Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

The Second Issue of Undertow Tanka Review is now live.

does my enemy love you—help me ignite this house with an urn  full of air cloudburst and dust

your name  a carafe full of wine— Omar  my world  was uncomplicated, a simple rhythm 

— for Baroness Elsa von Freytag Loringhoven the Nemesis of aging my hip pains when I walk searching penetrating for my memory help I treads with caution final draft bane aging hip pains -- walk penetrating  -- -- -- S. O. S.  memory treads caution

—for Gertrude Stein yes, I was cancelled, an abyss below my bed yet I was cancelled nobody came, no one cared— unknown shore— I’m enraptured

photo by Greg Henry baby I’m your chocolate cream pie… I don’t wanna’ brag, but I’ll be the best you ever had 

photograph by Marlin Shank.                                                Poem by Sergio Ortiz

— April is the cruelest month … T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land it flowered then faded—blurred into the earth like a rose that was never awakened by a hummingbird

The Second Issue of Undertow Tanka Review will be published October 3rd.  The submission deadline for this Issue of Undertow Tanka Review is September 30th.

angel wings   encrusted with black pearls beating upon the sea's furtive shore … a poet’s tears

—for Sylvia Plath he sits beside me and hums old love ballads while an elm leaf floats down the river… is it the miracle of autumn

The Color of Death her skin chips off around the arms like seashells then darkens just above the ankles… a hundred years on the stretcher I visit after the stroke and hear a knelling— half of her body silent gold dust , the other half a silky sorrow

I am an open road the staggering drunk overwhelmed by the sensuous actions of men

you left… so I turned off  the lights autumn sky

photo by kathryn willett-- poem by sergio ortiz

pollution I know the twilight  of the roads it glides  through my veins censored  like a battered wife or a brain  cyst it clutters my lungs  with phlegm

wordless flower… I am in you without knowing why

albatross “y hay cuerpos que no deben repetirse en la aurora”                         Oda a Walt Whitman, Federico Garcia Lorca there was a beginning an invitation to play pool, the maneuver to have another beer on our first night together there was a middle complications—a need to see you on my bed running your hands through the carapace of my skin there was an end A Farewell to Arms of forgotten names the last clown in a parade taking down the marquee

loneliness is the art of forgetting wishes are a weightless leap if they're not used up

I want to die rolling in the arms of a cello player naked to the waist rolling in my sweet baby’s arms

homenaje a Cid Corman surge la voz en el espacio más denso del silencio, reclinarme sobre el sol y morir en comunidad de palabras, imágenes sencillas que tejen posibilidades

fear as punishment he locked me in the closet little did he know I was more afraid of the shadow behind the door to keep from peeing a treasure hunt inside his shoes a roman coliseum and a few garments that smelled like his gurry there was no such thing as terror, a stutter, tobacco, my mother’s empty  embrace 

dreamcatcher waving in the air... night image of barefooted boys  holding out their hands

my first eternity a walk into silence near the river of tears where a young man on a bicycle fades into the homeless space of my skin how can I forget those tremulous hours where we bathed in each other’s arms water on water—condensed

recluse what is it that hides in the early morning hours? a peace that strikes my naked body a silence— a memory yesterday I walked through cool corridors and saw men play some had legs as long as a red willows some walked on wheels all had happy hands mockingbirds returning from the sea together a smile, a voice that almost made me cry

lonely winter a single star shining through the mist stranded in this bitter air a silent moon *what did I know, what did I know… of cold, warm hands the sun that stayed by my side that bitter night citation Robert Hayden, Those Winter Sundays

the vanishing shape of a leaf… filter of age

he approaches spreading the fan of his tail cocksure he shakes his feathers pecks the ground for seeds

without a roof I’ve never given great thought to the “I” of my soul   whether it’s a blade of grass or a gathering of acorns in the park twenty autumns ago before a suicide attempt— I see my body as it is now, torn and aching like the hem of my jeans regret is not slanted, it is my own  construction the home I built the house I chose 

she has a craving for Popsicle— a return to her childhood…  she’s  *leaning on the sun it’s hot, so, so hot Citation: Emily Dickinson

you died in my arms right after pressing a kiss on my chest,  it tastes  like murder... * the things  that we  love tell us what we are citation: Thomas Aquinas

she forgets to pick up the phone waiting  for me to come home ... an empty socket by her side

I woke up with a smile on my face coqui(s) cradled my sleep capricious power of sound

he said yes while I said no and ran into the tall cedars in hope of forgiveness for those of us who sleep in dusty chambers there is no anticipation only roofless sky the structure of an open mind

evolution Jews in concentration  camps *their frozen  pupils, their prisoner's boot? Gaza a worm roiling the soil and making it fertile? citation: In the Lake Region BY  TOMAS VENCLOVA

my geography I find the climb inclined to the domestic volcano here... a handsome man on fire citation: Emily Dickenson

cats tails pirouette in my cosmos… universal poses of left over costumes from yesterday’s show 

I liked being young obsessed as I was at forty-five with feeling older the things that filled those years are gone

today I heard the loud humming of bees and saw the wind moving on a meadow... "blinded" written on the gulmohar leaves

a night in Venus death is close acquire the frilled wings of a winter moth        and meet me        in Venus let’s build a city with our hands on the narrow bed of our bodies and turn off the lights at dawn we can close our eyes and count until the sun rises before breaking it to pieces

in the absence of sparrows he drew dandelions… time, what it provides, what it destroys

rude nudists... we took a long look at each other and crept away citation CHRISTIAN WIMAN~ Do You Remember the Rude Nudists