Saturday, December 31, 2016

A Poet's Epilogue - tanka prose





A Poet's Epilogue


The sudden flight of a startled butterfly
reminds me of the serious impertinence
of approaching matters without breaking
with anguish, without forgetting
the leaven of wounds.

to be a stone
in the depth of the stone
I'd rather be
a cross in the depth
of the cross

About Profiles






About Profiles


Sharpened in the light,
like a sunrise doctoring himself in water,
I look at how you lean on the magnet
of your own shadow, as if you were a dream clock
in the sweaty age of the planet. You are a fire cloud
for the dolphin's plumage, the scar that travels
from the nerve track of insomnia
to the sulfur eyelid of an unclaimed god.

I am the man, the throbbing eye
in harmony with my uproar.
Incurable tenderness suffocates me
with the hands of oblivion
because I speak alone to the crowds
of your name. I am inside the small cavity
of your dust with no possibility of a return,
I look at you with the wise
inconstancy of vinegar.

I am the man,
the dream,
the eye.

Written on the Breath of a Crystal





Written on the Breath of a Crystal


My faith is pregnant with black hens.
I advance toward water urgently hitting
the aftermath of time. I'm the feeble god
that scratches the weight of terror.

Here the afternoon is an ulcer
but I like it because it’s in the latitude
of suckling knives which are the skin
of the dream in which you name me.
Look at how this love of wires and equinoxes
digs sea and sea, shovel and word.

I have a caterpillar and my Quevedian faith,
fertile and hairy as peace in a prairie.
This faith snores when it talks about your absence,
when it caresses the teenage udder of vinegar
at the foot of bravura.

Light creaks while I sing
to the feline heart of your number,
and my pencil trickles to the bad meat
of knowing who I am,
the open window to the muscle of a scream.

Clot, kiss and faith,
long-lived water in absent lightning.
Here my terrible and polymorphous heart
loves you in the simple milk of exploding pain,
tooth of salt, kidney of barefoot smoke,
constant marrow of the flame.

Friday, December 30, 2016

Coffee With Underhill 12 30 2016 just read one of my poems

Coffee With Underhill 12 30 2016 just read one of my poems on CLOUDSOUND, Reasons to post a photo of a dead child from Aleppo...


Cooing the Man that is Singing




Cooing the Man that is Singing


He sings like the secret of stale rags.
Opens unexpected seed pods.
Grows eyelids to relieve our poverty.

I break the dream that drew me to his voice
and leave through a window to another jail

where I fast in labyrinths
stripped of leaves by music,
disfigured by foam.
I write so as not to lick the floor.

I compose homelands 
with oxidized tongues (landscapes 
with closed doors & mud ankles),
islands of guitars without strings.

He sings like skies feed on watches
to make our days believe our right ear
is a boy soaking his memory
in The River of Docile Waters.

He calls out my name,
my silences of squeaking doors,
my butterfly scars.


Thursday, December 29, 2016

Fink - Looking Too Closely lyrics from Collateral Beauty soundtrack

Way Down We Go – Kaleo - Collateral Beauty Soundtrack song list music... People, you've got to go see this movie. Will Smith should get his first Oscar for this performance!

Narcissus’s Death






Narcissus’s Death


Narcissus, Narcissus,
the antlers of the murdered deer,
fish, flames, flutes, are nibbled fingers.
Lips are paths, sad flames, waves biting hips.

Cold fish of the green, air in the mirrors
without stretch marks, flocks of pigeons
hidden in the dead throat, daughter
of the arrow and the swan,
seashell in the wave, uninterested cloud,
foam hangs from the eyes,
not offered marmoreal drop,
a heron needs to wander!

You hear fruit like screams in the snow,
the secret in converted geraniums.
Silk whiteness ascending spilled lips,
open oblivion to the islands. Swords and
eyelashes surrender to the dream,
render the mirror on an impure seashore.
Moist lips not on the seashell search
for the straight thread. They are slaves
of dry contours. The air bites the litmus
that changes its sound
into blond litmus of salt lime.

If he goes through the mirror,
the waters that stir the ears boil.
If he leans on its edge or on his forehead
the centurion gouges his side.
If he recites, bees penetrate his gaze
and the letters inside the dream frown.

