Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

To My Leaf Storm Don’t fear my touch. Sustenance from windmills slowly gathers around our skin: leaves never fall, fragments spiralling into your smile, tears humidifying our lips. Don’t whisper to an alien ear. Look away to my lap, brush my breast.   Edges sooth the tip of a finger on my back, deeper fragments. Don’t list the possibilities. Keep stretching our secret. Swim in my hair, flaunt your smile on my torso, until the fragments and the leaves come to a sudden stop. © Sergio A. Ortiz 2009, first published in All Rights Reserved a literary journal. Issue, Margin of Error, 2010

" Isabel Vargas Lizano (born April 17, 1919) is a Mexican (Costa Rican born) singer. She is especially known for her rendition of rancheras genre - a folkloric musical genre widely popular in Mexico - but she is also recognized for her contribution to other popular Latin American song genres. She has been an influential interpreter in the Americas and Europe, muse to figures such as Pedro Almodóvar, hailed for her haunting performances, and called "la voz áspera de la ternura", the rough voice of tenderness. Her first album, Noche de Bohemia (Bohemian Night), was released in 1961 with the professional support of José Alfredo Jiménez, one of the foremost singer/songwriters of the Mexican cancion ranchera. Vargas has recorded over eighty albums thereafter. She was hugely successful during the 1950s, 1960s and the first half of the 70s, touring in Mexico, the United States, France and Spain and was close to many prominent artists and intellectuals of the time, includin...

Al enemigo: un cara a cara. Al insomnio: peras o manzanas, una zanahoria dulce. A la espera: un celador Sur Africano blanco dormido sobre una mina de diamantes. Al salón de clases: un reloj, la sobriedad del agua. A la lejanía: lo que recuerdo de Omar, un resplandor sigiloso, desnudo y húmedo en lo más profundo de mis pupilas. Al amor: una tregua, y otra tregua. ©   Sergio A. Ortiz febrero 16 del 2010

© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

© Sergio A. Ortiz 2010

© Sergio A. Ortiz 2010

So stormy a night So, so bright a day So wide a river So, so shallow its waters So ingenious the thief So, so small the dowry So white the paper So, so muddy the ink So lingering the love So, so treacherous the lover So strong the perfume so, so foul a nape © Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

La Imaginación Este masticado agri-dulce ajo / esta asimétrica pierna de Greta Garbo / esta gruta de silencio involuntario / este inédito presagio de beso rígido / este anticiclón en la topografía de un suspiro / este gentil lubricante de orgasmos bovinos / esta obsesión kyriopascha de convertir lo abstracto en lo concreto. Las Palabras Estas cartografías oblicuas /estas canciones corales con esos destellos lejanos / estos guantes de cesti del Foro de Augusto / estos pequeños momentos de nuestras "visiones del paraíso." Lo Imposible Esta bolsa de lona desnutrida/ este pintor de dientes rellenó de cemento / este gato algebraico resuelto/ esta tarjeta postal invisible para el hombre invisible/ este retumbe que aterroriza la boca de un niño. © Sergio A. Ortiz 14 de febrero de 2010

© Sergio A. Ortiz Feb. 12, 2010

She came out of church dressed   like her other life, purple, ready   for the parties and   las palizas ,   carrying the eighty extra pounds   of luggage she pawned the day before.   "Funny how a lonely day   can make a person say,   what good is my life…" The first time I felt   mutual kisses, whispers   nibbling on my ears,   under the cover  invitations penetrating, taking flight,   I went along with the salutation.   "Funny how I often seem   to pick and find another dream…"   The boxer, the man I bumped   into on the corner,   Sylvia Rexach and her guitar   taking my imagination into humidity.   W e were one   "This is me, this is me…"   His hand on my back   crossing me to the other side   of the street, taking me   to the movies, giving me his lucky charm .  "This is my life   and I don't give a damn   for lo...

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Gloria a esas manos negras porque trabajaban. Gloria a esas manos blancas porque trabajaban.” Juan Antonio Corretjer there among the moon and sun Iguanaboina signaled my arrival i had found the cave the serpent and a stone from which Atabey drilled and looked through the hole Inriri carved my future existence in the clouds there were dreams and in the bite of the reptile-cobra those dreams became a sounding conch the owls regained their razor-slit eyes and my life was set free free to worship flamboyant trees and dualities © Sergio A. Ortiz Feb, 2010

el timbre tiene que cambiar y así lo han hecho todos los timbres suenan para querer, devolver la movilidad de tu conciencia,  la que no te vale nada como el K ayak que usas cuando vuelas por las nubes tocando tu tendón de Aquiles un poco envejecido bombón envejecido y embustero a ti te mueve el dinero la cintura estrecha pero envejecida    tu zapato derecho la máscara que se usa al correr diez millas de grama linda ® Sergio Ortiz 2010

Este masticado agri-dulce ajo / esta asimétrica pierna de Greta Garbo / esta gruta de silencio involuntario / este inédito presagio de beso rígido / este anticiclón en la topografía de un suspiro / este gentil lubricante de orgasmos bovinos / esta  obsesión   kyriopascha de convertir lo abstracto en concreto © Sergio A. Ortiz 13 de febrero de 2010