Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

El Encuentro –  Cuento - Parte 2 -Un lempira por tus pensamientos. -¿Cómo, que dijo? -Qué si quieres, te acompaño a tu casa. -No gracias, estoy con unos amigos, compañeros de trabajo, vivimos en la misma casa. -Entonces te invito a una fiesta.  Me llamo Esteban. -Soy Antonio.  ¿Qué clase de fiesta? -Es una fiesta en la casa de unos militares amigos.  Solo para hombres. -¿Militares, solo para hombre?  No.  A mí los militares no me agradan. -Toma mi teléfono.   Si cambias de opinión me llamas.  ¿Eres Venezolano? -Soy puertorriqueño.  ¿Oye, aquí no hay un teléfono?  Mi amiga se quiere ir y necesito a llamar un taxi. -¿Ves el muchacho ese, el chinito sentado detrás del mostrador?  El es el dueño.  Pídele el teléfono prestado, es muy buena gente. -Gracias.  ¿Cuándo es la fiesta? -El sábado que viene. Así conocí a Esteban.  Hasta recuerdo lo que llevaba puesto la loquita, un sweater de rayas horizontales...

El Encuentro –  Cuento - Parte 1 Antonio aborrecía Honduras.  Cuando llego al aeropuerto las personas con las cuales ya había establecido contacto lo recogieron y lo sepultaron en uno de esos hoteles para indígenas donde las cucarachas hablan cinco idiomas y las pulgas eran catadores expertos de sangre.  El juraba haber visto a más de un bicho traficando armas en aquel cuartucho.  Cosa que no podía extrañarle a nadie porque en Nicaragua los Somocistas estaban revueltos, en San Salvador aparecían campesinos muertos en casi todas las catedrales.  Que conste, los decapitaban por aquello de que nadie los pudiera identificar.   En Guatemala — ni para qué hablar de Guatemala, que desde que ancló aquel bendito buque de guerra Norte Americano en los años 50 para defender a unos militares golpistas, la gente no hacía otra cosa que desaparecer. Después de dos semanas de estar incomunicado en el hotel, llamo a sus hermanitos hondureños para preguntar a donde ...

Fifteen to Eighteen   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 at the   santero’s   house the day before.   "Funny how a lonely day   can make a person say…"   The first time I felt mutual kisses,   whispers nibbling on my ears,   under the cover invitations   penetrating, taking flight,   he was a friend of the family.   I went along with the salutations.   "Funny how I often seem   to pick and find another dream…"   The boxer and   La Lupe   taking my imagination   into humidity. We were one,   him standing behind me,   his hands on my neckline,   lips on lips,   a lucky charm locked   on my collar.   "This is my life   and I ...

This tanka is based on a line from Sylvia Plath's poem "Elm," and it is dedicated to Willie Miranda Marin. sufrió las atrocidades de las puestas del sol sin ser ceiba detenido frente al espejo se deleita en lo oculto

It’s 3:43am and I’ve been up since 2.  I must have gone to sleep really early because I feel like I have had my full 5 to 6 hours of beauty sleep.  Willie Miranda Marin, the Mayor of Caguas, died yesterday and the news has not stopped covering his death.  (Todo el mundo y sus pulgas tiene algo que decir de él.  Qué pena que no lo dijeron antes de que se muriera.)   I had to turn off the TV.  It felt like a circus!  Really, I wonder how much respect we have for a man whose family must not be going through an easy moment.  It is true, he was the best politician Puerto Rico had seen in a long, long time, but there is a moment at which we must step back and ask ourselves just how much is too much! In our culture there is no safe medium when it comes to praise or scorn at the moment of a person’s departure.  S/he was either a saint and we loved loving them, or they were the devil itself and we hated their guts. I am sure it has to be our Spanish ...

They Leech on Lenient Angels -against the criminal acts perpetrated by the Israelis  Soon the clowns’ fixed painted smiles will be at home on me.  Those signs of favor eventually infect the thieves with creed.  They leech on lenient angels, duel with their own lies until the burning bush speaks to them in furious tongues . Then they sink into the river, the dream of water, [the neck-to-neck] marathon race with Pan’s devotees. Sanguijuelan  Ángeles Clementes en contra de los actos criminales de los Israelís The poem will be published in Spanish.  I will put it back up after it gets published. ©  Sergio A. Ortiz, June 3, 2010

           I have been trying to go into the forums at Poets.org for a month now.  And I keep getting a message that says the discussion forums are down for maintenance.  And I ask myself, how can discussion forums at The Academy be down for maintenance for so long?  Or is it that I have been band?  I can't imagine why?  The only things I have posted there were a few poems during the NaPoWriMo.  Most of those poems have already been accepted for publication.  I am hurt.  I thought these people were my friends, at least I thought some of them were my friends.              The truth is that certain things should never happen a The Academy, and that if I sound like a small child having a tantrum it is only because I miss posting at The Academy.  I mean, it was the first place that anyone gave me the time of day, why shouldn't I miss it?   I miss it with all my heart. to be...

