Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

One of my poems Up at " Helen, A Literary Magazine ,"   The House Without Verandas,    and it has a video .

  Opus 69 The beginning  should have been this two bodies devouring each other empty abdomens consumed by fire devoted to the explosion  of love & desire There is a straight inevitable road leading to the hollow of a dark  warm mouth  in which we can disappear  Love is also that  a return to the beginning where we burn with lust  before turning into stardust

Taurus                  after looking at a painting of Remedios Varo What delirious dream drew your yellow figure, winged bull, feminine face, horse legs, sad look and mustache you rise lost in a limbo created by you expelled from your house, the second in the zodiacal path away from your earth element you cross with visible resignation the constellations of the canvas and there is not enough space for you in catalogs and scholarly classifications there are no phrases that translate your drama using other phrases because the astral loneliness that you inhabit is only yours you come to me with an ignited arrow narrowly missing my eyes you come from the pit of the past, a dark bird carrying charcoal wounds in its beak you talk to me about the internal scorch that crying leaves the tedium that engulfs us for several days making it impossible to speak to others the links found between the departure of the man I love...

Then there is you ―contained noise, acrobatic. I fell, you hurt. I oscillated, you healed.

Piece of my Heart  Ms. Joplin, your rips apart  my face,  my tie  ―  the mark  of all hanged men. My remains roll on the ground and the edge of your voice blows my Monday into pieces. I have the hunger of the employee  staring with contempt at the image  of his face in the glass door. My hunger, a factory of anxieties, the certainties, is convinced that nothing will improve, that this flagship raised during youth will also sink. My last refuge  will have to be the skin  or the solitary bottle of whisky. Janis, your voice is a knife vibrating in the throat of pain. But  now silence. I have come to the place where  little masters live and I hurry to annihilate the desire  of damning all to hell.   

You Can’t Trick the Moon You've wanted to enumerate every particle of dust, every layer of sadness, number every blow delivered by frustration, every trick to fool the noon that cut your figure in half in its shadow. But you can't, so you bring your hand to your head, discover that in that survey there's an image of yourself. It surprises you that in its contours & distance ―barely in its shadow― you still recognize yourself. Something stops you now. You said too much & it got you into trouble. The shadow & old pain that kept you awake shelter your feelings of revenge. You can't go forward like you want. The desert you presume  to remember is extensive.

Toilets I’m in love with a homeless man. Listen, we’ve got a lot in common, lawyers            politicians rejection. We have heated discussions about the face fucking activity in D. C. toilets. But when he grabs my dick & licks my nipples it’s just me & him.

Vulgar  Me, teacher of the hours of misery,  unemployed vagabond standing in front of the carports of the future, hero & pedestrian  of instants and surprises. I await prayers  of chance & feelings of thirst, needles in my back Today, I pretend to choose  my granted life. I’m full of vulgar feelings when I look at hentai, pornography. I live in a time without shine  where original art  is placed in candy wrappers  & cigar boxes.  My race has nothing to do  with being vulgar.  In this, all races equal me.

Musing Sometimes I dream I'm on the moon I do not know how I got there but I know I'm dreaming Other times my speech is involuntary as if I were talking to frogs as if trees listen & murmur  my pale secret thoughts Sometimes I stop thinking  stop encouraging myself, but I'm not sad or afflicted or extinguished I'm just pensive, desiring to dream  the lives of others, those who dream  about birds or goldfish That's why I write my fatigue & the color of laughter, steal a little life from night & not let silence sleep Sometimes everything changes  from noon to evening or one month to the other year & although it sounds cheesy when three or more of these things happen the only thing that does not change in that butterfly & black ant dream is the unexpected instant I find light in the cruel red wasp of your vission

24-Hour Walkathon Venerate thorns  along your journey  Hike without ever  turning back  Scramble to find  the core of censorship Tie truth around the  neck or forehead Drown lies  in five glasses of water Advocate for those  who walk behind you  Remember streets have eyes & ears They’re skilled assassins invisible to people

Night Sounds I hear ambulances pass, their lights cross my brow, rip night's velvet. Silence pauses at a red light, a note in a pentagram of dark & bright streets. I hear death limos speed away with the saddest noise. Maybe I am wrong not to climb into one of them. Maybe my last good move is to remain    in your embrace leave them to journey through the night.

