Friday, October 28, 2016

go ahead tanka

go ahead 
take to flying, become a bee 
you'll be too old to soar
peck the hyacinth in my garden

Thursday, October 27, 2016

A Ditch on the Road to your Body

A Ditch on the Road to your Body

Let every month be November with electric euphoria.
May tenderness be born from one of your bones,
and James Dean's laughter go up in flames,
may you show me the scars you no longer remember.

I touched your arm, a ditch on the road to your body.
I touched the open scar. You laughed and closed your eyes, 
your laughter told me that you were naked
between wild horses. Back then, you didn't hear me praise
your sense of emptiness, that sweetish scratch on the skin of your back.
I wanted to wrap myself around your red-blooded-James-Dean jacket and
lick the layers of oil, dirt, dust, adhering to your heart.
Some speechless voice told me, when I supported my head on your hip,
or when you rode me and our testicles 
rubbed together,
folded into each other 
and I thought we sailed
a path of wires, threads,
to weightlessness, 
that the scar was still fresh in your memory.
I wanted to get into your shirt and walk 
on the beach of your wet feet,
and help you get into the new pants I bought you.

Let me burn those afternoons at close range of all your goodbyes, 
along with your James Dean laughter so we can live.

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

who wants - tanka

painting by Christian Schloe

who wants 
to bring down the door 
to my garden 
of buried silence, paid for 
with shame and lost pride

The Salt of my Tongue

The Salt of my Tongue

I've known you since then, 
stagnant water, since you left me. 
Now, I'll have to seek

refuge in other eyes. I am the valve 
you wear down, the man you loath.  
Your body and my body

speak the love they occupy,
the love that restores us unabridged
to what we are. We travel

with open skin, without calm,
blindly pointing the way to the rotten,
the ones who still long to live.

I always dig you out, my bone,
my ghost under the pillow, among men
kissing under poplars,

and women who need to penetrate
each other (a hopeless cause) 
to feel happy.

I'll be there, chased, a bat flapping
in each of my wrists, then you'll know
we'll never be so hidden we forget each other.

Spoken from the highest branch of my glory

Spoken from the highest branch of my glory

Who wants 
to bring down the door 
where I buried 
my silence, a silence I paid for 
with shame and the daily castration 
of pride and love, a love that is 
nothing but the dirty side
of a fallen tree?

Monday, October 24, 2016

the dusk - tanka

A wall painted by Bansky

the dust 
surrounding my bones
before dusk 
honey distilled 
from your lips to mine

Sunday, October 23, 2016

Cedros y Beatitudes

Cedros y Beatitudes

Que las sombras te lleven.
Que arrastren tus pesados brazos
resurectos y aserrados mil veces.
Hay barracas llenas de niños
esperando que la maquinaria 
del mundo haga "clic"
como se suponía que lo hiciera
hace siglos. Ten lastima de aquellos
que se pasan el día temblando.
Su silencio es como el silencio
de las montañas al caer la noche, 
o el de las olas al hincharse.

Thursday, October 20, 2016

When the Wind Tightens its Grip

Painting by Eve Riser Roberts

When the Wind Tightens its Grip 

You saw my legs
and got up from the bed.

Later you called 
wanting assurance 
it was not contagious.

The flowers of cold
died from a dry wind
blowing from the north.
But have no fear, 

gypsies arriving on ships
full of questions
beg you not to forget them,

the same as Modigliani's blue cat.
Don't forget, I'm one of those men
that never asks for anything.

Thoughts from my Second Date with Truth

Thoughts from my Second Date with Truth

You gave me your truth,
let me know how you attempted
to save yourself from it.
How else could we have gotten 
to know each other?

Every word a gap,
a small one.  Because we burn
underneath, and so much light hurts.

I dreamt that truth was One.
I saw her approaching
in silence in the form 
of a woman constantly turning
her soul on and off.

Her soul growing in my heart,
turning it on and off as well.
Her word ascending over my word, 
whipping clean

whatever it was I had recorded 
up to the very last punctuated period,
the slightest one, 
the one on my crossroad.

