Thursday, August 31, 2017

When Language Breaks

When Language Breaks

The most genuine tree fills up with you
and your larvae. The narrowest street,
the one full of gossip, inhabits you.
Water pronounces your name
when it suffuses our hands
with pure beauty.

You draw your face
on the most horrible dry winter leaf
and I still recognize you.

Although the world surrenders to us all
it's impossible to reach you.
Right now, no one’s home.
Only you. And you're howling
like a wounded wolf.

A part of me, of your light,
left with to the last name
that names us. The other part,
the smallest, disappeared with your voice.
I mean, your voice was the language
of everyday things when you lived.

Now language is the skin
of the world. That's why
we always baptize Death
wearing blindfolds.

That night I talked to my father
who sat at the table. I said
what Sharon Olds never could ::
The photograph I wanted to find
in the family album ::
Brothers and sisters together.
My parents, euphoric couple in love,
pure honest love. Everyone
on luminous, imported paper.

But the impossible falters again
on these pages :: Because beauty,
father, beauty does not sleep
with the living.

I got my hard copy of The Stillwater Review where one of my poems appears

I got my hard copy of The Stillwater Review where one of my poems appears. Excellent printing job, I love it!

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

Issue 12 of UNDERTOW TANKA REVIEW is Live!

Painting by Mario Carreño Morales,

Encuentro Junto al Mar

a river - haiku

a river 
runs through my life
thirst hounds me

Abacus Sun

Abacus Sun

covered with ivory exile
enter my room

isolations whitewash the walls
camouflage, their trickeries

Even the purest air
brimming with morning white

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Poem Up at Califragile

Poem Up at Califragile, A new journal owned and edited by one of my favorite poets, Wren Tautha: On My Way to Disbelief 

My first Collection of Poems, Elephant Graveyard, will be published

My first Collection of Poems, Elephant Graveyard, will be published in the US. I'll let you all know more as soon as I can.

Monday, August 28, 2017

Tattooed with Chinese Script

Tattooed with Chinese Script

I wake up every morning before the rest of the city
to open the birdcage so you’ll hear the bird sing.

Wake up broken, open the cage, gulp the tears,
blow what remains of my wings at dawn.

My eyelids are tattooed with Chinese script.
I put away my cross-eyed heritage,

my short path to erotic paintings,
my wet torso moaning with desire,

to call out you. You know my dead,
my gestures, my prayers.

You offer them food,
serve them my eyes that never sleeps,

have not lived here for a century.
You name the bird, guess if it is captive.

Letter #51

Letter #51

Today there’s a self-drawn sketch of rice
on my forehead, a tiny sorrow.
This mourning is the unhappy reward
of what we never talk about.

Today I tire of birds,
cut off my wings. A tiger
devoured my arms,
an old disgruntled tiger.

It drank my blood,
disappeared like smoke
resembling the roar
of an insomniac ocean.

Today I walked into the surf
with my pockets full of rocks.

Youth carries with it the demanding, relentless need to relate everything to love

Youth carries with it the demanding, relentless need to relate everything to love

Martin, I sat on the doorsteps of your house. I saw flowers with leaves like swords. They looked like soldiers. You were a soldier. You marched into my life. I came to say, I love you but you were not here, so I wrote it down on a notepad. Martin, I stopped writing to let my arms hang uselessly over my body.

I always sat down and waited, even as a child I bided my time. All women wait for a future life, their images forged in solitude. We see bridesmaids walking towards us, a promise, a man, a pomegranate that opens and displays its red, shiny grains, a pomegranate like a thousand mouths. Oh, my love, we are all so full of inner portraits, so full of unappreciated landscapes.

Sunday, August 27, 2017

I dive

I dive

into those tiny pitfalls that set us up for life,
traps as small as the cages to hunt sparrows.
Some days, on specific days, Mondays and Fridays,
when opening my balcony, I look and see
with all my senses, hear with all my senses,
smell with all the senses. I am a stubborn fiddle
in evidence, a delusional excuse
and life flips on me like a card game.
It makes me fall in love with new lips,
hurries and makes me as essential
as driving credentials, a: here is my hand,
my millions of hands.
My skin quivers with infinite pity.
Humankind kills, dies, lies, steals, gives up
with its back to Beethoven's Ninth
in the voracious desire for permanence.
Confuses freedom with movement.
Sleeps armed against other men
and against the little man inhabiting
the clearest corners of my chest
despite that music, despite the sun
that rises. Despite the fierce, clean, morning Ode
to Joy denying the spoils of yesterday's dinner.
Life today presents itself in a costume
and I know it's a trap. But I give in,
get drunk, and accept any kind of a truce.
I'm a spiral, a seesaw, a chorus, because when
I open the balcony door, when I look, see,
listen, and smell with all my senses, and know
life has taken out a deck of cards from its sleeve,
all I can do is beg in my favor.

