Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

On a whitewashed wall in the fortified city of your body I come to you slowly. You say something I don't understand. You laugh. Write your name on my abdomen. I walk from the edge of my body to yours. Sleepwalkers like us don't distinguish between reality and desire. To us reality is wider, more tangible, more corporal. It’s a garden in the bedroom, a thick weave of braided hair, an endless hieroglyph tangled in our legs, and rarely can we find someone to decrypt, read, or write it on our bodies.

The inaccessible  I entered  the uncomfortable night of your body — tu amurallada ciudad — with moistened footsteps, and the long creak of the catwalk was lost amid the shouts of stevedores and sailors.   It was midnight before I found your labyrinth. You would be talking to me about the fleeting language of a broken clock, the wings of your Moroccan city, the life of its cobblestones, when suddenly you become the quiet rage, the trembling conversation of doubts: the inaccessible  power  of an orgasm. 

Sorry but I have submitted this piece, I have to take it down.

Sorry, I have to take this one down. I am submitting it to a journal.

This is also Feminist Erotica Today, I allow you to hold my hand in public. But tomorrow, nobody should be surprised if Salome asks for your head on a silver platter, and kisses your mouth with her cold lips from hell.

Sorry! This one just got submitted to a journal.  I have to take it down.

Two aging men together Suddenly, two elderly men cornered on the love corner of their sixty-something bankrupt dreams are witnesses of the epidemic spread of fear and rejection. They are  together. Giving each other what remains of their dignity, pillaging death, and salt. They’ve learned to queer it up without a map, without a condom, with no more radar than their intuition. They distill with patient certainty the fact that there is no better tomorrow for those who seek to be sanctified by the light of the phallus. A hand strings together their grey hairs, their star of David. Who cares if you’re young, you’ll get there too.

For this one you need to know a little Chicano folklore.  More specifically El Coco, something similar in English would be, The Bogyman. For my profile at Grindr.com From man to man, from my place to yours, I follow the lewd riverbed of your venomous snake, but if I find out that you're worthless, I’ll ran away. And the search cycle starts all over again To penetrate your depths is, friendship, provocation in this virtual hubbub. From leisure masturbation to be with you is better, come I'll show you how. I frantically invoke your buttocks, and I enter and go and obey the command of the full-grown mask of your glans. I put my whole humanity inside you, and so as not to make to story long you’ll even stop fearing el coco .

Esta larga espera es como si hubiera muerto un niño. ¿Quién me atrapa el corazón y lo levanta sin apoyo alguno?  

Sorry.  This one entered a competion so it has to be removed

Letter # 3 April 13, 2016 I’ll never hear from you again, I knew that from the time we met. This certainty was so powerful that it’s as if I got news from you at every moment. Post Data: I propose a banquet  for when I’m dead. All you have to do is eat me. This is my response to love. I beg for cannibal communion, a genesis in the other.

I say I am Pessoa or Pound A faceless woman sings while standing on my soul. A drowned siren begs for alms. A child, a beaten dog beneath the hail,* cries. An unforgiving hand tortures my wrist, e isso me leva à morte.* *Canto LXXXI BY EZRA POUND *And it takes me to death

mi pasado escombros, fragmentos, delta que me hizo seguir hacia adelante… yo fluyó en más de una dirección  

Love bit me with its sweetest tooth They are three They are together Present in one The Black                    The White                                           The Red: The Moon for my concubine this slow dawn that lengthens with the rooster's crow this crescent moon whose sharp tip has begun to tear the dark love bit me with its sweetest tooth

Look at my mouth full of vitriol, and my throat full of poison hemlock look at the partridge dying in Rimbaud’s thyme desert look at the trees nerves tightened by the light. This is what I see in the smooth April hour, this is what I see in the chapel mirror.

NEW GUIDELINES FOR UNDERTOW TANKA REVIEW 1.      We will only be publishing 5 to 25 tanka, so send the very best. We're going to be very selective. 2.      Please don’t send traditional 31 syllable tanka, they will be rejected. 3.      We are looking for avant-garde, surreal, light-verse tanka poems. 4.      We are also open to haiku, the same amount will be selected for publication, we prefer modern haiku, nothing traditional. 5.      We are open to submissions year round, but will publish poems online three times a year starting May, 2016. Submission Windows From Oct. 15 to Dec. 15 for Jan. issue From Feb. 15 to Apr. 15 for May issue From Jun. 15 to Aug. 15 for Sep. issue ANNOUNCEMENT:  We have a new assistant editor, Rajan Garg  rajangarg.thapar@gmail.com Sergio Ortiz, editor  undertowtanka@gmail.com

Why is there so much life Maybe tonight is not a night, it must be a dreadful sun, or something else, anything. I don’t know.  There’s a lack of words, a lack of candor, a lack of poetry when blood cries and cries. There’s something tearing my skin, a blind fury runs through my veins, Cerberus of my soul. Let me go beyond your smile! I could be so happy tonight! There are lingering dreams, and so many books, and so many lights, and such few years.  Why not? Death is far away. It’s not looking at me. So much life, dear God. Why is there so much life?

I'm wiped out  by gales and rain  like an elegy  on an alley wall  ... yet I dare to love

Dark waters I swim in my waters wait for language to give me form think about the wind coming to caress my face a stranger to myself, I've walk all night in the rain I say:   you been given a silence full of forms and visions and I run like a heartbroken panther through the jungle