Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

http://www.poetserv.org/SRR36/ortiz.html Published in Salt River Review Sergio Ortiz Topography this is my story and place of birth a wheelchair a body wrapped in a sack a childhood jerked around like an unwarranted curse and the stubborn useless desire for a pair of tailored hands climbing up my thighs   Timeless You, in my gravest hour, perfumed with silence—what images caused your fruit to fall?  You left me shooting cannonballs at non-existent stars. Nothing ever removed the water you gradually painted on my lips, no theatres, nightclubs, tuxedos. Not even jetliners or churches.

http://www.thiszine.org/poetry/good-morning-gulliver Published in THIS LITERARY MAGAZINE Good Morning Gulliver by Sergio Ortiz Welcome to my day Gulliver, the dogma of “no strings attached” embellish my fingers and toes.  Welcome to the nausea tranquilized by the calla’s bribe allowing the animal beneath the skin to sleep.  Welcome to my Mapplethorpe’s finger fuck, three dimensional and stepping-off what’s left of hair, lips, eyes with all of its deleterious offspring fastening a rope around my neck to asphyxiate the desire to hate or love.  Welcome to the libretto of my aging crevices touching and melting no one.

http://shamrockhaiku.webs.com/currentissue.htm Published in the current issue of Shamrock Haiku last summer day – her parasol blackens  the rose -- Sergio Ortiz (Puerto Rico)

listen to me, seagulls that cry like a great sad wheel, the day mother died I rode a horse for hours

a fire blows smoke into a man’s silence as he rests in the arms of a woman ... a city in terror

 tanka Sequence reading with the lamp on I see a crater where our bed last lay… we watch the distance burn       you are the last ring of smoke to be held tight… we’re lucky we’re not art, I’m a full cup of water how silent the trees how loud the shots of hunters how broken the crow wings…how hidden the pocket knife tearing desire sunken moon my mind suspended in the sky… moonlight cannot polish stone or pester our transparencies 

they played     on the edge of the roof concealing what is practiced in war games…                            gangster love

release my ashes into the Caribbean, each wandering speck             blending             with the world

elephant family killed  for ivory— homeless man gives kiss of life to a bunny thrown off a bridge

For my aunt Ruth, 86 years old she bears her decline  with a toothless grin,  silent  under a barrage  of unkind words 

winter fog looking for a needle in a haystack

watching the rain arrive street by street

whiskey over ice… the nudity       of men

she calls me by my dead uncle’s name whispering wind

Seventy Eight He was about mother’s age and stature when she died four years ago; stout and short but graceful, with the buoyancy of fresh foxglove bursting forth in summer. He’d hang a hammock and go for a walk on the beach. Wading his hips as his feet pressed the wet sand; salt seasoned the expression of joy on his face. Two bongo players about his age and black as his shirt, struck a harmony of rhythms he could not ignore. The sun reflected on his face emanated the happiness of an old freedom-song recaptured. For a brief moment, he eluded winter, but soon it would be time to return to the retirement house and dream about a good dance partner.

Rezo Señor, te espero en los espacios más resecos de una línea de piel que aun recuerda la humedad de cultivos amorosos. Señor, vamos a jugar a lamer las serpientes, disecar la respiración. Señor, el cansancio de dos siglos se deshila en soledades cotidianas y los erizos de calle pierden el miedo y te escupen .

The  Alembic                 Soft hair and humidity trickled from his chest to his belly button as I moistened my lips. When his fruit ripened I placed it in a container made of scented Spanish Oak and covered it with moss. But to me Jerez was not what gave him the fragrance of Montilla, it only forced me to savor the memory of his abdomen.

esta quietud que mora en el sueño calma mi marginación se viste de mujer para aproximarse al lago y cantarle boleros a las estrellas

Tangueras Eres el seductor arco de una bahía sin raíces, la gota descendiendo   sobre la penumbra, sustento de mágicas pisadas a la hora del suicidio. Bailas con el blanco la brisa silenciosa del SIDA donde tangueras sacan a pasear sus zapatos italianos y luego incineran sus lenguas clavadas en el falso orgullo. Te escupo. Eres hembra y macho castrado en las fiestas patronales, una simple invitación al polvo .