Friday, June 30, 2017
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
in which we can disappear
Love is also that
a return to the beginning
where we burn with lust
before turning into stardust
Thursday, June 29, 2017
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 loved (also Taurus)
and your pathetic sovereignty in the void
the memory that moves away slowly like a beggar tired of alms
somehow all this abandened you at last
and blood nebula finally covers your body.
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Piece of my Heart
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.
I have come to the place where
little masters live
and I hurry to annihilate the desire
of damning all to hell.
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.
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
I’m in love
with a homeless man.
we’ve got a lot in common,
We have heated discussions
about the face fucking
activity in D. C. toilets.
But when he grabs
& licks my nipples
it’s just me & him.
Monday, June 26, 2017
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.
Sunday, June 25, 2017
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
Saturday, June 24, 2017
along your journey
Hike without ever
Scramble to find
the core of censorship
Tie truth around the
neck or forehead
in five glasses of water
Advocate for those
who walk behind you
have eyes & ears
They’re skilled assassins
invisible to people
Friday, June 23, 2017
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.
leave them to journey
through the night.
Thursday, June 22, 2017
Saturday, June 17, 2017
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
then it must be a joke
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
Friday, June 16, 2017
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 couldn’t stand it so, I got up.
He had his hand on me, I sat down next
to him. He started again, this time with his hand
beating and squeezing. My hand
on his bare chest. My eyes fixed on his lips.
I was about to explode. He felt like an upright wave,
a shadow behind the shadow, I was afraid
his lover had followed us here.
What if he knocks on the door, opens it,
finds me semi-naked & erect in front of the bed?
Daniel kept touching me from top to bottom.
I kept hearing a bell outside. It rang for us.
Already empty, nothing came from inside me.
He got up and ran the curtain. No one was there as there.
Thursday, June 15, 2017
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
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.
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
Monday, June 12, 2017
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: / /), is a Trinidadian-born American rapper, singer, songwriter and model. 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.
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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, just being surrounded by it my whole life." At the age of 4, he joined the family musical act as an Elvis impersonator and quickly become one of the stars of the show. He continued to perform with his family throughout his childhood, and as he approached adolescence he added Michael Jackson to his impersonation repertoire.
Sunday, June 11, 2017
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.
The thing to do
when naught is left―
hold on to dreams,
and after dreams
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.
Friday, June 09, 2017
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.
Poem Up at Ascent Aspirations Magazine / Friday's Poems June 9, 2017
Thursday, June 08, 2017
Death spread all over the street
penetrated the kitchen of my house
was impregnated with the smell of roasted meat
and shone on the cutlery arranged at the lunch table
Walking down or up the street
you see a row of identical houses
nightmare faces appear in the windows
Wednesday, June 07, 2017
Autobiography of Eyes
The invisible, rooted in the cold,
maturing towards that light
that dissipates in every other light.
Nothing ends. Time returns
to its beginning, the hour
we breathe: like nothing,
as if it could not see a thing.
It's not what it is.
At the edge of summer heat:
blue sky, purple hill.
The distance that survives.
A house made of air, and the flow
of air in the air.
How are you stones
that are unrolled against the earth.
like the sound of my voice
in your mouth?
- Poem Up at Helen, A Literary Magazine
- Opus 69
- Then there is you
- Piece of My Heart
- You Can’t Trick the Moon
- Toilets - revised
- 24-Hour Walkathon
- Night Sounds
- Poems Up at "The Passed Note" and FRIGG
- Luego estás tú
- Before the full moon is in my hair
- We cannot be so frank & shocking
- The Exit Door Behind the Bathroom
- The Map of a Mirage
- At the Train Station
- New Poem Up at Red Fez
- Stay Because You Want to Stay
- You can Say my Name
- Ariana Grande - Side To Side ft. Nicki Minaj
- Bruno Mars - That’s What I Like [Official Video]
- The Heart does not Wither but it Tires
- Poem Up at Algebra of Owls
- Poems accepted at a few places
- when naught is left - tanka
- Poem Up at Ascent Aspirations Magazine / Friday's ...
- Dirty Poems
- Autobiography of Eyes
- Night Bird
- Poem Up at *82 literary journal
- Elton John - Tiny Dancer (Official Music Video)
- Tipton Poetry Journal (Spring 2017) is now publish...
- BETRAYAL - A Collection of Poetry and Prose on Bet...
- Poem up at Wraith Infirmity Muses, A Literary Maga...
- Fifteen Doors to Silence
- Mi amigo que llaman “Atleta del Año”
- "For Forever" from the DEAR EVAN HANSEN Original B...
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Poetry Journals & Published Poems
- The Citron Review
- Breadcrumb Scabs
- Salt River Review/ Volume 12, No, 3, Winter 2009
- Ganymede Poets, One Anthology
- Flor del Concreto/ So It Goes Poetry Anthology
- Rust and Moth
- The Externalist: A Journal of Perspectives
- The Stoning of Sarah
- Letralia Tierra de Letras
- children churches & daddies
- The long and detailed principal of governance
- At the Tail End of Dusk Inn
- At the Church of 80% Sincerity
- The Chilean Temple Initiative-The Silent Beauty of a Mother Bee
- Ink Sweat & Tears
- Poet's Ink Review
- The Texture of Stone
- Bread & Tablecloths
- Weathervane, Royal Doll, In Memory
- Rain Dancer, Illegal
- The Beauty of Tattoos, He and I
- Coming Together, Alessia Brio Editor
- Origami Condom
- The Battered Suitcase
- Sergio A. Ortiz
- 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.