Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Time Lapse Photography I hear you come and go in my dreams and in cloudy camphor windows. I hear you when I hear other steps down the corridor, other voices that aren’t yours. I recognize your worn amaranth and feather hands, here, on the shore of your wasteland. We were to meet but you didn't show up. An ocean more powerful than night seized you in its hands like a scattered flower. Your photograph looks at me from where you are not, from where I do not know you, from where everything is a lie you leave your eyes to look at me. For reasons, I don’t seem to grasp you've gone on a trip, and it's like you've never been here, you’re just―so soon―one of those stories some old maid told me in the kitchen. The things that speak of you lie, your last face lied to me as I leaned over it, because it wasn’t you and I was embracing that which the infinite removed little by little.

My Little Tyrant You stopped to desire what you looked at, you stopped to invent what you looked at, but you were never at a standstill. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything. Donald Trump You stopped to desire what you looked at, you stopped to invent what you looked at, but you were never at a standstill. You understood the docks, the places where salt is a blind lady seated on your soul, where foam gnaws at the base of everything, with its small teeth resembling the quicksand of what is forgotten, the sites where old anchors and barges of oversize engines oxidize in droppings of seagulls and pelicans, the small white tumults where peace and movement intertwine their nets in the old-fashion-way of the sea, the landscapes that surrounded you without you knowing how far from your imagination, your most intimate arguments could travel. There is a sky f...

Infinita llanura cordillera helada, tumultuoso rio, navegación por el mar  de colores apagados o deslumbrantes desierto de oro y noche, litoral que alarga al horizonte hasta hacerlo parecer el horizonte, terminas tocándome aunque no tenga rostro.

Mirando a un gorrión Racimos trémulos de desnudas soledades, estéril desierto de pensativa escarcha, mi vida sin recuerdos. El otoño no quiere mirar tus ojos, estás muerto, brisa triste entre narcisos pálidos.

Sad Song for an Unavoidable Goodbye Saw myself crying on the hardest stone at the crossroads where the wind begins to blow, crossed the sea with oars of dewdrops, chastened by the resonance of I’m leaving you. Night's agony passed dying in the heart of a rose. Dawn lifted itself up on my mountains, a humid gust hoisted my eyes. Two centuries of auroras making love to the landscape.

Infinite plain frosty mountain range, tumultuous river, navigation on the sea of dull or spellbinding colors, golden desert & night, shoreline that stretches the horizon until it looks like the horizon. You end up touching me although I'm faceless.

No existen patrias para débiles ancianos Le prendí fuego a los mares, laceré el sol con mi navaja de afeitar para escapar del tiempo. Estoy salvando mis abismos, no quiero disgustarme con la muerte. Esta patria no es lugar para ancianos, ridículas colecciones de partituras anticuadas, pájaros trinando sobre el árbol otoñal, música sensorial que aparenta ignorarlo todo, harapientos abrigos doblados encima de un bastón torcido. Dos adolescentes parados sobre el fuego sagrado de Dios, se ríen de mí y preguntan: ¿Acaso, tú eres el educador de la nueva trova, y su aliento arrugado?

No Country for Old Men The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees, —Those dying generations—at their song Sailing to Byzantium By William Butler Yeasts I set the rain on fire, lacerated the sun with my straight razor so I could part company with time. I'm saving my abysses, to scamper away from the cold so as not to be disgusted with death. This country is no place for the elderly, the ridiculous collections of antiquated scores, birds bebopping jazz on the autumnal tree of sensory music that ignores everything, a ragged coat on a folded cane. Teenagers, standing on God's sacred fire, turn to me and say… Stick to being the educator of your wrinkled breath.

9 de noviembre del 2016, Letralia, Tierra de Letras publica 5 de mis poemas . Sergio A. Ortiz

El poema Mi queridoRenier y otros 9 poemas míos van a ser publicados en la revista Literariedad:Apuntes de Peató mañana. Sergio A. Ortiz

It’s not the First Time I Wear a Cummerbund I am the glow of a fixed star, the timeless echo of a plea that always returns. You seduce my rest, and climb my geography. Does the mirror fade like a refined emotion in your hands? Don’t answer, I need your silence to be wild. The sun shatters into rainbows. It makes me sweat. I lie near a turtle on the floor of a botanical garden hoping the stillness that dwells in my imagination - the crossdresser singing boleros to the stars- calms down and erases my fear of being marginalized. Not all silences are the same, there is no such thing as a perfect stranger. Not one is as perfect as his shadow. In the lake of Close Indifference, where the bed creaks like a bag full of rain, we were all size 30 once.

The Clear Dampness of your Face Are you willing to fill my white spaces?  Can we conspire, can you force me  to exhale my infinite hunger of you?  Must you radiate the thirst of my skin  through the endless latitudes, the nectars  of your sex? Am I losing my footing inside the ruins of this sinister hotel? When are you hiding these overcast words  and their meanings?  Who can ignore  the fear of men knee deep in the turbid  waters of an ocean guided by the intuition  of drowned colors? Ay, mi soledad,  riddling conundrum  for the absence  of figurative speech.

Another poem up at:  Chachalaca Review .  You will have to download the PDF file to read the issue.  Sergio A. Ortiz

I have a poem up at: Whispers and the Roar The Shame and Fear We Sow  Sergio A. Ortiz

Si Ulises muriese un día martes cualquiera Es el calibre del agujero que deja, la intensidad de la herida, la cuenta bancaria (dentro de mi corazón) donde guardo las páginas agotadas de mi vida. Es imaginarme lo inimaginable, la lánguida calle lateral, mi Ulises sin su Dublín. Es el clima tácito al que nos referimos cuando no hay campeón, ni comodidad alguna dentro de mi bungaló. Sé qué textura tus muslos se ven obligados a rendir en mis sueños. Soy quien no quiere clausura,  que tu voz  no desvanezca sobre  un horizonte separado al mío.

If Ulysses should Die on a Tuesday It’s the caliber of the hole, the intensity of the wound, the hideout (inside my heart) where I bank the depleted pages of my life. It’s imagining the unimaginable, the languorous side street, my Ulysses without his Dublin. It’s the tacit climate we refer to when there is no champion, no comfort inside my bungalow. I know what texture your thighs are compelled to surrender to my dreams. I’m the one who doesn't want closure with no vested interest in hearing your voice fade into a separate horizon.

Kala Namak / Black Salt You fall beyond your sap / abated remembrance / vile fear of tears // In you my heart / is a circle of fire / black salt on the river banks of your Himalaya // And I am shipwrecked / confused tangle of dreams that mocks the cacophonous memory of the water.

Kala Namak / Sal Negra Caes más allá de tu savia / recuerdo apagado / vil miedo de lágrimas //  En ti mi corazón es un círculo de fuego / sal negra a las orillas del río de tu Himalaya // Y soy naufragio de sombras / enredo de sueños que se burlan de la memoria cacofónica del agua.

Walking on the Limbo of Lost Words the lighthouse of the indefinite trafficking voices of absence, skeleton walls smuggle freedom. My country: a poem under an illegal shade. A sun full of cameras rides my skin like ghosts who claim what is rightfully theirs. I lead the echoes of my flight to a heart masked as theatrical delirium, my wrinkled memoir   dancing to Etta Jones’s  Don’t go to Strangers . I touch your lips with my revolutionary blood and leave my confession   on your cinnamon eyes.