Airwaves wrap the albino secret,
the harpooned skin coloring mirrors
of memory, the minute of silence.
It transverses endless whiteness
in the dry flames and drizzled leaves.
Uncreated bees bite the wake of his ship,
demand they be given the gunwale.
This is how the mirror found out
Narcissus took to the sky in the middle
of high water without wings.


Tuesday, December 27, 2016

Listen Without Prejudice





Listen Without Prejudice


It's December and it snows
with the voice of George Michael.
The apartment is a giant bed
where the hard parts of love are covered.

The mattress in my bedroom is gutted.
There are nights overflowing in the ashtrays.

He clasps his hands and a bird appears on the wall.
Look at this elephant walk, she laughs, and repeats.
He rolls another cigarette and changes channels.

God is spoken. Death.
Beneath the sheets there are attentive knees.
He reads stories with his blood on fire.
She falls asleep just before she cries.
It's the voice of George Michael snowing.
Clothes hang in the soul of the two.
They look at each other as if they've
just returned from a party.

Time does not understand these things.
For him they're all animals.
They all have lessons to learn.
On a Friday, there’s a crack in the air.
The back door is wide open.

George Michael lays silent in a drawer.
That's how it had to be. He wonders 
about why he no longer frequents certain places.
And he's suddenly still, especially when 
he hears tiny steps in the ceiling.
He recalls the rushed tone of his words:
Winter is December and it snows like his voice.


George Michael - Praying for Time

George Michael - Flawless (Go to the City)

I have eyes




I have eyes


to see something of who I am tonight,
and ears to listen too. I'm in my room with my dreams.

Behind every shadow
there are traces of me, on the chair,
at my feet, in bed, watching. They take my name,
and come out of the mirrors.

It's been a while since we met up
with each other. I'll give you my body.

I’ll gather myself, open my eyes
and sprinkle shadows with my darkness tonight.
My heart on the bed sheet beating.

I am my body




I am my body


and my body is sad and tired.
I'm going to sleep for a week, a month,
a year, so be silent. That when I open my eyes
children are grown and the universe smiles.

I want to stop stepping on the bare feet of the cold.
Let me have all the heat, the sheets, the blankets,
papers and memories. Close all the doors
so that my loneliness does not leave.

I want to sleep for a month, a year, just sleep.
And if I sleep talk, do not pay attention.
I want you to pretend that I am buried until the day
of the Resurrection.

I want to sleep until next year, nothing more.

Monday, December 26, 2016

Dozens, the new Breath & Shadow Anthology is now ready to be bought




Dozens, the new Breath & Shadow Anthology is now online at Amazon. Breath & Shadow is a quarterly journal of disability culture and literature. A project of AbilityMaine, Breath & Shadow was the first online literary journal with a focus on disability. They are now open for both fiction and poetry submissions.

Goodbye





Goodbye


1.      Of Illusion


You wrote: D  e  s  i  r  e
on the tablet of my heart
I walked
for days and days
dazzled      aromatized      and sad.


2.      Of Night


In the loving night, I grieve.
I pity his secret, my secret,
I interrogate him in my blood for a long, long time.
He doesn’t answer
and does like my mother, who closes her eyes without listening to me.


3.      Of Goodbyes


It's not to be said.
It comes to our eyes,
to our hands.  Trembles, resists.
You say you'll wait―you wait― from then until … .
And know goodbyes are useless and sad.

Of Goodbyes - Goodbye George Michael, sweet, sweet boy!!!




Of Goodbyes


It's not to be said.
It comes to our eyes,
to our hands, trembles, resists.
You say you'll wait―you wait― from then until …
And know goodbyes are useless and sad.

Of the Night




Of the Night


In the loving night I grieve.
I pity her secret, my secret,
I interrogate her in my blood for a long, long time.
She doesn't answer
and does like my mother, who closes her eyes without listening to me.

Of Illusion




Of Illusion


You wrote: D  e  s  i  r  e 
in the table of my heart
I walked 
for days and days 
crazy      aromatized      and sad

Saturday, December 24, 2016

Wanting to cry




Wanting to cry,


     almost crying.
I bring my youth in my arms,
the cloth of my blood
on which my heart rests hopeful.