Nada que Ver Me hablas como si me conocieras, como si acabase de bajarme de tu cama desnudo, como si el desayuno — las tostadas y el café, me impresionaran.  Escultor de cuerpos remachados en bronce, cuerpos abandonados a su suerte en el piso de tu estudio — no te conozco y alternando mis ojos entre la escritura y la lectura rebusco la razón de tu osadía — hablarme como si me conocieras.  Hay distancias abismales, borracheras secas.  Me engalano con lo que yo quiera, túnica, gabán, traje de novia.  Total, no soy tu escultura, ni respondo a los caprichos de cualquiera. ©   Sergio A. Ortiz, June 1, 2010

Dadle la Espalda a lo Incierto Antonio ve, busca la guija,  que es noche de despedidas. No olvides el vino.  Pedro, enciende las velas, que Mara escoja la música. Pongan sus dedos sobre la tabla. Sepan que no se vale temblar al sentir el hielo seco del tiempo rebuscando pozos petroleros sobre nuestras entrepiernas.  Hoy despedimos al deseo, o al amor, su fabula, el friso de su cólera, la sepia dorada de sus malos recuerdos, dándole la espalda. Bajaremos al círculo letrado de nuestros tamices   incrustados en las bocas arteriales de la risa y el adiós. ©  Sergio A. Ortiz, June 1, 2010

Las Musas Inquietantes ¿Madre, en tu segunda muerte quien ata el pañuelo que sella tu boca? Las apariencias descienden con rostro anónimo, musas inquietantes que rondan mi moisés, mi cordura.  Pídele a Ariel te acicale   con ubre de vaca, o baños tibios de sal, pues yo estoy de fiesta. He vuelto a vivir.  Madre estoy vivo. ©  Sergio A. Ortiz May 31, 2010

          I just had three poem accepted at The Blotter Magazine:    "She's a homophobic...," "Of The Boar," and one more poem whose title I can't remember right now.  I will be removing those poems by the end of the day from the blog.             The Blotter Magazine is one of those magazines I follow, like Autumn Sky, Touch, and the excellent journal,  The Tower.  I follow more than just the journals I have mentioned.  Hopefully soon I will be writing about what motivates me to follow certain Journals  Some of which have never accepted any of my poems.   Others where I am certain I will never see anything submitted by me published.  Yet,  to me these journals are making the difference in the literary scene of American Poetry, and in some cases the poetry coming out of Australia and the UK.             I want the editor from Zygote in ...

The Three of Us Poem accepted for publication.  I will put it up when it gets published. ©  Sergio A. Ortiz, May 30, 2010

The Sugarcane Harvest:  A photographic chapbook Sergio Ortiz avantacular press 2010  http://www.scribd.com/doc/32167032/The-Sugarcane-Harvest

Exposed I’ve searched for you again in the rising illusions of three hundred and sixty five dawns, yet none court me like before. The moonstruck magic dissolved inside my unattended plot. Its gardener, exposed within my mirror, tried tricking me with kisses.  From where I stand there is no one to pay for the moon’s washboarding.  Crows and scarabs   have first bids on my mortgage. ©  Sergio A. Ortiz, May 29, 2010

My Knees The months spent by your bedside left me scavenging for healthy bits and pieces of my own body.  A week could pass before I found a foot among the ruins you left at Treblinka. And when it took two months to find an arm I’d crack and fall apart again. Now, I do not bend my knees. My hours are crowded with escaped cocks my mouth shapes  and puts back together with reinforced steel. ©  Sergio A. Ortiz, May 27, 2010

Yes, DMAX sent me a virus early this morning. It is not the first time it does it. Actually it is the third time it does it. They are part Verizon in Puerto Rico and and Claro in Central Americo. As soon as I get a chance I will write a few essays about this in both English and Spanish. Because in reality were do not really have any freedom on this island. And those of us connected to the Internet who have been profiled in the past are still profiled, our telephone conversations are still tapped and everything we do is still scrutinzed. DMAX are the Butt pluggers of the government on this island. But from now on they are fucked with me because they are not going to shut me up. Nunca mas, I am not going to ever be quiet, better dead than silent, that also goes to my religion and to any and all poetry forums that might want to harbor the idea of shuting me up. It is never going to happen.  My computer froze for about an hour and a half.   I could not log into my email a...

There are the forums that act as Moderator schools.  I have hardly ever been to one that has any Hispanics; I will say it right off.  The reason?  Your guess is as good as mine is, but I will talk about my personal experience.  I was at Able Muse for a very short time, constantly under pressure from a female moderator who had read my pm’s to a friend (something she should have never done) that just happens to have my same name, Sergio.  She decided I was trying to seduce him online, virtually, with a poem that I had dedicated to him.  She insinuated in front of the entire community that I was trying to, well, let’s not use the word just yet, let’s say, take him to my virtual bed.  I had no idea where he lived or what he looked like.  I didn’t know his age, and that was important to me.  I don’t go to bed with anyone over the age of 50 or under the age of 37 (actually I have not gone to bed with anyone for years and I don’t intend to do so)....