, there are organs,
there are white ferocious animals

that look at Leticia with hate.
To make sweetness a job

is a reactionary act, and anger
a swan impregnated by dust

unable to comprehend pain,
the scent of flowers
in the unnamed garden of sin.

Thursday, February 09, 2017

Leticia was a Less-Dead Ghost

Leticia was a Less-Dead Ghost
Larry Fobes King “Leticia”,
January 13, 1993 – February 13, 2008

Larry’s heart rate was stable, but Leticia
could not open her eyes, he was struggling
to breath as the veladoras began to bunch up
on the sidewalk in front of the school. Leticia
suffered a stroke, veiled infinity opened.

Her body was zipped into a body-bag,
his donated organs took off on a helicopter
the day before Valentine’s Day.

I asked God for a different street, another leprosy
in a glass of wine. Everyone says goodbye
to the world as best they can. I prefer silence

so as not to embarrass myself for not facing
the eyes of so many who hate or love me.
When I start to die, God makes a lot of noise
and it wakes me up.

Wednesday, February 08, 2017

Shooting in Realistic Environments

Shooting in Realistic Environments
      Lawrence "Larry" Fobes King,
        January 13, 1993 – February 13, 2008

Children with torches and crosses,
sleepwalkers looking for their mother
beyond the shadow.

Women searching for their children
scattered in the river; offspring’s,
fragments of a letter of despair.

Those that were going to die
saw her proceed without recognizing
her child. She bid her kid
farewell with her hand

and hummed until she sank
into the horizon.

Tuesday, February 07, 2017



Rancid perfume
flavored with names,
I hear from
near and far of the vicars
who disbelieve in innocence.

Lotus eaters
of the symbol and the verb,
is it possible to live
with a fathomless abyss
on my back?

Let us drown
Ausonius's rose, suffocation
will silence her.
Thus, we behold the invisible
mystique of a true rose.

Girl in Fulton Street - revision

Girl in Fulton Street

They’re not really strangers
reflecting off the windows,
they’re men afoot on a crowded street.
I am one of them, a girl in drag
abating the neon lights.
Clearing my way through a wilderness
of leaves, dry and quiet rhymes  
without stretch marks,
on the banks of a wistful sea
where metaphors grow old. 

Monday, February 06, 2017

Journal Former People just accept four of my poems

The journal Former People just accept four of my poems. The link will be up as soon as they are published.

They are going to publish "A Matter of Habit," "Crépusculaire," Cirque Du Soleil, and Bengal Tiger."

Sunday, February 05, 2017

Bengal Elephant

Bengal Elephant

When he dreams about himself
he takes on the body of an angry elephant.
Sometimes he chases himself out of the dream
and wakes up scared, by my side.
I have the rest of night to become invisible
in his shadow. The life he leaves 
in that wilderness is sad and growing.

all night - tanka

I have all night
to become invisible
in your shadow …
the life you leave me in that gloom
                              is sad and growing

Saturday, February 04, 2017

Cirque Du Soleil

Cirque Du Soleil

I started piano lessons in 3rd grade.
My stepfather made me practice everyday
for two hours on a cardboard keyboard,
Six months later, he showed up 
with an enormous organ in a suitcase. 
It was then I discovered “Misty,” 
by Johnny Mathis.

That month I caught my piano teacher
playing the violin, and fell in love with a man
for the first time. He placed all his existence
on the tip of his fingers, and I couldn’t breathe.
I lost my balance. Insomnia set in like a guardian angel.

March 16th 1988, despite the rain,
the fireworks in Iraq,
the hands inside broken pockets,
the hollow eyes where sleeplessness leans on,
despite the Queer Nation tattoo on my back,
the piano player inside me,

the mute language
of desire knocked on my door.

There I am, lying on my bed
And there was Welder
standing on the side of my bed
with a boom box playing Misty,
asking me to dance. I got up
and stopped in front of lips asking for my lips,
the smile open to the world
the song born out of the wound of death.
I penetrated his pupils full of stealthy desires,

and we took to the sky, two seagulls
romancing the clouds.

Friday, February 03, 2017

Publicados hoy en - seis de mis poemas

Seis de mis poemas acaban de ser publicados por
Muchísimas gracias Resonancias!!!

Thursday, February 02, 2017



"Sal de mis sueños, entrar en mi coche.”
Así me piropeo ese hombre.
Lo peor es que mi universo
se apiño y yo vibre.
Se parece tanto a las ciudades
que amo, y a las que perdí.