We were so small 
that up and down could not
be distinguished.  So small
we erased ourselves from our 
heavenly sky of half truths,
far from Grace. So small
we became tiny bullets 
willing to pierce other glass hearts.

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

After being Stoned in the Spanish Inquisition

After being Stoned in the Spanish Inquisition

When I was young
I lived sliding down empty, 
smooth surfaces
where rest and vertigo
were rumors of echoes.

I fell so many times,
got up in different places
never to be returned.
The detour was Law

and openness was feared.

When I was young
I tried to invent a machine,
but my machine made errors,
I was one of those errors. The higher 
the offering, the more useless.

They asked for lamps
and words. I said, love understands praise.
They said, your tree

is a serpent eating its own tail.
But I grew in my tree like a clumsy hand
ascending towards that Truth
listening to no one.

Reader, I call upon you,
solemn reader, ironic reader,
never be indifferent! You must build, 
twirl with the machine,
dream you see the Tree of trees
bigger than the forest!

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Between Cracked Walls

Between Cracked Walls

My home floats,
within its walls, no land
to drop my roots.
It sails between dense clouds 
of feathers. It's doors
and windows open
like eyes gazing at the moon
glowing over rooftops.

The photographs hanging 
on its cracked walls
sing your farewell 
to the love I nestled. 

My grandfather clock
twists and tangles its needles.
My sisters cry
at the foot of its bent shadows.
The echo of its tic-tac 
loud in their ears. 

My home roams in my dreams
until all that's left are lullabies 
sung by my mother, a ray of light 
shooting through a starless sky.

Buried in my Heart

Buried in my Heart

Heraclitus's waters,
time passes dragging its back
between the edges 
of polished stones...
my shadow falters

trees shed their leaves
as do faces perpetuated 
in old photographs...
my newest face
diluted in the stream

heads or tails - A tanka

you toss 
the days to come 
up in the air 
our life together 
a gamble

Monday, October 17, 2016

The Fall - A Somoka

The Fall

do you know 
how sparrows die?
engulfs them like lead--
at the very last minute, silence

the blow  
of their bodies on the water
a rumor of wind...
from my room
you cannot see the sea

Saturday, October 15, 2016

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, this one's for you!

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, this one's for you!

You're already a forest.
There are dolphins, 
lakes, and impossible 
loves inside you named Dylan 
sitting at my table.

When someone 
mentions your name 
in the future, 
empty houses 
brim with people.

Have you forgotten
it was happiness 
that first plowed my heart,
a storm in an empty glass of water.

When fear and hopelessness arrive
and the Cherry blossoms fall
on muddy ground,
you'll hear me scream 
like a gull or a woman

who knows moving forward
is to be left alone.
When all this happens
remember the tambourines
and the way rain 
turns into trees.

Friday, October 14, 2016

Somoka - You were Born in Winter

You were Born in Winter

you brought
the murmur of a memory
and little feet
as small as a snowflake
in January

how will life be
when it unfolds in your hands,
a fish squirming
to return to water,
or a ship ready to sail?

Thursday, October 13, 2016

To Ramona - Bob Dylan - Winner of the 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature

It's raining too much for a Monday

It's raining too much for a Monday

and I can't complain, destiny won't let me.
The cold will eventually come 
with its searing humidity,
its depopulated bones,
its voice broken and badly injured,
its heartless experience,
and above all else, its scam.

Winter will walk on steely sheets,
cross forgotten bridges, leave its mark 
on silence, take revenge on good fortune,
a lunar eclipse, what is born never to die,
restless hope that disturbs the senses,
that fragile image that sways in the garden,
(my heroes are unsettled).

It will fight to be triumphant 
and dwell in my memory and in my dreams.
affecting my conscience.
I know, there will be no light to protect me
from Monday's loneliness, no distance
or impassable frontier.

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

Upon reading the results - To Alan Turing

Upon reading the results,
To Alan Turing 

Genetic abnormalities,
he said in his white coat,
ordinary exceptions that prove
maddened chromosomes.
But the sum, the calculation
does not return,
it spits on all his pain.

