Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Remoteness And the world disagreed  with its blood. The wind blew away sanity and today we pull against the riptide. Time and space, wooden shacks, flew in an unknown direction and love lays on the image of a moon tired of unfaithful loves. 

Hurricanes Clouds do not know where to rain and the air smells of electric storms. Blood, as it is logical, dissolves into the river of concern. Its honey removes the sediment that falls on the island bed. From each star hangs a probe, a 110-volt extension, in whose spectrum eyes see translucent viaducts crossing water. Everything is organism. Here an artery, there a frond, a mudhole its demulcent. In an expanding and contracting of pulses, all is sown land. Ignited, light-matter floats on the water as its flora is dragged adrift. The only shore is night and it's no shelter. Eyes do not know where to cry and the air is lightning's prism. Where is the deity? Blood is tragic in its full torrent.

Dominant Pig I was asked how to sustain homoerotic sex without falling into intentional eruptions which involve dominance. I answered with a single letter: I let my mouth open a heavenly poppy. The poppy opened without anyone touching its petals. These poppy fields, pig styles my blood, gave in to intentions with stipulated traits. That is how they exhausted lead skies, and their four Asian walls, their nylon dresses. The eruptions to which they responded wrote a book whose backbone was a stem and its leaves upheld the bark of the trees made of the steel from which they were born. On those poppy fields intentions reacted with minor swings to insert themselves into the tail of the firmament. It was like making firewood from Ceiba trees thorns. I didn’t care about the thorns, just the order of the punctures they left on my hands.

Sacred Tribal Breath The oldest turtle in the tribe tells sacred stories in dense, exquisite language and behold, our fragile understanding is lost in a slow dalliance. Primordial water, the foundation of earth. The voice of archangels, a landfill of waning lights. "Why hide?" Your voice, a perfect animal that creeps among the stones to a trough, bloody scales and tail. An old Lady shouts, "Do not come back" "You've wasted too much time on those visions. If you continue like this you'll go blind." And I grow feathers and take flight. “Now, you will not suffer," a voice shouts. "You will invent your own shadow and your words will have a slight incandescence." Then I dream I am a strange flower that invents mud cities with its scent. I dream I am a giant butterfly nesting in the tribe, and the turtles bow when I pass by.         

Paranoid His reality, so small he misplaced it. With a deep poetic sense but no metaphors, he spread pieces of his body as he walked. He was assassinated by his own shadow after an unavoidable persecution.

Poem Up at Unlikely Stories Mark V

Five Poems Up at Adelaide Literary Magazine

I got my Hard Copy of Sediments Literary Arts Journal  and my electricity came back after 8 days of insurable heat because of Hurricane Irma.

Between Your Legs Yesterday, I woke up under a strange ceiling. I dreamed I was a stray bullet at an irrational angle or some shit like that. Something, definitely better than what I can say about this place. Maybe we've never been here or maybe I never caught up with you. The point is, you are not here  and nothing is as you said. L. A. is not a city of stars, it is a city of clouds. Absolute stupid-amorphous-gray-clouds. L. A. is, in any case, a ghost under a large cemetery of floating dreams. I want to go, smoke between your legs, hear you lie to me in deserts, storms, ammunition, ghosts, pins, wings, rain, night. Your hair, my knees, your loneliness, my grief: black chestnut, black you, me>you ... Understand? I want to take you to the cemetery  of dreams to watch infinity die.

Concrete Carnival You stood up, handsome with the effect of a monster that everyone calls fear and fucks in the time it takes a traffic light to empty nipples and saves them onto lips ready for kisses. You were not always sunk and scattered in night's grooves. There was a time when your initiates touched your sex like amaranth hard as day-old caramel, when the wind of wood pigeons invoked a blast in your pants, the cracks of your streets and sidewalks. And there were bad times because of my terminal illness of “the end of the trip" where ice was not ice but it burned. My heart hurts, on the right side, whenever your kids call you faggot . I feel like building a basement in your memory. Do not let moss and fear give away your age. I look in this city, your eyes, high demand of your tile skin, that once had the innocence of Michelangelo's David  and I sigh.