Weak, convalescent, strange,
deaf to my voice, marked by fright,
I arrive to my youth like the leaves
the wind spins around trees.

I knew very few words
to define the strange events of my ravages.
Shadow and wound, lust, thirst and tears.

I come to my youth and I spill
myself on it like angry liquor,
the blood of a beautiful horse,
water on the thighs
of a woman with tight thighs.

My youth does not sustain me, I do not know
what I'm saying and what I don't speak.
I'm in my tenderness like sleep is in eyelids.
If I walk, I do so like the blind
learning from each step I take.

Abandon me here. I'm glad. I expect something.
I do not need more than a worthy dream,
and incessant failure.

Our Father who Art in Heaven





Our Father who Art in Heaven


Let's talk about Prince Cancer,
Lord of the Lungs, Male of the Prostate,
having fun throwing darts
to the smooth ovaries, and wilted vaginas,
multitudinous Groins

My father has the most beautiful cancer ganglion
at the root of his neck, under the clavicle,
tubercle of the good of God,
light bulb of virtuous death.
I send all the suns of the world to la chingada.
The Lord Cancer, Lord Pendejo,
is just an instrument in the dark hands
of the sweet VIP's that make up life.

In the four drawers
of the wooden filing cabinet
I keep dear names,
clothes of familiar ghosts,
words that wander around
and my successive skins.

I also keep the faces
of beloved women,
their loved and alone eyes,
the chaste kiss of coitus.

May good find
the shadow
of a heavenly tree.

A Hail Mary






A Hail Mary


We buried you yesterday.
Yesterday we buried you.
We poured land over you yesterday.
You were in the ground yesterday.
You are surrounded by dirt since yesterday.
Above and below and to the sides
for your feet and on your head.
We put you inside the earth,
covered you with dirt yesterday.
Yesterday we buried you.

Generous Mother
of the dead,
mother earth, mother
vagina of the cold,
arms of weather,
lap of wind,
nest of night,
mother of death,
pick him up,
strip him, take him,
save him, finish him.

As the children grow up,
with all the dead, little by little,
you finish. I've been watching you at night
above the marble, inside your little house.
One day with no eyes, no nose, no ears,
another day without a throat,
the skin on your forehead cracking, sinking,
obscuring the wheat field of your reeds.
All of you submerged in moisture and gases,
making your waste, (your disorder, your soul)
equal to your suit,
more wood your bones and more bones on
your stage performance.
Wet land where your mouth was,
rotten air, annihilated light,
the silence stretched to all your size.



Friday, December 23, 2016

I can make it rain -tanka




I can make it rain,
straighten twisted branches,
raise the dead ...
I say, let there be light,
and the whole city’s godlike  

At midnight





At midnight


when August is about to end,
I think about the leaves that incessantly fall
from calendars. I believe I am the tree
of the calendars.

Every passing day, leaves me wondering:
if the one who loses a father is an orphan,
if a man who loses his wife is widower,
what name do we give the loser?
How to call an idler of time?
And if I myself am time,
how shall I call myself, if I lose myself?

Day and night, not Monday or Tuesday,
or August or September. Day and night
are the measure of our duration.
To open and close our eyes is to last.

At this hour, every night, forever,
I am the one who has lost the day.
(Though I may feel that,
like fruit rises through peach branches,

the in the heart of these hours rises the dawn.)

Day House




Day House


People and things
enter the day house,
acrid herbs,
sleep deprived horses,
pretensions with music,
mannequins resembling girls.
You and I enter.
Dance enters, the sun,
a life insurance agent
and a policeman enter.
We are going to sell ourselves,
Mayhem.

Thursday, December 22, 2016

Deciduous Magnolia




Deciduous Magnolia


I live in the emancipated pigeons of verbs
that bellow or are silent, tattooing my spaces
with the ancient wisdom that climbs up my tired back.
I sneak into the senile mind of my illusions.