You, who gave birth
to large artificial thought
closed in lived diversity
in retrospect like a vice
under a sky of numbers
and signs, you’ve found evil
in the fable that constricts
the deformed face
of your generation’s morale.

Tuesday, October 04, 2016

My Dear Renier

My Dear Renier,

you reached my bed,
turned around,  
and I left me 
feeling nothing!

Your onyx head
was the size of a spindle
spinning above my physique

like a pirouette knitting
a supernova on the peak
of my impossible soul.

And me?
I was the feathered 
comet tail of your 

Sunday, October 02, 2016

¿Qué tal si me siento?

¿Qué tal si me siento?

¡No pierdo más mí tiempo!
La distancia entre nosotros  
es humo de tren que partió
en domingo hacia la nada,
imitación ventrílocua
de palabras eróticas, laberinto
de rejas con alambres de púa
enmarcando los pasillos del deseo.

Ofreces afeitar mis días
mientras mido tus intentos de lamer
mis sueños. Pero pisas en falso
y te caes antes de estremecer 
mi zona intima.

Saturday, October 01, 2016

Querido Renier - Encuentro sexual que no progreso

Querido Renier

llegaste y te fuiste
y no sentí nada.

Tu cabeza de ónix
era del tamaño
de una rueda de huso
fluyendo sobre mi cuerpo,

una pirueta bordando
un supernova  en la cúspide
de mi imposible ser.

Y yo? 
Fui detalle emplumado
de lo que pudo haber sido
y no fue.

¿Cómo de bien conoces América?

¿Cómo de bien conoces América?

Viví en su jaula
de carnaval
como un babuino.
Fui liberado
con un microchip
en el oído,
toda mi lucha extinguida.
Deje que sus botas
aplastaran mi cara
en el fango,
nadé en su sangre,
me senté desnudo
sobre las estanterías
donde almacena
las causas perdidas.

Friday, September 30, 2016

Wind Son

Wind Son

They arrived,
invaded blood
like wet feathers.
You feed fear
and loneliness
as if they were
two small animals
lost in the desert.
They’re here to burn 
the Age of Sleep.

Your life
is a constant goodbye.
You hold on
like a snake that’s only itself
when there’s nobody looking.
You cry, open
the jewelry box 
of your desires and you’re richer
than night. But there’s so much isolation
that your words commit suicide.

Christina Aguilera - Dirrty ft. Redman

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Endless Nights of November

Endless Nights of November

I spoke of dead bodies
under endless November nights
and I waited
but nothing happened.

I fled without realizing I fled,
dates near and far              written on water
I swallowed in small sips.

Below, a finger, tense, severe,
pointing at me from the sea
like a domesticated circus bear.
I left everything I knew as mine.
Days past became shock waves,
forms of gloom the future dawns.

I’ve seen you look at me
five hundred times,
but look at me again           upright
against noon clarity. I’m not a visitor
from the world, 

I am the world!
I am the north wind tarnished
after battering bowed heads
of people populated by darkness
and death. The lamp’s fire
is no more beautiful
than the light of a bonfire.

I’ve seen thousands of men
dumped in a single grave,
and flowers blooming
on that grave, and rain,
and boats in the distance,
then a desolate, gloomy wasteland
and someone walking backwards forever.

I’ve seen this and kept silent.
Now my lips kiss without love.
They know a vastness
where cliff and sky
are not any different.

Friday, September 23, 2016

Motel Borinquen

Motel Borinquen

A condom falls on night’s shadows.
Desire lubricates my insides.
I’m sedated by your bang hole,
the jazz, the cannabis, the nether elite
to which I aspire.

Come to my dildo
manufactured on the streets
of Borinquen.

This word archeology
discovers the bone, the psychic earthquake
of reason’s instability and all
its caveman connections.

The sun falls on the city’s mist,
its eye penetrates the hustler’s wallet
and the hidden book of Babylon.

Insolent amazement dries
drunks’ rheum. A beautiful river
descends from a stone and travels
to the caveman’s ancient foreskin.
It is the transfiguration
of androgynous men into angels
carrying the metaphysics
of their pockets in their language.

