Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Thanks for the Company It’s sad we couldn’t be friends. It’s time for you to leave, the marigolds are blooming. I pulverized some soil to try and keep them warm. My skin is bruised.  The sun dries the wound, and all the while I think of you.

  Starting From Scratch We got haircuts today. There’s a sadness in both of us difficult to bridge.  He’s beautiful and full of something more than just life. He takes pride in procuring comforts I gave up long before we met. I am glad I can't remember what love was like.

Frente al Mar Estoy perlada de noches musicales, acordes de viola que no cupieron en el suelo arenoso de tu playa. Los ocasos me hacen huir con labios resecos hacia en el oblicuo ombligo del tiempo y tiemblo repleta de amores paridos con el más agudo grito y sin aire, tiemblo. La mar, mi hermana, bate sus olas sobre mis pezones, y me saluda su roció matinal, y soy cántaro de uvas marinas.  Amor, vierte tus encantos dentro de mi boca para esparcirme igual que tu sobre una ola. No busco orilla, más bien el sosiego de haber sido huella de coral vivo en tu último ocaso. Traigo sobre mi espalda la más reciente lluvia y el aire libre de mi hermana Julia batiéndose a golpes co n olas gigantes frente al mar.  Triunfando, siempre triunfando.

Making Place for You  by Sergio A. Ortiz I look at you to find the traces  of the places where you’ve been.  Look and then remember  how unfulfilled my life seemed.  I look because I’m single  and know that I can.   Don’t want you to remember me  with any other man.  I look and find the traces  of the places where I’ve sinned.  Look and then remember  how distill these scores still seem. And fireflies are glittering Like they’ve seen all of these signs I want you ever closer, ever closer, ‘til you’re mine.

Atrapado cuando se subió a mi espalda supe que había llovido sobre mi cama los caimitos se enredaron en mis sueños

Trapped when he climbed on my back I knew it had rained on my bed the bougainvillea wrapped itself around my dreams

Postcards to Willie Perdomo 1. Chérie , forgive my postcards, I feel like Spain after Francisco Franco died. Almodovar said it in a movie: Regarder que cette nation arabe m'a fait. 2. Tell your wife and children el tío Sergio is going through a phase. The erotica, is for the postman, the one who wants in, yet never knocks on my door.  The friendship is real. 3. Almost took a bottle of sleeping pills I have on the counter where the computer used to be. wanting to rest among angels… PD I threw away the TV set, couldn’t see it anyway. When I wake up in the middle of the night I picture myself sinking into the ocean. There is no static in that image.  Pórtate bien.

Simple Luster I’ve become simple luster louder than a yellow finch breaking into song tearing at the shoulders of silence pressed against the wind of grief 

For the Next One Peter Pan, Peter Pan on a Harley Davidson, Peter Pan on a carreta driven by a dream unfolding like the señora’s fan when she watches Wissin and Yandell move their hips to the rhythm of a plena con ese tumba’o urbano Tumba tumba tumba tumba . I can hardly wait! “Oh Stewball was a racehorse, and I wish he were mine. He never drank water, he always drank wine.” Negro , I don’t see the sun on my skin, it is all on your arms and your face. Papi , I’m living for the children today.   Which leads me to recall I won’t be missing you again until that hussy moves out, the one you drive to family reunions on weekends. that’s right, Miss Daisy, 25 going on 40 in the street. How long you thinkin that’ll last?  Sopho’s been calling her name while she’s been sending out invitations for bigger diamonds. Peter Pan, Peter Pan doesn’t want to grow up. He likes it the way it is;  Bella Donna between his toes, ready to fly.

Fear   He stopped me from turning off the stars.  His arms, bight that found the roots of my willow showing signs of affliction in the shallow waters where I ran demented to men so divine my bed boiled like a cosmic heat-wave.  Now I hold my breath…, remember you playing the chords to all my songs. Fear, nothing but the past freely scurrying about grief stricken.