But what if I get lost
in the intricate abyss of the flesh's twilight?
Who would pour
the pearls of their anguish over me,
or light the alter candle
of my perennial memories?
Whose Nannie would sleep with me
on the dismay of my wandering soul,
my bed of withered magnolias?

If I shout into the wind,
the leaves of anguish are shaken.
Wind stirs the nests of disenchantment and anger.
The storms of the past are subjected
to the bluster of my echo,
and the indelible present among 
the branches of my tree.
I shelter myself within carmine
so as not to lose sight of the dawn.

Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Icarus




Icarus


1.
They melt in the sun,
the wings that I stick on my memories.
Some fly to me.
Others migrate forever.

2.
Once the Penelope
myth is broken,
I’ll unleash the moon
and set sail
to build a new country,
without marriages,
without respite,
where loneliness
does not hurt.

I'll exchanged the dilly-dally
for a sea search.

3.
Behind the wall
the void
as within me there is silence
and between you and me
skin
that limit
that sea

4.
Head of woman
and sex of fish.
The heart beats
in an old tin can.
Shipwrecks leave
from eyes
that always die
because of the mouth.

But earth is your thing.
You’ve always resisted swimming.

Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Little Red Cap




Little Red Cap


On the other side
of this huge forest
the world awaits me.

It's time
to walk the path,
although the trip
may take several years
of my life.

I hear the old voice howl,
the one that always manages
to stop me: Beside this forest,
all that awaits
is the house where you die.

Exposed



Exposed


Today I am in a plot,
where I suffer
the rigors of winter.
In summer,
I burn in such a way
that sparrows won’t nest
in my hands. What hurts 
the most is to lower my head 
and read the plaque: Naked Woman,
like so many others,
I'm not even a name you remember.

Little Red Cap - tanka







Little Red Cap,
time to walk the path ...
all that awaits
on this forest's further side
is the house where I die

Monday, December 19, 2016

The Square Root of Love







The Square Root of Love


If I'm told
you're on the other side
of a bridge,
strange as it may seem,
please tell me,
what is the bridge that separates
your life from mine.

In what black hour, what rainy city,
what world without light, is that bridge
and I will cross it.

No matter the goal or the course,
or the sun, which was light and whip
of that day's journey.
No matter the sweat, the thirst,
the clumsy tired steps.
The round trip.

Even the landscape is not important,
nor the orange earth, the green of alpines,
the turquoise sea, the gray stones
of borders and millennial defenses.

When I go to love
I have poppies on my lips
and a spark of fire in my gaze.
I wire and garner red roses.
Red, the mirror of my darkened bedroom.

When I return from love, withered,
rejected, guilty, or simply absurd,
I arrive pale, and very cold.
Pupils rolled over the top of my eyes,
white blood cells in the clouds,
a skeleton and its defeat.

But I keep coming back.


Sunday, December 18, 2016

¿Quién quiere jugar con mi día lluvioso?


Carmen Carrera




¿Quién quiere jugar con mi día lluvioso?


mi alteridad se pega a mi sin importar a dónde vaya : nunca prestes tu día lluvioso : cuántos cuerpos somos: cuántos seres: cuántos mundos: de dónde proviene este dolor: ¿dónde lo aprendimos ::


hace años, cuando se me preguntó si mi amante pensaba como hombre no pude responder : la pregunta no tenía sentido : la respuesta está en el fondo del océano : en el mundo, efecto ondulación como vidrio viejo : El viento, lo persigo como si persiguiese conclusiones ::


estoy en peligro de convertirme en un cuento de admonitorio : el número de muros que me rodean es variable : no he podido convertirme en un santo de yeso : no he logrado convertirme en una mujer : mi bien-ganado silencio viene de más allá del cuerpo : la vida es sopa, no sándwich : la piel se convierte en dolor de viejas herida : hollamos el mundo esta mezcla y desenfoque : cuando me muera me convertiré en un mapa : es bastante fácil cambiar este cuerpo : difícil elegir qué ser bardo del reciclaje: yo amo : ese es el único corazón inquebrantable de mí ser : yo decido donde comienzo y termino : nuestros oídos están llenos de ratones : ponemos nuestra fe en cestas para recolectar ofrendas : pegamos nuestras leyendas a la puerta del refrigerador : mis genitales se desplazan en su piel : en la esquina de la necesidad y la pérdida dejé caer mis libros en un repetido lazo de bufonesco : acuné mis bolas como si los temblores pudieran soltarlas : mi piel húmeda de pánico : mi pene en mi palma : no hay nombre para este amor ni el cuerpo en que se convierte : olvídate de todo lo que has aprendido sobre cambiar de propietario : esa malla naranja  solo contiene la duda  ::