Poems Up at " The Passed Note " and FRIGG

Luego estás tú ― ruido contenido, acrobacia. Me caigo, te lastimas, osciló, cicatrizas.

Before the full moon is in my hair & the wheel of my skull in the most scandalous & iridescent prayer scratching itself under the mattress: you said you were going to adore me A hysterical hyena laugh emerged from the backlit crucifix that hangs around my neck Oh, how that cross hangs Oh, how the poppy wants to cut words go faster than a speeding bullet but of course, without disrespecting We have sacrificed so much the sun rises & there is no remedy We are awakened again to support your gaze mutual distances fall asleep If nothing amuses us anymore why force things Let's do it for the lion and the whale let the moon howl & the calendars turn your cosmic wheel if this is the end of the world  then it must be a joke 

We cannot be so frank & shocking as incomprehensible lizards repeating themselves to rhododendrons We will always shake the palm trees a centuple centipede continues gnawing at skulls It'll know when to jump into this cultural encounter where we end up despising each other Yes, he who does not like it can put on his clothes & shake the semicircle What difference does it make why should we care … oh, the glass of God oh, the verse of God as God and this fucking supernatural reverie The Cyclops play with the corpse of our sadness in this dead goodbye

The Exit Door Behind the Bathroom A sigh rising like a giant wave as if it was not real. We walked in & he closed the door. Chair, bed, they crowded around me.  He ran the curtain; the bed gave way to the chair. It held my pants for a moment.  Mouth ajar above me. He took me, I sat next to him and sprawled,  he climbed up, took my hand & slipped it  between his buttocks. I got up  trying to move a little & play. I fell again, his mouth on me. He sucked too hard, I closed my eyes, everything clouded. I could not stand it, so I closed my eyes to calm down inside, but he sucked too hard,  too fast. Nothing came out, he gasped,  his breath between my legs. I couldn’t see outside. The curtain had covered the light. He sat down, touched me up and down.  I thought I had seen an extra finger  on the palm of his hand. Strong, too strong, it hurt. I tried to fix my eyes on his mouth but  I cou...

The Map of a Mirage The streets, the houses & the books, the possessed rooms, the inviolate joy  that inhabits gardens. Climate change,  the enigma burning on the wall  like a hunting trophy. All this, nothing more than a blink, a mirage. A foggy carnival, a congregation of elves,  the light sleep of an ascetic in the desert. The clocks have a mocking air about them here,  the almanacs are true satires, doors & windows close & open on the most confusing landfill. Remoteness, a sonata to the ears. Ah, the dream of the encounter was so short. What are these trifle thoughts against eternity?

At the Train Station In another life, I was a child. Crazy grass made me melancholic. Runaway ponies taught me freedom. I grew up inhabited by ghosts stuffed with promises. Laughter was ruled by too much daytime. I tried to open all my bags, repacked the past. I played chess with love and desire overwhelmed all heralds & read the letters of the world without permission. I exasperated closed windows. Haunted air took my lungs out for a stroll vivifying the evening ceremony. I became an expert in contemplation. Memory was my favorite map while rivers sailed in my pockets. I sat at the station to shout forgotten memories with other children as trains flashed by. Big eyes were my political party. Justice was unfaithful to us all. I changed dew's booty with the demented image  of an Elizabeth Bishop book of poems. Died more than one eternity. Looked at all the cities from the rooftops. In the space of my voice, it is always too early.

New Poem Up at Red Fez

Stay Because You Want to Stay One more night waiting for you to do more & say less. A night of learning that not all comes back to me. One in a series of dusks when not everything arrives when time does not catch up to the clock & the heart does not wither. It just tires.

You can Say my Name but I prefer to listen  to a rhino's monolog or the dream of a salmon  in the stomach of a bear. Another city will be born of ashes where a Cartesian man can call me by my name. I hear you laugh, we do not understand. Let's not listen to humanity ask why mirrors were invented  & thus, my existence was decided.

