Thursday, February 28, 2013

A found tanka poem

A found tanka poem

rough seas
when it seemed the Lord
was sleeping…*

a dissident nun hiding
under the cover of rapture*


*A found tanka poem:  Pope Benedict bidding an emotional farewell at his last general audience

* Unholy Women BY chris abani

Wednesday, February 27, 2013


Indian summer
clouds chase clouds
through the puddles

the imprint of things
already gone

skinny dipping
on an abandoned beach…
the moon’s gaze

frozen in its tracks
a hunted deer blends
with the frost

…a magician
in her kitchen

the call
of a cuckoo
my body grows old

one point on the horizon she never reaches moon calendar

tanka a el gobernador de Puerto Rico

hablan los temores
como ríos que cruzan el mar
mis vestimentas
te saludan como desiertos
que huelen a llaga

llaga que huele
al naufragio de mi cansancio
al pasto resucitado
entre las llanuras de un pueblo
que no ha llorado a sus muertos

hablo desde el temor
de un aeropuerto sucio, vandalizado
por la madrugada
de un acuerdo que se ríe
del verdor de nuestras montañas  

Tuesday, February 26, 2013


if a rainbow
knew loneliness and fear
could it be a rainbow,
am I just another faggot
drifting toward the edge


why share you?
I spring forth from the ecstasy
of being a lily
and become a legend while you hide
in the bosom of another


the end of questions…
you try to run your hand
over my face 
but you’re fattened with betrayal
wavering among the bamboo


I live on an island 
stained with dry blood… 
a man-moth 
filled with battered moonlight 
cutting through palmettos

Saturday, February 23, 2013


you grasp my hand
steer it to a place
beyond maps…
I am scared by the shock of arrival
the raw landscape 


I am the map
of a wet dreary town…
we exchange secrets
in whispers
lilies bend beneath our bodies


I am what is left
of his life
the black map
describing his voyage,
of deep descent into himself

Friday, February 22, 2013


my hair
scratches his dreams…
among the ribbons
a tongue bitten
by the language of assault 


my body grows old
the call
of a lonely cuckoo


…a magician
in her kitchen

Thursday, February 21, 2013


  if my life were a map
  it would be one of a man
  in the snow…
  picking mushrooms
  at the edge of dread

Wednesday, February 20, 2013


there's not a single wind
that doesn’t know my shadow...
dead butterflies
     overpower the dawn light
on my eyelids


skinny dipping
on an abandoned beach…
under the moon’s gaze

Monday, February 18, 2013


I can’t resist 
a third slice

Saturday, February 16, 2013


I pray I won’t die
alone in some dark corner
of a hospital ward—
singing an opus
of horseshit and pearls

Thursday, February 14, 2013


I've been wondering:
Do things happen
when you drink too much.
Or is it just me
and my twisted fishnet imagination.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

December Lights

December Lights

Back then, under a cold
December sun, you’d arrived naked. 
I’d ask for permission
so you could to stay under
my shadow.

You’d close your eyes
and open your skin,

to walk me through brief appearances
of galaxies, infinite transit of heartbeats, death
strolling down our legs.

Friday, February 08, 2013


sparrows peeped
as I walked to the drugstore…
searching for the day
when nothing remains
but a quivering mayfly

Wednesday, February 06, 2013

Published in Salt River Review

Sergio Ortiz

this is my story
and place of birth

a wheelchair
a body wrapped in a sack

a childhood jerked around
like an unwarranted curse

and the stubborn useless desire
for a pair of tailored hands

climbing up my thighs


You, in my gravest hour,
perfumed with silence—what images

caused your fruit to fall?
 You left me shooting
at non-existent stars.

Nothing ever removed the water
you gradually painted on my lips,

no theatres, nightclubs, tuxedos.
Not even jetliners
or churches.


Good Morning Gulliver
by Sergio Ortiz

Welcome to my day Gulliver, the dogma of “no strings attached” embellish my
fingers and toes.  Welcome to the nausea tranquilized by the calla’s bribe
allowing the animal beneath the skin to sleep.  Welcome to my Mapplethorpe’s
finger fuck, three dimensional and stepping-off what’s left of hair, lips,
eyes with all of its deleterious offspring fastening a rope around my neck
to asphyxiate the desire to hate or love.  Welcome to the libretto of my aging
crevices touching and melting no one.

Published in the current issue of Shamrock Haiku

last summer day –
her parasol blackens 
the rose

-- Sergio Ortiz (Puerto Rico)

Saturday, February 02, 2013


listen to me,
seagulls that cry
like a great sad wheel,
the day mother died
I rode a horse for hours

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