Friday, June 30, 2017

Poem Up at Helen, A Literary Magazine

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



Opus 69





 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


Thursday, June 29, 2017

Taurus





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 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

Then there is you





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


Piece of My Heart




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.

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Toilets - revised









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.

Monday, June 26, 2017

Vulgar





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.



Sunday, June 25, 2017

Musing






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

Saturday, June 24, 2017

24-Hour Walkathon





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

Friday, June 23, 2017

Night Sounds






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

Poems Up at "The Passed Note" and FRIGG


Thursday, June 22, 2017

Luego estás tú




Luego estás tú

ruido contenido,
acrobacia.

Me caigo,
te lastimas,

osciló,
cicatrizas.

Saturday, June 17, 2017

Before the full moon is in my hair




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

Friday, June 16, 2017

The Exit Door Behind the Bathroom





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 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




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.


Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Monday, June 12, 2017

Stay Because You Want to Stay





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




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.

Ariana Grande - Side To Side ft. Nicki Minaj







Onika Tanya Maraj (born December 8, 1982), known professionally as Nicki Minaj (English pronunciation: /nɪkɪ mɪˈnɑːʒ/), 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, QueensNew 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 Hot 100. Her third studio album, The Pinkprint (2014), was preceded by its second single, "Anaconda", which peaked at number two on the Hot 100 and is her highest-charting single in the U.S. to date. Minaj made her film debut in the 2012 animated film Ice Age: Continental Drift, followed by supporting roles in The Other Woman (2014) and Barbershop: The Next Cut (2016). In 2013, she was a judge on the twelfth season of American Idol.
Minaj was the first female artist included on MTV's Annual Hottest MC List, with a New York Times editor saying that some consider her to be "the most influential female rapper of all time".[8] In 2016, Minaj was included on the annual Time 100 list of the most influential people in the world.[9] Her rapping is distinctive for its fast flow and the use of alter egos and accents, primarily British cockney. Early in her career, Minaj was known for her colorful costumes and wigs. She has the most Billboard Hot 100 entries for a female artist in the chart's history, while being ninth overall.[10] Minaj has received ten Grammy nominations throughout her career, and has won six American Music Awards, eleven BET Awards, three MTV Video Music Awards, four Billboard Music Awards, and was the recipient of Billboard's Women in Music 2011 Rising Star award. She has endorsed AdidasMAC Cosmetics and Pepsi. She has sold 20 million singles as a lead artist, and 60 million singles as a featured artist worldwide.[11]

Bruno Mars - That’s What I Like [Official Video]





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, 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




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

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


Bloodink




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.



Poems accepted at a few places

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 - tanka






when naught is left
the thing to do is
hold on to dreams
after dreams

nothing

Friday, June 09, 2017

Barefooted






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.



Poem Up at Ascent Aspirations Magazine / Friday's Poems June 9, 2017

Poem Up at Ascent Aspirations Magazine / Friday's Poems June 9, 2017


Thursday, June 08, 2017

Dirty Poems






Dirty Poems


(...)

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




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?

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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.

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