On my Way to Disbelief

On my Way to Disbelief

There are times when everyone
remembers the living as if they were dead,

the way time disappears from noisy places.
I want my life to fade from the globe,

be inspired by the silent rotation
where all things are hushed

and not even God survives.

I believe - tanka

I believe
in empty spaces . . .
the honey
of his skin against my face,
the wounds he left in my pith

Saturday, August 26, 2017

Who I am and What I Remember

Who I am and What I Remember

I am a freedom that frolics, still beautiful.
The sensitivity of a talking parrot.
The girl who dropped her coconut panties
and kept walking. A black hen's egg
that traverses my spine and wakes me.
I am the nose that smells the adobe
of my neighbor's house.
A scolded photograph, a thin line
in the middle of my absent city.
A water flower, for other flowers
but not for people. The resin
that San Vincente wept.
I am a bittern that drowned
her song in another language.


The pain cannot be contained
long enough

The tracks fade under the snow
of the white hug of forced departure

I have tried to write truth
on buses ships and trains

but without an ear my tongue is dread
it clings to a single word

The train crosses a bridge
black ice joins each letter of my journey

Where is The New Colossal

demolished      knocked down     deposed?

Forced to Leave

Forced to Leave

Where are my footsteps going?
Nobody knows. A cloud of dust
accompanies them
as well as the helpless
memories that strip away
my skin and my soul
leaving me water on the ground.

I pull on them at every step.
Why are you taking them away,
why this ungrateful exodus
from the country sheltering my feet

like an omen of the exodus
to no man's land
because my country
no longer exists?

Someone’s taken it from me!

My footsteps hurt. They're tiredness,
they're pain, they're weight,
everything carried on my shoulders.

My head and my feet shout the pain
of this barbaric eviction,
the unjust exile to my beloved homeland,
an exodus I don’t understand.

When Darkness Falls

When Darkness Falls

The girls dance alone, the men just stare at them.
They imagine the girls kissing. When the boys get excited
they begin to kiss each other, rub their beards
& lingual barbells to the rhythm of technopop.
Some are amateur journalist.
Some are strictly DIFFERENT but EQUAL
Or as they put it:  DISCREET.

At five in the morning, they kiss and touch
then high speed out of there & BOOM …
they craaaassssh.

Night ends in tragedy. What do they do?
They wait & hope morning doesn't arrive,
return to the corner where travesties do their rounds
for money, throw in the towel for the speed of a gesture,
the volatile in their emotions.

A few brushes against each other are enough
to tighten their waist & make them feel the pain
of hard-hitting dolls. The solitary beat of the rhythm
will break the rapport between eyes.

They don't play slow music, 
no one plays the blues anymore. 

Friday, August 25, 2017

The desirous believe

The desirous believe
(poor idiots of hope)
that someday a man will create
a signature drink made of
a thousand breasts and a sea stupor
compelling our thighs to tremble.
They think saliva men will show
their luminescent tongues
and open our eyes
to a brave new beginning.
Dazzling man, refugee in a fire
without end― Then we will not
be able to move. Our flesh long
and wide, desire satisfied,
will be appeased forever.
We'll lose our eyes
and never be the reflection
of insanity again.

Wednesday, August 23, 2017



Be vigilant of the coyote
He'll butcher the jacaranda.

We must avoid an ambush.
People who know the spells

of language advise
we strike a match against a stone

and light up a bonfire
to keep the animal away.

Political coyotes scurry off
when they spot a fire dancing in the air.

Cooing an Innocent Boy

Cooing an Innocent Boy

He sings like the secret of rags
with eyelids that relieve poverty.

I break the dream that drew me into his voice
and leave through a window to a jail
where I fast in labyrinths
stripped of leaves by his music.

I write on the bare branches
to avoid licking the floor.
Compose songs about homelands
with oxidized tongues
full of stringless guitars.

