Sunday, November 19, 2017

Nina Simone Explica Delirios al Gobernador de Puerto Rico



Nina Simone Explica Delirios al Gobernador de Puerto Rico

¿Qué perspectiva única trae un estudiante minoritario a una clase de física?
- Juez de Justicia John Roberts, Tribunal Supremo de los EE. UU., Fisher v. Texas,
9 de diciembre de 2015


Nosotros fuimos inocentes una vez, sin la protección
de nuestras mentiras. Sin dragones. Celebramos incrementalmente

el no real, el nunca lo fue. Lo que pasó fríamente sobre los mares
olvidados y la roca del río—

fusionada entre una pradera sin nombre y un delta desconocido—
todavía se extiende sin interrupción, sin proclamación. Llamamos

al perro muerto porque los niños pequeños no entienden la muerte.
Cuando Cortés llegó a la costa de México ordenó

que trajeran a un nativo a su barco, ya que él creía que era el perfecto
conquistador. Le preguntó a su cautivo. Ma c'uhah que, el hombre respondió,

y los españoles oyeron su primer yucateco en el lugar
de su descubrimiento, donde Ma c'uhah que en maya significa

"No te entiendo." Tu amor vodevil por los conquistadores
es solo un salvavidas entre codos. Te vas vivo

y regresas en falsete. Me gustaría presentar estas canciones
a los niños de mi juventud que se burlan y se jactan de las baratijas.

Ellos creen que deben ser tomadas de la habitación de su hermana
y reventadas por aburrimiento y tacones de botas, aunque sea solo

para forzar confesiones de las gargantas de sus cautivos. Todos
están protegido porque todo lo fingen. Prefieren no hablar

que hablar disparates sobre un futuro 
donde los administradores de esta isla olvidan

que todavía usan sus viejos sombreros. 
Su arcaico lenguaje satisfecho de estar obsoleto.

Comrades of the Dream Life






Comrades of the Dream


I recognize you,
those with the moon
spread on their face,
whose faces have no beginning
but have a resounding
and enveloping end,

the ones with smiling sores
on their bodies,
who sweeten thorns
and pin hope to hearts,
who have painful tails
and tender eyes, and move
like a falling leaf or a
shooting star.

I regret your arrival
before or after the pain,
always at the wrong time
but when needed.

Volunteers of laughter,
multipliers of atmospheres,
inventors of the game
who win without winning
even when losing.

Brothers of the flesh,
companions of the fierce tooth
that leaves a mark,
connoisseurs of navels and buttocks
and of their own music,
I greet you!


Friday, November 17, 2017

Pablo Alborán - Vivir (Audio Oficial)




Pablo Moreno de Alborán Ferrándiz[a] (born 31 May 1989 in Malaga) popularly known as Pablo Alborán,[1][2] is a Spanish musician, singer, and songwriter.[3] In 2011, he was nominated for three Latin Grammy Awards.[4] Alborán has released three studio albums, two live albums, and various musical collaborations. His records are distributed by Warner Music which debuted in 2010 with their first official release, "Solamente Tú", the first single from his debut album Pablo Alboran(2011), released in February 2011. The album ranked No. 1 in its first week of sales, making Alborán the first solo artist to sign a complete debut album to rank to the top since 1998 in Spain.[5]


A few months after releasing his first album, it was published in acoustic as the first recorded live concert by the singer. Several weeks after it debuted to the top in Spain, it was launched in Portugal, getting to be No. 1 for several weeks. Of all his singles, two stand out in terms of popularity: "Solamente tú" and "Perdóname" which he sang together with singer Carminho, being number one in sales, both in Spain and in Portugal.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Today at 5:30pm Montreal time Post Review will publish one of my poems

Today at 5:30pm Montreal time Post Review will publish one of my poems. It's the first time I get published in Montreal,
Canada.


Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Friday, November 10, 2017

Chapbook Acceptance at Finishing Line Press




Finishing Line Press just accepted my chapbook, "An Animal Resembling Desire," for publication. I will be sending out notices for pre-orders as soon as I know the details.


Sergio A. Ortiz

Thursday, November 09, 2017




La Memoria en la que Me he Convertido


Las frases giran como lo que recordamos
desde el momento en que  nacimos
la primera vez. He construido estas memorias
con palabras, pero ahora solo son sombras.

