Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

She’s a homophobic warlord with a miniature bible carefully tucked in her bra It started before she could read at Sunday mass she’d stare at the faces of immovable angels— La Madonna and byzantine saints in cut-glass windows—imagining herself speaking to the masses. When her boobs started growing the junior high jock, a prodigy bible-belt-preacher, invited her to Watchtower study classes.  They graduated from high school, got married, and filled-out their NRA applications on the very same day. Everything was stasis,  the end of the end, until she walks-in  on her husband and the church's accountant, a six foot love gift from the Castro district. Two hundred nineteen years after La Bastille she remarried, joined a New Age theosophy movement learned to suck her thumbs and self flagellate while screaming slogans about the constitutional rights of breeders at a famous prime-time puppeteer program in Puerto Rico. ©  Sergio A. Ortiz, May 11, 2010

My second chapbook was just published and it is up. You are all welcomed to read it! Chapbook Links: topography of a desire ' W r iters List Ronin Press your friend always, Sergio

Olive Harvesters This poem was accepted for publication.  I will put it up after it is published. ©  Sergio A. Ortiz May 9, 2010

Interview # 1:  Apprehensions —Did you ever recover that stuffed replica of your male body?  A band of roaming gamines brought it back after a heated cha-cha-cha session with the police. (Through the scrims corps de ballet cheer up every Parisian cliché.) —When did mannequins lose their minds? When they discovered time was their tailor. —What would you do with a broken female femur in a safe deposit? I’d take it out for walks, pet it, make sure this abeyance doesn’t cause it inflammation. —Cook the sole of its black boot until it’s tender? ©  Sergio A. Ortiz, May 9, 2010

The Need for Thumbs We've already spent too many late afternoons creating a town full of exquisite corpses. What we really need is a new Visa card. One we can access without thumbs. We're flat, our mouths are full of halcyon holidays and losing horses. Two in the third, one the fifth. Everything's falling from us, kindness, pieces of our nose. Not even sugar crystals can fix these fallen rings. We're dead and cannot smile because the sky for us is silence. The sound of jazz comes from the blood melted on what's left of our eyelids. ©  Sergio A. Ortiz, May 7, 2010

To Tamara The poem was taken down because it was accepted for publication. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ * this poem is dedicated to a beautiful young Ukrainian young lady I met at the bus stop in San Juan, Puerto Rico. She is six months pregnant and the Puerto Rican man that is the father of the child now denies he is the father. So she is having the child by herself. Tamara was really homesick. She was missing the support of her mother. Afraid and uncertain about her future, she was doing everything she could to have her baby on her own. She has a high risk pregnancy, and at six months she cannot change medical plans. The hospital she has to go to is very far away and in case of an emergency her baby will either be born prematurely on the way there, die, or be born with some kind of defect because they did not have what they needed to have on the ambulance to help her. The law in Puerto Rico will not let her change hospitals after a certain amount of weeks. She was bleeding one day,...

Of The Boar Another delay!  I'll have plenty of time to think about him.  Was he always two? The one that disappeared with my boyfriend that last year of college was the one I hated.  He'd talk down to me and turn right back into his original mannequin self, wave  his hand in a fury whenever I interrupted him while he gossiped on the phone. That one never knew I heard all the ugly things he ever said about me.  Yet I remained his friend for over thirty years.  I should have dropped him off on his head in the Ukraine as soon as I realized why he fell from that balcony in Connecticut. There's a wild boar walking through the city in the pouring rain.  He wears a traditional Scythian neckerchief, but the foul odor of betrayal gives him away.  Everyone knows when he approaches and they move away.  And here I was thinking I’d write about Tamara and her baby.  Another delay! ©  Sergio A. Ortiz  May 5, 2010

Dream Prism A cornlike monster with ugly tang fish gills dreams of becoming a mermaid prodigy dishing out rhymes to a clown farther off than Australia.  She travels with a fat English prawn and a psychotic pickle renown for his voodoo medicine; His license revoked after performing a fatal bypass on an Italian bean. Their eyes turned yellow in the shade- less sockets of stillborn lizards.  Seven stop signs grew from their toes.  They were thieves, untouchables in the crevice of a very small toad, comfortless as vinegar.  They found my chiseled amethyst love letters and turned them to angels weeping dead, icy heads.  But I budded  as a May amapola and ascend  just like my grandmothers before me ascended. ©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 1, 2010

To the Zookeeper on the Hudson This poem was taken down because it has been accepted for publication. ©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 30, 2010

On Their Eightieth Birthday dedicated to the Governor of Arizona The poem has been accepted for publication.  I will put it back up after it gets published. ©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 29, 2010

Queridos amigos, (Dear friends)   Quiero invitarlos a que escuchen a Calle 13 - Musica urbana from de Island of Porto Rico, BORICUA!!!!   Allow me to turn you on to Puerto Rican Urban music-  RESIDENTE CALLE 13 MUA!  pApI TU SABES QUE TE AMO!

On My Own Will there be a change in your voice next winter?  —I prefer to shelter it with rum, walk through the monkey-puzzles in the Andes.  Their leaves are as thick and tough as my hands, scale-like with sharp edges, heaving like my heart.  The winds coming from the Pacific fan out my reptilian branches.  Black-faced Ibis fly overhead.  At least I know they will return next spring. ©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 28, 2010

Dead Cats and Poisoned Frogs The feverish python made you shrink like all the other little Hamlet's Cerberus bribes: Business men in silk ties, boogieing Isadora’s whose scarves tangle when they trundle around the globe choking on meth-amphetamines. They grease the bodies of social security millionaires in the back of warehouses. You bring me Mariachis, or Japanese paper moons on my birthdays, but I am a virgin attended by banana breads, and an old withered Madeleine. Money is the sperm fluid dead cats and frogs take to your bed—your breakfast, along with freshly cut roses imported from Iran while you listen to drums announce the countdown for yet another electoral confrontation.