He sings like skies feeding on watches
to force us to believe the boy
soaking his memories in the river
is not made out amber alert teardrops.

He calls out his name,
leaves fingerprints on the wings
of a beautiful butterfly.



The scare of a butterfly reminds me
of the serious impertinence of approaching matters
without breaking with anguish,
or forgetting the leaven of wounds.

To be stoned by the depth of a stone
I'd rather be nailed to a cross
by the depth of the cross. 

My Aunt Hermelinda

My Aunt Hermelinda

The story of my aunt Hermelinda was always bothersome.
Lost, according to my father, for a year in Yugoslavia.
Missing, according to my uncle, on the ship
back from Argentina via The Sea No One Knows.
Survivors confuse the paths of the dead
with their own, they no longer know what dream,
what memory is from whom.

Was she lost in a time without calendars,
a sea without waves, a ship without walls?
Didn’t she know that while she was alive,
however far she went into the Nameless Country,
she’d always return to the Refugee ship?

They eventually found her,
but if she found herself,
nobody’s telling.

Tuesday, August 22, 2017



I am afraid, that's right, fearful
of tangles, the barbwires of your dream,

of your arms shaped like prison bars.
Remember what winter meant to you:

the sea, ships entering port
without a single casualty.

The wind, remember the wind,
softening your corners?



of my dispassion…
you jump with your back
towards my face.
I adore your back,
extremity sprinkled
with kindness!

I don’t want to see your eyes
full of so many hurtful pins
scrutinizing my eyes,
coloring them alkaline
in a face to face farewell.

Do it in front of our friends
so I don’t charge and kiss you.
May our embrace rush the heat
of my mid-day hunger
before the world becomes toxic.



One word explains another.
Take “loneliness,” it’s a gap
a stone falling into the void,
even the air hurts and walking
is not enough, sleep dies
but you sleep. Loneliness is to search
for your height, your exact size,
in others,
or rather it’s to divide yourself
and form a broad chorus
of nothingness. 
What horrible loneliness
is in the one who begs for affection
by blemishing tenderness.
Let laughter be laughter
and hatred be hatred,
a man be a man.



Let’s plow the devil’s property
until the day of the golden ring
and the cloying gala
with an anthem to the Blessed Virgin

At the Love Market you find
buttocks paralyzed by rubber dildos
whisky, gold, and other assets
so you drift in that direction
so you’re not short of goods in your old age

You’ll open your eyes touching your husband’s back
He’ll squint and touch your backbone
You’ll both load fingers and hands smelling
of drool, shit, and lies

the devil’s property
You’ll sleep like devalued currency
cheapen gestures without any real meaning

Two separate lines
on a glass made of ice dreams
You think, you stir, and you join
disengage images of your days of silence

This is how you wake up,
attracted to the roll of bills time despises
and uses to consume you

Kesha - Rainbow (Official Video)

Kesha Rose Sebert 

born March 1, 1987; formerly stylized as Ke$ha is an American singer, songwriter and rapper. In 2005, at age 18, Kesha was signed to producer Dr. Luke's label Kemosabe Records. Her breakthrough came in early 2009 after appearing on American rapper Flo Rida's number-one single "Right Round". Kesha's music and image propelled her to immediate success, with her debut album Animal premiering at the top of the charts in several countries. She achieved 3 more number-one singles, "Tik Tok" and "We R Who We R" as a solo artist, and "Timber" as a featured artist. At the same time, she continued to write songs for other artists, becoming respected as a songwriter. Warrior, her second studio album, was released in 2012, and spawned her eighth consecutive top-ten single "Die Young". "Tik Tok", at one point, was the best-selling digital single in history, selling over 14 million units internationally.

Since 2013, Kesha has been in legal dispute with her former producer Dr. Luke, in which a series of lawsuits (known collectively as Kesha v. Dr. Luke) were exchanged between the two parties. Kesha alleged physical and emotional abuse and employment discrimination against Dr. Luke, while Dr. Luke claims breach of contract and defamation against Kesha. During this period, the singer only managed to release one single. She fully returned to music business in 2017 with the release of her third studio album Rainbow, and its lead single "Praying".

Kesha has been involved with animal rights and LGBT activism. She has received several awards and nominations, including her win for MTV Europe Music Award for Best New Act in 2010. As of November 2013, she has reportedly sold over 33 million records in the United States and 60 million records worldwide.