When is Enough, not Enough my wrist has disappeared into a line of blood it took seconds for the pain to slide reptilian slim like the strapped on weight not wanted by my love his neck was cold his bulging knuckles slapped my thighs while I ran to the temple of my next chocolate milk-shake & double Whopper

This Bitter Earth  Smoke in my eyes; a silhouette, a line of sea salt, rainbow memories mingled with bluegrass on a castaway  sail.   And there you are  sitting  on a sand dune.   And here I am,  silent Delaware  watching you count  minutes  from behind each other’s veils.  But for these veils  we walk among our anxieties too conscious of our nakedness.

To *Jose Manuel Otero Puerto Rican Writer I’m breaking in new point shoes.  Skin around the edges bleeds, unstitches the sky like the odor of madness to the dead —  when I am pulling down his zipper and filling my mouth with Andy Warhol copies of Marilyn finding the camera’s light on her lips. Her eyes sing;  “happy birthday— come get it.  It’s all mine but I’m giving you a taste. Baby, it’s not a cunt but I look just as good as she did in that white skanky dress, chichies and all,  I’m hard-on- pancho —to you,  fuck better than Juana la Loca too . For History's sake: ** Jose Manuel y yo no conocimos en los pasillos de la escuela superior.  El siendo unos años mayor se fue a estudiar a la UPI.  Luego nos encontramos en el centro de estudiantes y a través de un amigo mutuo, Reynaldo Rivera leí su primer cuento corto escasamente terminado de escribir en aquella mesa al lado de la mía.  Jesús Manuel se molesto mucho cuando ...

Sleeping with this Man He walked into my dusk so awake my shadows left fearing his reprove. Then he spoke in the softest of voices asking without asking. I wanted to watch my petals open while listening to his footsteps in the Fried-Eye of my memory, but I surrendered to whatever it was I had perceived by dawn’s mirror. * Originally written in December of 2008.  I know it is difficult to think of a journal as a man or a woman, or even as a friend's toy chihuahua, Lorca (he is transgender haha---) But this is the man referred to in the poem. sergio

Dear Friends,  I have received a second nomination for    the   Sundress Best of the Net  award s at Caper, The Journal . You are all welcomed to read the poem. sergio

Paradise For some, vaulted destinies are affections won against heavy odds.  Appreciation of their value requires proof words begin to take shape invisible particles leaving the odour of money. This becomes the weapon they fearlessly evade their fetters broken, their wounds written on rocks. For others, those who have long approached hostilities or faceless insincerities, money is the oasis that requires no explanation. However, balanced hearts never waste time in propositions of value.   Their abacus moves with caution so as to not awaken the snake sleeping between their sheets. 

Despoiled of Secrets We were close to the ground, near the door frame in case of an earthquake,  but you had to go ruin it.  I didn’t care about ripping out the plumbing, desperate as I was for the salt in water... You noticed the granulating yeast on my skin and brought over the divorce settlement and witnesses?  Sure, he’s blonde with baby blue eyes, interesting and interested, yet half my age. I wasn’t looking for a date but I bought a new red and blue umbrella.  Now, don’t touch me.

Four poems up at Sketchbook Review.   Please, stop-by and read. sergio

Amok Returning to bad days, shadows meander surly as my life runs amok. Sot, I keep myself from being hunted, deny I find pleasure in the rollercoaster- ride, walk barefoot like a naive child. Held by hands I cannot trust, forcing me to put on boots covered with mud and sperm, I become tearful. At first sitting on a rock, yet fearless of death I start to run on my hands over a burning pyre. The glitter in stones ablaze.

One of my poems been nominated by YB that Literary Journal for Sundress Publications for the 2010 Best of the Web Anthology . For those not in the know, here is a Sundress about-ski. And here are my nominations: Sergio Ortiz. "Transparency."Dorothee Lang. "Society of Swans."