Onika Tanya Maraj  (born December 8, 1982), known professionally as  Nicki Minaj  ( English pronunciation:   / n ɪ k ɪ   m ɪ ˈ n ɑː ʒ / ), is a Trinidadian-born American rapper, singer, songwriter and model. [3] [4] [5] [6] [7]  Born in  Saint James, Trinidad and Tobago  (a district of Trinidad's capital  Port of Spain ) and raised in  South Jamaica, Queens ,  New York , Minaj earned public attention after releasing three mixtapes between 2007 and 2009. She has been signed to  Young Money Entertainment  since 2009. Minaj's first and second studio albums,  Pink Friday  (2010) and  Pink Friday: Roman Reloaded  (2012), both peaked at number one on the U.S.  Billboard  200  and produced the successful singles " Super Bass " and " Starships ", respectively. In 2010, Minaj became the first female solo artist to have seven singles simultaneously charting on the U.S.  Billboard ...

Bruno Mars  Born Peter Gene Hernandez on October 8, 1985, in Honolulu, Hawaii, popular singer-songwriter Bruno Mars grew up in a very musical family. His father, Pete, was a Latin percussionist from Brooklyn, and his mother, Bernadette ("Bernie"), was a singer. Mars received his nickname, "Bruno," while he was still a baby. "The name Bruno came from baby times," older sister Jamie explained. "Bruno was always so confident, independent, really strong-willed and kind of a brute—hence the name Bruno—and it kind of just stuck." In Waikiki Beach, Mars's family performed a Las Vegas-style revue that included Motown hits, doo-wop melodies and celebrity impersonations. Growing up around entertainers, Mars began picking up musical instruments from early childhood. "I've always had a drum set, a piano, a guitar ... and never got trained to play. It was just always there," he later recalled. "That's just how I learned, ju...

The Heart does not Wither but it Tires We are the hand raised against our time. The wrath dreaming it could save mankind. One boiling night. The actual meaning of death. Ripped off arms never hug. Shattered legs cannot run. Inattentive mouths do not smile. We wanted to be more than just an epoch of bones, more than a sunset of displaced shadows from their bodies. Wanted to be useful, say what's right, constantly look at beautiful. But not even the seed of serenity reached its best shot. Our desires became the songs of flies feeding on dead arms. This day, a hollow bottle. Life, a table full of empty days, defeated, observed from distance by animals drunk on destiny. The world, a tavern that does not open on Sundays.

Poem Up at: Algebra of Owls , "On the Day of the Dead"

Bloodink The thing to do   when naught is left― hold on to dreams,  and after dreams         to nothing. Are you afraid of the wolf who inhabited your nightmares? Look at your teeth, they're ready to devour him. My friend discovers an invitation to mystery where I see nothing but empty space. When he sings, I ask him to be silent. When he runs, I demand that he not move. My friend always in the middle of life while I’m barely more than a blind eye looking at him without understanding. Watch him run knowing I cannot reach him, listen to him sing without grasping a word. He with his rhythm in the middle of life. I, saving the fall, hooked to his gaze. To become a wrinkle  is the condemnation of my friend. For him, the beam of my heart, good morning is a human right.

My poems: accepted by Red Fez, PoetryCircle, Eunoia Review, Former People Journal, Futures Trading Lit. Some of them will be audios of me reading my poems.

when naught is left the thing to do is hold on to dreams after dreams nothing

Barefooted I was honestly concerned he might lie about the nature of our meeting Comey before Congress My chest is frozen, Frost Island. In the face of God, there is no kiss going for the coins & the prisoner because yesterday he stole the light that was leaving us. I have returned shattered by the snappers from your coast the ones inhibiting your other shore ―distinctly to the plate & to the chair you gave us at birth, but it's not over. The cold darkness in your pantry, the naked man that only thinks of eating a piece of his own agony. My chest is frozen before the naive Archer of light & the downpour of rain, stag of the Fatherland.