Lo vi en París
acariciando a mi gato, en Madrid
abriendo una botella de Dom Perignon
en el Jacuzzi el día de Año Nuevo,
en las canciones de las cigarras
que escapan a el verano ocultándose
en los árboles de Perth.

Y aquí estoy, sin sol a la vista,
en medio de lo que por la fuerza,
por amor y por costumbre,
yo elijo como mío, mientras espero
para ver si me lo pide de nuevo.
Amour, pourquoi ne pas monter
Dans ma voiture.

Wednesday, February 01, 2017

The Sacrificial just published one of my poems!

The Sacrificial just published one of my poems! Thank you so much!

Thank you for publishing my poems RIGOROUS!

RIGOROUS JOURNAL recently published 6 of my poems

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

A Matter of Habit

 A transgender man and a transgender woman.

A Matter of Habit

“ 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 already, perhaps they have said me already, perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story, that would surprise me, if it opens, it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on”

― Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable

You learned to make those stone-cold
don’t-fuck-with-me faces in fifth grade
while I excelled at English, math, and history.
I knew words, numbers, and dates
would never betray me.

In high school, we drifted away
as you sought the approval of boys. You sacrificed
half your humanity to fit in. I circled the edge
of the pool and dove in. For me, “outside” became a habit.

You stopped riding wooden horses
to the school cafeteria. I spoke “love” to boys in codes
like wetting my lips while staring at their legs
flying above the pommel horse.

Years later, I learned to laugh at the pile of rejected poems,
the overdrawn checking account, the rushed anniversary gifts,
In fact, I somehow managed to get over my The Crying Game moment.
I’d like to imagine you did the same, that after all the men
you’re happy dating girls, playing tackle football,
and pissing in the urinals.

POETRY BREAKFAST just published two of my poems

POETRY BREAKFAST  just published two of my poems.

Transgression (2011) - The Film - Friends, you've got to see this Documentary Film!!!

Monday, January 30, 2017

My Sea is Strong

My Sea is Strong

I confess, in the heart of night,
I imagine myself cascading
on my lover’s body. My jewel
is a dead sea, salty and safe.
Blessed lover soaked with my body.
He who drags me to his shore.

Who gathers the moans I sow in seashells.
Who tosses my kisses back to the sea.
Who knows stones are also carved by water.
Who steals whatever I have with precision.
Who recognizes when to replace what was stolen.

This is how I love you,
every second committed
to your pleasure, but I never
say it. I hide the salt
crashing on your reef
inside my veins.

Para que mis Héroes Descansen en Paz

Para que mis Héroes Descansen en Paz

Éramos “personas”
hasta que el “hombre” creo
“macho y hembra,”
opresión e idealismo.

Reusó odiarme a mí mismo.
Pero me he extraviado. Estoy roto.
Necesito repararme, reparación física
y espiritual sin cirugía.

Mi alma no me obliga a cortarme las venas,
ni a decirme a mí mismo que soy ángel caído.
Reusó toda asociación con lucifer,

solo no voy a permitirle a dios
que me siga escondiendo.    

Sunday, January 29, 2017

Mi Mar

Mi Mar

Mi centro es mar muerto
salado y seguro. Confieso
que en lo más profundo
de la noche me imagino
abriéndome como una cascada.
Bendito el amante
que se empapa de mi cuerpo
y me arrastra hasta su orilla.
Que recoge los gemidos que siembro
en las caracolas. Que las besa
y las tiran a la deriva. Que sabe
que las piedras las talla
el agua. Amante que roba
cuidadosamente. Que reconoce
cuando debe reponer lo robado.
Así amo, cada segundo comprometido
con tu placer. Escondiendo
en mis venas la sal que se estrella
contra tu arrecife.

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About Me

My photo
San Juan, Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico
Sergio A. Ortiz is a Puerto Rican poet and the founding editor of Undertow Tanka Review. He is a two-time Pushcart nominee, a four-time Best of the Web nominee, and 2016 Best of the Net nominee. 2nd place in the 2016 Ramón Ataz annual poetry competition, sponsored by Alaire Publishing House. He is currently working on his first full-length collection of poems, Elephant Graveyard. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sergio A. Ortiz es poeta puertorriqueño que escribe en inglés y español. Actualmente trabaja en su primera colección de poesía, Elephant Graveyard, Cementerio de Elefantes. Ha sido nominado al premio Pushcart en dos ocasiones, al Best of the Web en cuatro ocasiones, y al Best of the Net, 2016. 2do lugar Premio Ramón Ataz de Poesía, 2016. Sus poemas han aparecido, o están por aparecer, en revistas literarias como: Letralía, Chachala Review, The Accentos Review, Resonancias, por mencionar algunos.