Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Gogyohka i en Español Primero te vuelcas a mí luego te vuelves a él, ¡Calla amor! ¿Qué se siente  aprender a mentir?

Gogyohka ii lover, murmur when you’re distant from the formula of your conceited pride. give me those minutes.

No one, I was alone, Alone painting dusk And dawn. Hush lover, hush.

Price: $8.00 Ships in 3–5 business days In this new chapbook, poet Sergio Ortiz writes about the postmodern spaces of displacement between the here and there, sleep and death, living like a fugitive on our skin. The poems recount, with great strength, the pain felt and left by all that was stolen, or lost in the narrator's life experience. He has finally resolved to enjoy his sexuality with all the consequences this resolve might bring. http://stores.lulu.com/flutterpress

Intimate ii Eve the pure The merest mere  Eve the clock  The curled hair Wet lips         Painted  Rocinante* Eve the foreskin hurriedly running  Toward her lady image Nothing more profound than a stuffed Harlequin with silk nipples  Sniffing out her  Mio Cid Eve the warrior  ~~~~~ *Rocinante was El Cid’s horse in the epic poem The Lay of the Cid, it is a pun in Spanish and it means "work horse"

Poems up at Psychic Meatloaf - Journal of Contemporary Poetry http://www.psychicmeatloaf.com/Issue%202a.htm

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,              ...