Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Intima  Eva la pura La mera-mera Eva reloj Rizos Labios mojados Pintados de Rocinante  Eva prepucio, corriendo grave Queriendo ser señora Pero nada es más profundo que ser Muñeca rellena

Three poems up at Vox Humana Lit: http://voxhumana-lit.com/?page_id=534 This is a Journal coming out of Israel. www.voxhumana-books.com “eclectic literature with a “human voice” www.voxhumana-lit.com www.voxhumana-blogs.com www.kindlegoodread.com

Poem up at Fried Eye  Stop by and read one of the best journals coming out of India.

Tequila Blue sleep accomplish your dream between the spaces of the mirror conscious of your accent as it repeats itself   like a coconut branch in the high tide  of voices 

Sorcerer let's loot this autumn night   hide it in the mind’s eye

Herbario ii Eres un verso que va hacia el alba bailando con mis cabellos         una noche de herbarios y ruidos         un amante a la luz de un puerto perdido         oscilando con el viento Eres un verso mudo que se enrosca como la ira en mis dedos          el alma de una pavo vieja callada          observando desde el parque comprimido          las narices aplastadas          de los niños sobre cristal opaco Eres un viajante de jardines          que abre mi herbario riendo Herbarium ii You are a verse that goes toward dawn dancing with my hair             a night of herbariums and noises      ...

Salome El aroma a tu m á s o menos cuerpo desnudo en est a ciudad donde reencarno gris libre  sin luna o gobierno ocluye el deseo a saborear tu cabeza en bandeja de plata Dear John The fragrance of your more or less naked body in the city where I reincarnate gray free without moon or government occludes the desire to savor your head  on a silver tray

Blue He brought   seashells. I painted myself blue to enter them.  My, my blue sparkled.

sleep, oh my mirror yet awaken when the last tear dries.   where does love await?  sleep in gardens  safe  from torturous words, casual rays of sun,  or sneaky butterflies.

Me despediré                Tributo a Federico García Lorca entre selvas de relojes, no en la encrucijada.  Volveré por un minuto eterno a la infancia, la sombra, y la flor.  Sus huesos, General, son una inmensa telarañ a la verdadera esfinge del reloj con el espejo. I'll say good-bye              Tribute to Federico Garcia Lorca among the forests clocks, not at the crossroads.  I will return for an eternal minute to my infancy, the shadow, a flower.  Your bones, General, are an immense web, the true sphinx of pendulum with the mirror.  

At the funeral "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."  George Santayana of the great illusionist, Roy Cohen, rituals were dedicated to Saint Michael. A pentagon guard cremated his wigs. The nacre sequin dress, pea- cock feather fan, and voodoo dolls were all donated to the Reagan museum.

Postcards to Michael i. Dear Michael, The secret love only you and I know about worries me.  It cruises through Amsterdam’s canals lost; it’s in the slow demolition of the ceiling; the naked children shaking in the morning dew; whales coming to die in New York City.   The hunter’s arrow pierces my most silent sensibility.  My inconclusive poems are dying of neglect; and I have a throbbing headache.  Please, come back home as soon as possible. ii. I’m tenderly picking you up from the floor like a delicate feather, putting you between two sheets of my favorite book, whose pages I’ll gradually close and put away forever. iii. You’d disappear into a cobweb and not even my mouth,         who played         with your groin         and your abdomen, slid down your hair, your neck,              ...

Postcards iv Michael, your departure is an unexpected silence in the middle of Waiting for Godot that Constant Craving in K. D. Lang’s music a lecture on God by Nietzsche… the existential drinking spree in The Metamorphosis your collection of Jacqueline du Pr é records eating fish and sticks at dawn                          a warm drunk embrace         at the train station on Broad Street

St. Somewhere Journal   http://www.stsomewherejournal.com/ has nominated another one of my poems for a Pushcart Award.  It will be announced on their site tomorrow.  Dear God, thank you for such a wonderful year!

Postcard to Michael iii You’d disappear into a cobweb and not even my mouth,         who played         with your groin         and your abdomen, slid down your hair, your neck,                                             the surface of your skin, could bring you back.

wet stones no one understands him as I do i hear fervid winds in the stillness of his hands [no one rubbed my narrow walls as he did  we danced to death's song without any recollection  of another life] i claim two sighs and a large garland  but if he's never to return we'll drown this grief together  wet stones orbiting restless echoes in a drop of rain