Sé que todo origen es una Roma que arde,
toda belleza nada más que arrepentimiento.
Lo que he trabajado corre como agua través
de los tubos de drenaje del olvido.

Inquieto, como las palabras, desposeído,
basado en la repetición cautelosa
de tu frágil inmensidad, reconciliado
con el silencio brutal que llevo por dentro,
una tierna autoridad.

Los días no dan respuestas.
Pero los días son descuidados en su apariencia.
Para prosperar uno debe estar  infundido
con supervivencia hasta cuando la duda
es anunciada y arreglada impecablemente
a medida que las voces desvanecen
y el aliento toma el control en tenue progresión.

Sunday, November 05, 2017

Your Moaning, my Moaning




Your Moaning, my Moaning




Our salt-pepper locks
gallop translucent at dawn
Your lips and my lips
saltpeter at daybreak

Your eyes and my eyes
Your hands and my hands
bodies dripping
slippery algae

Oh desire, my desire
our morning seashore

Sunday, October 29, 2017

Visibilidad



Visibilidad



afuera llueve
está oscura la tarde
pesadas nubes
se mueven lentamente

giran alrededor
de un centro de gravedad
que compite con la tierra
empujando hacia arriba
todo lo que encuentra
a su paso

canales y tuberías de tormenta
no pueden hacerle frente
a toda esa agua
las luces están apagadas
los celulares no tienen señal
solo te acompaña
el concreto húmedo
de la ciudad

no puedes esconderte
detrás de un teléfono
no hay conexión

en ausencia
de estos monstruos
el vacío ó lo que queda de el
es lo único que tienes

Friday, October 27, 2017

Consciousness


Consciousness


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
do not
let it escape
into the void like
an insignificant
hot gas



The Meaning of Nothing

The Meaning of Nothing


There was a certain sadness
to it all,
grey moss and violence remained
--a sorrow music could not disclose
where it came from--
it just kept floating by me,
aging pure and perfect,
the sound pounding its inescapable
presence, a vow
of eternal ownership.
It was a warning,
like the kind discovered
when sentences start
with "it must have been."
As with the things that must have been,
there is never an offering
of a revelation, a meaning.

Sunday, October 15, 2017

Mudanzas y Cambios




Mudanzas y  Cambios
.
.
Me he querido mudar lejos
del huracán de la incompetencia
y los viejos ladrones de Wall Street creciendo a orillas del Atlántico.

He querido irme lejos
de todo lo que se repite
interminablemente
en esta isla al descubierto.

No sirven los fantasmas de papel que contamina las conciencias con vapores inútiles
y truenos que no asustan a nadie.

Me he querido ir lejos
pero temo no haber vivido
el mismo dolor de mi terruño cubierto
de tantas mentiras absurdas

Saturday, October 07, 2017

Cold Water



Cold Water
.
.
Save me, I'm about to faint.
I lift my hand to hold up the sky.
Not for the flag. Not because of hunger.
It's not the thirst.
It's my solitude surrounded by screams.
It's knowing  what motivates
my desire.
It's the fatigue of being a puppet.
My strings collapse
amid the beauty
and laughter of children.
I can't save myself.
I'm this crumbling, desperate country,
this unthinkable winter.
Water, who has a bottle 
of cold water 
for me to bathe in?

Wednesday, October 04, 2017

Oh, Dios de la Miseria



Oh, Dios de la Miseria -


Oh, God of misery
and incompetence
chain the winds
of destruction
to the doors
of the Casinos
of the orange giant.
May he suffer
until his reality
is no longer a reality
and we take turns
spitting his face.
A Presidential Mistake 


.
toilet paper 
or disposable towels... 
insensitive son 
of a bitch--do we really need 
to kiss his presidential ass?
.
can we afford 
another five hundred 
years of insults,
grave diggings, war deaths 
and stupidity?


 presidential tanka poem, Somoka : 


.
toilet paper 
or disposable towels... 
insensitive son 
of a bitch--do we really need 
to kiss his presidential ass?
.
can we afford 
another five hundred 
years of insults,
grave diggings, war deaths 
and stupidity?