Monday, August 21, 2017

I Feel It Coming - Salsa - Vinny Rivera

Vinny Rivera 

releases his new Kizomba single "Compatible" following his tour in Europe taking beautiful footage for the music video of both the Nederlands and international model Lillyannheaven.  The EQS Team of producers and engineers have much in store for Vinny Rivera's upcoming album "La Cosecha" due to be released in October 2017 which promises a refreshing music list of energetic writing and production.

Sunday, August 20, 2017

Steel Band Song

Steel Band Song

A cricket slept
between my thighs
& a bouquet
of splendid flowers
which was also fruit

a soprano butterfly
a bee & a turtle dove
a singing, dreaming duet
slept between my thighs.

But one day a hyena
of disconsolate laughter
―razor of a turbulent stroke―
silenced the Turtledove
aborted the cricket’s leap
banished the fruit
deported the butterfly
& disbanded the duet

Now I have a lot of nothing
dying between my legs

It rains cardinals

It rains cardinals

burdened angels
rooftops rattle
while red cardinals
beat against the moonlight
it rains angels
that are actually cardinals
they talk to us from the infernal howl
of their sudden drop
it rains badly injured arrows
inordinate inhabitants
of clouds
burned by our insanity
spitting fire
dropping from the swirling loneliness
of our blindness

A stone in the water of sanity

A stone in the water of sanity

the coordinates that sustain us
between perfect isosceles triangles

hanging on the shadow thread of sanity
between here & there
& that
between this point
& that

if I swing
on its rhombuses
I'll see space multiply
under the brief arches of saneness
I'll see its gestures
trimmed & equal

if I get off
& sit
I'll see myself bobbing

Saturday, August 19, 2017

Poem Up at Futures Trading, Issue 5.2

Poem Up at Futures Trading"Next Best Thing" by Me

mariposa de ghetto

mariposa de ghetto

a los quince
zozobre a orillas de un faro
a los treinta
compre una falda azul
para mi sepelio

Friday, August 18, 2017

Poem Up At Sediments Literary-Arts Journal

Poem Up at: Sediments Literary-Arts Journal, Bare Embers 

Bare Embers

By Sergio A. Ortiz
You, naked
stretch out on my skin
like a hill bitten by the sun.
The fruit slips, grows, swells,
it’s burning. At six in the mirror
you enter me
as the most expectant guest,
simple as a river of light.
You cover me with your man skin.
You, the tongue that runs through my veins
to silence me. You take my eyes off
painfully and give me two other arms
with which to weigh life.
Your mouth drizzles on my back.
You scratch my back and write your name.
You talk to me with your bones.
My moan,
the longest sound you’ll hear tonight.
When we are alone, still naked,
when everything is over,
it hails.
The air has just discovered us.

Thursday, August 17, 2017

here - tanka

here: the eagle,
the tiger, the heart
on loan …
for joy, a sad soul
between my bones

No Longer in Need of a Ménage à Trois

No Longer in Need of a Ménage à Trois
(in the voice of Janis Joplin)

I'm willing to accept
that not all men are for me.
Not even the ones I like.
You must also be willing to accept
that you cannot have us all.
But I can be your man.
Be your man.
Think about it.
If you love me, I'll make you feel
If you love me ...
If you love me, I'll make you feel
as if I were

the only man on Earth.

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

walking - a tanka

walking can present itself 
like a loaded weapon
with rare pain
in its barrel ...
I watch you scurry away

Monday, August 14, 2017

a soul - haiku

a soul does not fit
in seventeen syllables
suffering planet

In the style of Amado Nervo

Photograph by Sergio A. Ortiz

In the style of Amado Nervo

I must defend José Lezama Lima
from the hate in the trenches.
Defend him from scandal
and derision, censorship and censors
transient sensations
and conclusive impressions

Defend Lezema Lima from astonishment
and a kicks-in-the-ass
from the disinterested and the neurotic
harsh infamies
and clumsy diagnosis

Defend him with a howl 
and the hubbub of the mills
from the walls, the embarrassments
and heavenly places
from blasphemy and Academia

To defend him from hate is a certainty
defend him from neighbors and quarrels
lavish time machines
drought and relativism
optimistic literati

To defend José Lezama Lima is a right
defend him from God and from the hell
of majuscules and luck
stiff-necks and influxes
of the azure

and hatred

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