Monday, April 30, 2012
(from a collection of poems on how to drive a child insane)
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 perform
on that cardboard box for months.
When the organ finally arrived,
it was as if he were insane. The sounds that came out
of that hellish machines were nothing like
the sounds he had practiced.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
He leído los hilos de las telarañas
para descubrir como blanquear mis
piernas heridas. He caminado sobre brazas
para tirar del corazón a la razón.
Mas nada me ha servido de alivio.
Me sigo gastando a solas bajo los puentes
de Ámsterdam a la altura de un cuerpo seco.
He vivido tantos años que no siento la brisa,
solo la resequedad en mi lengua.
He sentido tanto temor que ni el cielo
me brinda consuelo. He nadado sin cesar
para nunca llegar a mi tiempo justo.
Y así sigo, sin justicia, como un mapuche
desterrado de la realidad de la tierra madre
por carabineros dispuestos a matar.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
I was tormented
by the immense desolation
with which Aureliano’s ghost
had looked at me, the deep nostalgia
which that specter felt for the living
was as touching as my dream
of a city with mirrors for walls.
Months later when he finally
showed up again, he came to my window
with the disease of insomnia. In his bones
he had the forgetfulness of death.
His thoughts, monsoons of darkness,
were lying to me, imbedding in my limp skin
hopes of a new beginning where our numbers
increased from two to four, and wild dreams
strangled my roots like a banyan
with handfuls of hate.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
“There is a man for me,”
he would insist on telling
his mother in the dream.
But, all she wanted to hear about
were his studies. So, he would
eagerly explain to her about how well
he was doing in school.
“I’ve come up with a study
plan unlike anyone else’s.
a cuckoo bird flew over the nest
His ear would hurt,
but he’d continue writing.
He’d wake up happy to have dreams
about his mother, it was as if he had finally
captured her attention.
little boy blue
sat on a stool
He lives better
in his dreams than in reality.
He is happier there.
addicted to sleep
a monsoon rain pouring over him
his blood thins out, he has no wrinkles.
he’s ironed out flat.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
The Space of Solitude
Dawn surprised me on the patio
without daring to sleep. I took to the jungle
and built myself a house without windows
where the pirates of my nightmares
could not reach me. Orchids occupied a space
of solitude and exclusion, forbidden to birds.
Everything resembled a tight forest of flowers
with the sea at a short distance.
I was alien to the existence of my people,
because I considered infancy as a period
of mental shortage, and because I was usually
too absorbed in my own chimerical speculations.
I was alone in my space, the solitude tolerable.
Monday, April 09, 2012
Sunday, April 08, 2012
el museo de la inocencia
músicos y pecadores
merodeaban mi casa para aquellos
tiempos. Uno, incluso, llego a escalar
la ventana de mi habitación.
seguro de sí mismo, me tomo en sus
brazos y me llevo a la mesa de la cocina.
yo lo miraba lleno de curiosidad
porque todavía no me asustaba
Saturday, April 07, 2012
El tiempo se deshace de mis huellas.
Se vuelve líquido indómito
arruinado los narcisos de tu otoño.
Yo tiemblo con el deseo de poseerte
como cuando navegaba por la primavera
de la adolescencia lleno de tu semen.
Pero tú no te acuerdas de mis labios
ni te hacen suspirar los danzones
de mi cintura, mas yo sigo oculto en ti.
de mi cintura, mas yo sigo oculto en ti.
Thursday, April 05, 2012
at the temple of friendship
one smiles at the turnip
and winks at the yams
laughs with the carrots
and sings with the bees
in an eighteenth-century
where ladies prefer
their tea without
the company of men
ringed in black
by the vampires
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Poetry Journals & Published Poems
- The Citron Review
- Breadcrumb Scabs
- Salt River Review/ Volume 12, No, 3, Winter 2009
- Ganymede Poets, One Anthology
- Flor del Concreto/ So It Goes Poetry Anthology
- Rust and Moth
- The Externalist: A Journal of Perspectives
- The Stoning of Sarah
- Letralia Tierra de Letras
- children churches & daddies
- The long and detailed principal of governance
- At the Tail End of Dusk Inn
- At the Church of 80% Sincerity
- The Chilean Temple Initiative-The Silent Beauty of a Mother Bee
- Ink Sweat & Tears
- Poet's Ink Review
- The Texture of Stone
- Bread & Tablecloths
- Weathervane, Royal Doll, In Memory
- Rain Dancer, Illegal
- The Beauty of Tattoos, He and I
- Coming Together, Alessia Brio Editor
- Origami Condom
- The Battered Suitcase
- Sergio A. Ortiz
- San Juan, Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico
- Ortiz grew up between San Juan and Chicago, studied English literature at Inter-American University in San German, Puerto Rico, and philosophy at World University. He was an ESL teacher most of his life but also worked with the elderly blind population as a Daily Living Skills Instructor at the El Paso Lighthouse for the Blind, and the Texas Lions Camp. He studied culinary art at The Restaurant School in Philadelphia and became a chef. His work has been published in over 255 print journals, e-zines, and anthologies. Flutter Press released his debut chapbook, At the Tail End of Dusk, in October of 2009. Ronin Press released his second chapbook: topography of a desire in May of 2010. His photographs have been published or are forthcoming in: W5RAn.com, The Neglected Ratio, The Monongahela Review, and more. His poems were recently published, or are forthcoming in: The Battered Suitcase, Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), WTF PWM, The 13th Warrior Review, Dark Lady Poetry, and Writers’ Bloc.