Sunday, October 01, 2017

Hasta El Silencio



Hasta El Silencio

Se desvistio
la noche
su cuerpo quedó
al descubierto
dejo de llorar y llamar
al sendero
perdido

se fue a rescatar
lo poco que quedó
de su orgullo,
los puertos,
el espacio aéreo,
corazones subyugados,
el puño combativo

sin saber que el yugo
pesado doblegó
hasta el silencio

Even Her Silence


Even Her Silence


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 

Saturday, September 30, 2017

Remoteness

Remoteness


And the world disagreed 

with its 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 lays on the image
of a moon tired of unfaithful loves. 

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Hurricanes





Hurricanes


Clouds do not know where to rain
and the air smells of electric storms.

Blood, as it is logical, dissolves
into the river of concern.

Its honey removes the sediment
that falls on the island bed.

From each star hangs a probe,
a 110-volt extension,
in whose spectrum eyes see
translucent viaducts crossing water.

Everything is organism.
Here an artery, there a frond,
a mudhole its demulcent.

In an expanding
and contracting of pulses,
all is sown land.

Ignited, light-matter floats
on the water as its flora
is dragged adrift.

The only shore is night
and it's no shelter.

Eyes do not know where to cry
and the air is lightning's prism.

Where is the deity?

Blood is tragic
in its full torrent.

Monday, September 18, 2017

Dominant Pig








Dominant Pig


I was asked how to sustain homoerotic sex
without falling into intentional eruptions
which involve dominance. I answered
with a single letter: I let my mouth open
a heavenly poppy. The poppy opened
without anyone touching its petals.

These poppy fields, pig styles my blood,
gave in to intentions with stipulated traits.
That is how they exhausted lead skies, and their four
Asian walls, their nylon dresses.

The eruptions to which they responded
wrote a book whose backbone was a stem
and its leaves upheld the bark of the trees
made of the steel from which they were born.

On those poppy fields intentions reacted
with minor swings to insert themselves
into the tail of the firmament. It was
like making firewood from Ceiba trees thorns.
I didn’t care about the thorns, just the order
of the punctures they left on my hands.

Sunday, September 17, 2017

Sacred Tribal Breath





Sacred Tribal Breath


The oldest turtle in the tribe
tells sacred stories in dense,
exquisite language and behold,
our fragile understanding
is lost in a slow dalliance.

Primordial water, the foundation of earth.
The voice of archangels, a landfill of waning lights.
"Why hide?" Your voice, a perfect animal
that creeps among the stones to a trough,
bloody scales and tail.

An old Lady shouts, "Do not come back"
"You've wasted too much time on those visions.
If you continue like this you'll go blind."
And I grow feathers and take flight.

“Now, you will not suffer," a voice shouts.
"You will invent your own shadow
and your words will have a slight incandescence."
Then I dream I am a strange flower
that invents mud cities with its scent.
I dream I am a giant butterfly
nesting in the tribe, and the turtles
bow when I pass by.
        

Saturday, September 16, 2017

Paranoid






Paranoid


His reality, so small
he misplaced it. With a

deep poetic sense
but no metaphors, he spread

pieces of his body
as he walked.

He was assassinated
by his own shadow

after an unavoidable
persecution.

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

I got my Hard Copy of Sediments Literary Arts Journal

I got my Hard Copy of Sediments Literary Arts Journal

 and my electricity came back after 8 days of insurable heat because of Hurricane Irma.


Between Your Legs








Between Your Legs


Yesterday, I woke up under
a strange ceiling. I dreamed
I was a stray bullet at an irrational angle
or some shit like that.
Something, definitely better than what I can say about
this place. Maybe we've never been here or maybe I never
caught up with you. The point is, you are not here 
and nothing is as you said. L. A. is not a city of stars,
it is a city of clouds. Absolute stupid-amorphous-gray-clouds.
L. A. is, in any case, a ghost under a large cemetery of floating dreams.

I want to go, smoke between your legs, hear you
lie to me in deserts, storms, ammunition, ghosts, pins, wings, rain, night.

Your hair, my knees, your loneliness,
my grief: black chestnut, black you, me>you ...
Understand? I want to take you to the cemetery 
of dreams to watch infinity die.




Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Concrete Carnival







Concrete Carnival


You stood up, handsome
with the effect of a monster
that everyone calls fear
and fucks in the time it takes
a traffic light to empty nipples
and saves them onto lips
ready for kisses.

You were not always sunk
and scattered in night's grooves.
There was a time when your initiates
touched your sex like amaranth
hard as day-old caramel,
when the wind of wood pigeons
invoked a blast in your pants,
the cracks of your streets and sidewalks.
And there were bad times because
of my terminal illness of “the end of the trip"
where ice was not ice but it burned.

My heart hurts, on the right side,
whenever your kids call you faggot.
I feel like building a basement in your memory.
Do not let moss and fear give away your age.
I look in this city, your eyes,
high demand of your tile skin,
that once had the innocence
of Michelangelo's David 
and I sigh.



Wild Thin Chunks of Mercury





Wild Thin Chunks of Mercury


A Guesthouse in Old San Juan
a bed, a table, two chairs,
Sharon Olds waiting for me
over the toilet top.
I'll drink martinis the rest
of the afternoon.
I write things while I'm drunk
that seems good to me.
I wait for my friend from Condado
to pick me up slowly like 
pieces of mercury, and take me out 
to eat spaghetti carbonara
in a place where they have a Wurlitzer
because I want to listen to 
that Bob Dylan song,
wild, and thin chunks of mercury
all that I have left of life

Sunday, September 10, 2017

Do not Insist





Do not Insist

They've broken your heart.
Love is not love.
Cling to the mast.
Your ship is sinking
and there is no God
under sea or in sky listening
to your lament,
Ovid. Shut up and learn.
Let silence and storm
guide your sails.



Plath





Plath


I found life mixed
among the colors of death

My love amid violent reds
of empty lyrics

No one knows the loud speaker
they hear is my heart

There is a stone extending
its arms to embrace

the burning moss of my breath
Nobody sees me riding naked

on the warm spine
and emery of metaphors

when silence shoots me
in the mouth

and horror vomits
my bloody light

with the crushed skulls
of my dreams.

Friday, September 08, 2017

Two Poems Up @ Ordinary Madness, Weasel Press



Sam Smith's NEW SONG - Too Good At Goodbyes (Official Audio)

Natural State of Being




Natural State of Being


I live
between appeared and disappeared,
in women's or ghost's clothing.
I cross the folds of the mirror
and remain lucid,
guilty of dead dreams
in my consciousness.

A bite-proof bird.
I lay my eggs on trees
in secret islands
like a frigatebird.

My natural state:
wild fruit grove 
with frost
that does not mature,
a child in diapers
queen of the blind flight.

Appear and disappear,
a simple skin graft
and I am the other
and the same.

.

Wednesday, September 06, 2017

Monday, September 04, 2017

In a Dark Room






In a Dark Room


The rope hangs my eyesight
and I can't see the flight.
I’m drunk on this island
in flames. Can't screw
my eye if everything is
screwed up in here.

Hey, Skinny!





Hey, Skinny!

You are
the most powerful
oven on earth

you live in Paris
―almost
7 thousand Km
away

and yet
you heat me



The Nerve




The Nerve


You let me buy you
jockstraps, boxers
and aftershave
plus invite you to lunch
at the healthiest
naturalist restaurant
& if that weren't enough
on the way home
you asked me
for a moisturizing cream
to be soft
for the sonofabitch who’s
running his hands
through your body
at six.


Sunday, September 03, 2017

Hold On





Hold On

I’m bitching
about this hospice
for the indigent Word.

I don’t want to be trapped
in this caricature, my song
bouncing off the archway

germinating the cracks
on the floor with my shit.
Where the fuck are you?

Remembering Archer





Remembering Archer

I dismounted your sex.
Let go of your lips.
Untangled our legs.
Threw out the condoms.

Night started at 8:00
till 4:00 in the morning.

We slept. Huddled up
in wait of the day.



Saturday, September 02, 2017

First Takeover






First Takeover


The day has three faces
you must bundle it up

before smoking it
You can't roll it

and put it away
because it tastes different, dry

You can't buy prepaid days
lined up in a box

We senses days the same way
a bassist guesses the entrance

of the piano or , he sax
it's announced by the aroma

of coffee we drink
like evictees

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