Wild Thin Chunks of Mercury A Guesthouse in Old San Juan a bed, a table, two chairs, Sharon Olds waiting for me over the toilet top. I'll drink martinis the rest of the afternoon. I write things while I'm drunk that seems good to me. I wait for my friend from Condado to pick me up slowly  like  pieces of mercury,  and take me out  to eat spaghetti carbonara in a place where they have a Wurlitzer because I want to listen  to  that Bob Dylan song, wild, and thin chunks of mercury all that I have left of life

Do not Insist They've broken your heart. Love is not love. Cling to the mast. Your ship is sinking and there is no God under sea or in sky listening to your lament, Ovid. Shut up and learn. Let silence and storm guide your sails.

Plath I found life mixed among the colors of death My love amid violent reds of empty lyrics No one knows the loud speaker they hear is my heart There is a stone extending its arms to embrace the burning moss of my breath Nobody sees me riding naked on the warm spine and emery of metaphors when silence shoots me in the mouth and horror vomits my bloody light with the crushed skulls of my dreams.

Two Poems Up @ Ordinary Madness, Weasel Press

Natural State of Being I live between appeared and disappeared, in women's or ghost's clothing. I cross the folds of the mirror and remain lucid, guilty of dead dreams in my consciousness. A bite-proof bird. I lay my eggs on trees in secret islands like a frigatebird. My natural state: wild fruit grove  with frost that does not mature, a child in diapers queen of the blind flight. Appear and disappear, a simple skin graft and I am the other and the same. .

I just got my hard copy of Into The Void - Issue 5, Fall 2017 

Poem Up @ The Voices Project   - At Midnight

Three Poems Published in The Right Launch Literary Magazine

In a Dark Room The rope hangs my eyesight and I can't see the flight. I’m drunk on this island in flames. Can't screw my eye if everything is screwed up in here.

Hey, Skinny! You are the most powerful oven on earth you live in Paris ―almost 7 thousand Km away and yet you heat me

The Nerve You let me buy you jockstraps, boxers and aftershave plus invite you to lunch at the healthiest naturalist restaurant & if that weren't enough on the way home you asked me for a moisturizing cream to be soft for the sonofabitch who’s running his hands through your body at six.

Hold On I’m bitching about this hospice for the indigent Word. I don’t want to be trapped in this caricature, my song bouncing off the archway germinating the cracks on the floor with my shit. Where the fuck are you?

Remembering Archer I dismounted your sex. Let go of your lips. Untangled our legs. Threw out the condoms. Night started at 8:00 till 4:00 in the morning. We slept. Huddled up in wait of the day.

First Takeover The day has three faces you must bundle it up before smoking it You can't roll it and put it away because it tastes different, dry You can't buy prepaid days lined up in a box We senses days the same way a bassist guesses the entrance of the piano or , he sax it's announced by the aroma of coffee we drink like evictees

Ficus leaves are hearts of stars they rise like a herd of gestures that lunch on cobwebs and read fire like nervous owls they mend each other like fire mount each other like dust swallow each other like seas revise each other like air perennially brief perennially fleeing They're leaves              loving each other                    they only rise

I Let Myself Fall I know my life will end the way a storm ceases― dissolved in your image already water I’ll return to your sweetness― sparkling wings of doves spread more air than the hurricanes your face lost in the crowd, using my hand  as its bed , dictates my death a throb under the asphalt awaits ... the stream of life that shapes and destroys me arrives at your shrine crossing your garden, pierced so many times by the bougainvillea I turn away life forgetful of the tumble

crossing your garden, pierced so many times by the bougainvillea         I turn away life forgetful of the tumble

a throb under the asphalt awaits ... stream of life that shapes and destroys me arrives at your shrine

your face lost in the crowd, lying in bed on my hand, dictates my death

I’ll return to your sweetness― sparkling wings of doves spread more air than the hurricanes

a dove or a child a song between bed sheets

I know my life will end the way a storm ceases― dissolved in your image already water