The luxury of their burials
conveys the stigma of a leprechaun.
Because they made money
the final solution…the microcosm
of their soul is dead.

They’re threatened
by the burnished skeleton of a lover
and a joke made with a vulture’s gaze.

It’s not always like this.
But the city’s bourgeois need him
so he rushes to the blue chalet
by the sea, Motel Borinquen!

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Morning - For my friend Gaby


Today I woke with purple eye.
The bed sheet covered with bitterness,
the horizon dyed your gaze with resentment.
It was my prison, my sticky algae refuge,
the silence of dead birds.

God I love you Gaby! Your hands
strange tentacles of islands.
Oysters open their eaten shells
rock jellyfish and sirens
have indigo lips.
So much oblivion, so much baseness!

A wounded wolf with hemlock penis
howled in your brain.
It hit the staghorn corals.
So much water lily perfume
in the swamp inside you.

The morning was intoxicating liquor,
menstrual delirium. Your sex
on top of my tumbling soul
defeated. The froth of your mouth,
the epilepsy of sound scream:
God how I love you!

You were the vampire
of my night carriage, the dice
rolled in red brothels, the subtle
emanation of nipples.

Next morning
your teeth bit my forbidden fruit,
walked with tousled hair, wandered
the streets of my chalices.  You knew
how to unleash the envy of morning joggers.

There’s no answer to the torture
of your silence, you gave everything
you had in the rocks, the mosses,
the cliffs, the gelatin slits of my skin.
Your gaze fell victim to a deathly pecking.
Once eyeless, you destroyed gulls,
infected the solace of your prison cell.




You are the first haggard hours of my morning.

Friday, September 16, 2016

Binnacle - in English and Indonesian for my good friend Saipul Saipul Bin Sanusi


you cannot know
navigation not having rowed
on a man’s sex
shipwrecked, washed up
on one of his beaches

Anda tidak bisa tahu navigasi
takak memiliki dayung
pada jenis kelamin laki-laki
berkebangasaan, terdampar
salah satu pantai nya

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

Returning to his Body - for Hamza

Returning to his Body

The boy left his cows
and came to me,
what splendorous rod,
how swift and dark his stature,
what swollen, slender nudity!

My body, my labyrinth,
come call, scold, hurt,
calm my troubled slits.
Find me clinging to your waist
orange blossom in my mouth.

                        Before my eyes
                        a peal of freshness,
                        triumphant, passionate confusion
                        emerges from his legs.

A sound as tender as the wind
blowing through the trees struck
my breast. We were silent,
winners—losers, cut
over rough straws, him beside me,
my face between his genitals ferocious.
He left his cows,
copious sweet wine,
and came to me.

Monday, September 12, 2016

First Ceremony

First Ceremony

You lie a novice on my bed
delightful, earthy, mild.
You appear to sleep
and I’m beside myself
when my hands unfold
their poverty on your hair.
I find you naked, I am myself
naked, amazed,
a shimmer, wretched,
and soft. What can I do
blinded and mute.
Bewildered? You keep
your gaze ferocious, hungry
devouring the dark,
your sex wet and hurting
with the memory of your first
ejaculation, your lips no longer in need
of the child you were.
Your way of being licks me
like a dog, a wild horse.
Your navel makes my head rotate.
I tend my hand towards your thighs
and blow by blow they separate,
and meet, and turn into a fiery gap
in turmoil on the bed sheet.
Take me, kneel, and separate,
come back, hurtle, howl.
All of a sudden you slit
my darkness and rain
inside me!

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About Me

My photo
San Juan, Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico
Sergio A. Ortiz is an educator, poet, photographer, and painter living in San Juan Puerto Rico. He is a four-time nominee for the 2010-2011 Sundress Best of the Web Anthology, and a two-time 2010 Pushcart nominee. His collections of Tanka, For the Men to Come (2014), and From Life to Life (2014) were released by Amazon and Createspace as well as his full print collection of poems: At the Tail End of Dusk (2014). His collection of poems in Spanish, A La Orilla Lenta De Un Ocaso, was also released by Amazon and Createspace (2014).