Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

These fabricated lines are the tuffs of what I’ve never said out loud, the authentic celestial kicking up of heels in homoerotic retinues. They pile on wherever mahogany curves like a hand classifying the erections   of retired gay gigolos.  Ones from a different era, because the ones today are christened Jesus la Muerte, Jesus the bling is coming out your ass, Jesus don’t suck my face, I blow but only kiss real women. And it’s because lately I’ve been drowning in an ebb of blood and I want to leave a written declaration proving the existence of my ink and paper unicorn so that you know I came from a different era.  One where a kiss never imitated death, or money.  We were just two bodies, two men swimming into open sea.

Estas líneas fabricadas son el penacho de lo que nunca digo en voz alta, el autentico jaraneo celestial en comparsas homoer ó ticas.  Se amontonan dondequiera corva la caoba como la mano que clasifica erecciones de bugarr ó nes retirados.  Los de otro tiempo, porque los de ahora se llaman Jesús la muerte, Jose el bling me brota por el culo, Juan no me chupes los labios que no soy gay.  Y es que últimamente me ahogo en una marea de mentiras y quiero mostrarles a mi unicornio de tinta y papel para que sepan que yo fui de aquella época donde el beso no imitaba a la muerte, ni cobraba un minimun charge .  Éramos dos cuerpos, dos hombre queriendo meterse mar adentro. Estas linhas feitas são da pena do que nunca dizer em voz alta, o "jaraneo" celestial real en comparsas homoeróticas. Eles multidão de mogno em toda parte curvada como a mão que classifica ereção de bugarron aposentado. O outro momento, porque agora Jesus chamado morte bling J...

Antonio’s Rape He grew old covered by the  caña  leaves under the hammock bridge in his home town.  A leaf storm alerted a neighbor who called the police, who called his grandmother, who refused to walk that Via Crusi and sent her only daughter strong enough to deal with  la hojarasca .  Twenty cents and the weight of the man’s body sucked his breath out. His shorts were down to his knees, ass still sticky, memories gone. - It's been a week since Miguel's been fixing to poach around here. - You be careful with that man, you hear. Do not get near him. - Why auntie? Who is he? What's he look like? - Fuck, you don't get near him because I say so. - Don't ask a fucking thing you little brat. Why is this happening? - Look at the way you dress him. He looks like a god-damn sissy. - Do not leave him alone in the house. - Yeah, who the hell is going to be watching here, you? All of us work. - Look hear you little bastard, if I have to give   your mother a...

Well, the problem is theoretically solved.  Yesterday I talked to my psychiatrist and we decided on how it is that I need to medicate myself before I go into a hospital.  He also suggested it is time for me to make arrangements to leave Puerto Rico, something I have been wanting to do for a long time now.  He says a move within the next two years will be a smart move.  So I need to start looking for a community where I might have access to good benefits as an elderly person.  A good health plan and living arrangement.  I am already trying to save for this possibility.  Things are going to get pretty bad in Puerto Rico and it is going to take a long time before they get any better.  So to all my dear friends in all those artistic communities.  I am letting you know I am on my way back to the mainland.  It might take another year or so but the return is inevitable. Sergio 

Paraguas de cola erecta y rótulos en cavidades erógenas exigen cerrojos de ébano y marfil, postre de códigos: alcachofas que nos esperan al borde del abismo sicalíptico banquete de relojes donde ha de medirse todo, los centímetros, el espesor la agudeza de gritos, la trans- piración, los suspiro, el mela-o que se corre por mis mejillas al  decir: lo quiero adentro completitito .

The wind brought us close to butterflies and yellow maples.  We danced, read each other’s memoirs, hung the pictures of who we wanted to be in front of our bed and went to sleep.  We woke and said: That is who I want to be. rejection, the penumbra of voices that differ

Solo el Rumor ¿Oye alguien mi canción? José Lezama Lima Yo que no he visto la cordura ni al perro siberiano pasearse con su recua entre las nieves blancas, y que tampoco aprecio el silencio invernal del crepúsculo ni el sonido de osos rebuscando entre mis víveres. Me pregunto: ¿Alguien vendrá a poner su mano por la mía sobre el picador, o su firma en el papel que reclama todo lo que me han robado en mi viaje por la vida? Yo no he visto la ternura tampoco siento excitación al observar al niño comer de las manos protegidas de su madre. Solo el rumor de lejanas ciudades donde el invierno dura más que el verano acelera el ritmo de mi sangre. Porque ese frio si es mío. Yo que no he visto nunca la cordura he jugado con el agua y la nieve, que son la misma cosa. Los he amarrado entre mis piernas como se amarra a un amante. Le he dado forma con mis manos como se le da forma al pretencioso amor. Yo que estoy harto de escuchar a los lobos y dormir bajo los sauces ya no tiemblo...