cómo editar la vida : lo hago todo el tiempo : me quelato en otro hombre : tomo mi sexo en la mano, el peso de él, como el peso de mi corazón bloqueado por la percepción : los diamantes que duermen en la tierra en blanco resisten los nombres : y la pregunta que has nacido escapa : estoy sin mano, bejines, o manuales, sin un aura reconfortante de previsibilidad : sin imitadores : así que no me llamen, prefiero no llenarme de arena : o musgo : la arena cabalga a través de la casa, serpiente arrastrándose a espaldas a través de las losetas ::

a veces quiero conducir por un camino desierto para encontrar las ruinas ocultas al final y mudarme ahí : como las abejas, o estrellas siguiéndome en el retrovisor : empujando el motor que está dentro del corazón para hacer clic y tararear la esperanza : mi nombre es la puerta al cobertizo que dejaron abierta : mi nombre es fuego al igual que el tuyo : lo siento,  no hace adquisiciones hostiles : el bosque finalmente te encuentra : cuarenta especies de hongos finalmente te encuentra también : la vida se trata de cambios : sus paredes gimen aire y necesidad : un hipo podría colapsarlo todo : 365 días al servicio de cambios : la vida en una estructura abandonada requiere que se adapte : la gente ama sus migraciones : sienten su inmovilidad validada por el movimiento de otras criaturas : lo que es diferente en mí cuando se ve: cuando es observado, cuando lo cronometran, cuando se vigila, y sin embargo no se ve ::

las viejas historias de vaqueros sobre huellas y herraduras ya no tienen sentido : hay un puente ferroviario a lo largo de esta llovizna que no puedo cruzar : donde se oyen páginas rotas, ratas del pasado, caballos en las escaleras, donde todo es tan ruidoso ::

qué me ha dado la vida : un sendero y una piedra envuelta en liquen : preguntas para contestar : el rastro de un proceso invisible para forasteros : prefiero la sodomía a la piedad : constrúyeme un cuerpo indiscutible  : un torso resbaladizo como el de un libro : soy un hombre que llora por lo que me han borrado y por negadas cotidianidades : la crueldad casual de ser un ella : el hombre que ruega ser : esperanzado en escuchar un : que dios te bendiga ::

Who Cares





Who Cares


He threw himself
on me, wanting to drown
who I am, he was sick.
I fought, broke his lip.
Kicked his pride.

I dredged up large pieces 
of hard wood,
tied them together,
hammered & hammered.

Dug a hole as deep
as I could. Buried the logs
upside down, thrashed him violently
demanding he recite: I'm human,
with nothin' of nothin'
but sorrow.
And the swagger
who refutes my claim
better take it easy, or ...

Who cares.
There are no deserts
or Mayan sinkholes
here, only human
twilight.

Que importa




Que importa


Se me tiro encima,
quería ahogarme.
Estaba enfermo.
Luche, le partí el labio,
pateé su orgullo. 

Busque dos pedazos
de madera dura,
los cosí,
clavé y clavé.

Hice un hoyo, lo más profundo
que pude. Enterré el madero
al revés y a latigazo limpio
lo obligue recitar:
yo soy humano
sin na' de na,’
pero sin quebranto.
Y al echón que me desmienta
que ande muy derecho …

Que importa.
Aquí no hay desiertos
de cenotes mayas
solo crepúsculos
humanos.

Discreto




Discreto


tomó el último jalón del cigarrillo
observó que alzas tu cerveza
al otro lado de la barra

intentó prender otro Newport
te acercas, preguntas
si se puede

me interpongo
entre la luz
y tú

ahora mi sombra

es toda tuya

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About Me

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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.

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