Seva City Bloody, bitter fingerprint fluttering like crazy as it runs by a melancholic echo trapped inside seashells for relief. They are misaligned birds, men in tri-color suits waiting for the foam and the quetzal. Space becomes narrower, and our city collapses. Eventually we will open fire on this cascade of sparrows hiding in the polls of the blind. Ciudad Seva Sangrienta huella de amargura aletea como loca al recorrer el eco melancólico del desahogo atrapado en las caracolas .  Son pájaros desali ñ ados, se ñ ores tri-colores esperando a la espuma y al quetzal mientras la ciudad se derrumba y el espacio se hace más angosto. Tarde o temprano abrirás fuego, del todo al todo, contra esa cascada de pajarracos que se esconden en las urnas de los ciegos . 

top Model 3 , originally uploaded by saore2010 . Ausencias         Estos códices ingenuos no so callejos abstractos, presencias que irrumpen en mi soledad para inmolarme en el papel. Ni siquiera son atavíos musicales del derrumbe de mi cuerpo.         Son ojos de agua a gatas dentro de mis poros, diseños gráficos de una muerte profunda y difícil, montañas de signos que presagian la dosis exacta de vida.  Son los latidos pacientes del origen... para convocar a la esperanza, o  al p ostrero adiós, y seguir creciendo. Absences These naïve books are not abstract streets, absences that burst into my solitude to sacrifice me on the piece of paper.  They are not the musical trappings of the collapse of my body either. Springs crawl in my pores, graphic designs of a deep and difficult death, mountains of signs foretelling the exact dose of life.  They are the patient heartbeats of our origins... to ...

Tu Piel Me urge el mar en la almohada, el zarpazo de calor, tu piel entre mis piernas.  Me urge, me urge el mar. Your Skin I stir and urge the sea upon my pillow, the lash of your skin warm between my legs.  I urge the sea,             I urge the sea to come. Ta Peau Presser la mer dans l'oreiller, le coup de griffe de la chaleur de ta peau entre mes jambes.  Presser,             presser la mer.

Héroes La piel de mis pies esta minúsculamente vacua de héroes, como cuando comienza a secarse la tinta y se arruga el papel. Heroes The skin of my feet  is minutely empty of heroes,  like when ink begins to dry  and paper crinkles.

two more veins , originally uploaded by saore2010 . two more veins The last two hours I spent in the Emergency room with a female doctor a male doctor and a social worker who were trying to convince me to go to a psychiatric ward that had both facilities, physical care and psychiatric care. These were the two most humiliating hours I have ever spent at an ER. The female doctor lied in one of her reports, and the social worker made fun of me by speaking in English and acting as if she knew she had my future in her hands and what was happening was all about revenge. She laughed through the entire interview. She was in control and she could do anything she wanted to me, even send me to another hospital, a psychiatric hospital, where no one would believe my story and where the nightmare could being all over again.

and another vein gone bad , originally uploaded by saore2010 . and another vein gone bad I have close to 60 photographs and a few videos of the entire thing. I knew something was happening, but I did not connect it to the poems I had written about the hospital, or the doctors. They are just poems, after all. I should have remembered Lorca and Miguel Hernandez.

another vein gone bad , originally uploaded by saore2010 . Like I said, this happened every 12 hours. I was alone in the hospital so they could do just about anything they wanted. Sergio

The injections the nurses gave me , originally uploaded by saore2010 . The nurses at El Hospital del Maestro decided to inject antibiotics without opening up a vein and the result was that every vein they pinched collapsed. All of them bled, none was useful more than once. Therefore, the torture was every 12 hours. Not long ago I had a heart attack. I went to that hospital and they sent me back home with the pain. The next day I went to my doctor, he gave me an electrocardiogram and it turned out that I was having a heart attack. But do you think he called an ambulance to take me to the hospital? No, I had to walk home, prepare clothing for the hospital. Carry my luggage on my own and go to the emergency room that had sent me home the day before. After all this happened I wrote two poems about my experience.  They were both published.  Apparently the doctors involved read the two poems and decided to take revenge on me for having the audacity to speek ill about a fel...