Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Where will Children Play Their names, carved in the keel of the vessel in which they traveled. Their margins, our boundaries pushed to the side in view of what really matters in our fallible, sensitive lives, seek a response from the unknown.  Position yourselves next to the mystery of their music. Is child play the glimmer that does not bond to anything, a mirror of water, the closed curtain in the school of human affections? Gunshot signals the rescue, yet you deny them entry. A growing weakness reminds me that there is no beginning or end in the life of your phosphoric limbo, Mr. President.

Nobility of Blood Dear Lord, this congressional recess the President's Cabinet promises to thank you for AIDS, though it has not made them transcend into the 21st century. They are still caught up in superficial things like fake news, taxes, bans, the wall. We thank you for these tent evangelists, brothers and sisters alike, breeders of hate crimes, that reject the perfect beauty of homemade remedies and blood transfusions. Lord, forgive their arrogance toward the medical community and appoint faith healers to Obama Care, or whatever Mr. Trump decides to call it. Thank you for allowing me to live on the periphery of society, where nobody asks yet everybody tells.  Thank you for the innocent illusion of my open exhibitions of affection toward Omar. Thank you for not letting in immigrants from Muslim Africa, where water, food, and medical supplies have always been scarce and costly, where rape and viole...

Our Wealth Is it now illegal to be gay in the USA?   Will we need to join underground to escape the fog of an orange tyrant?  Take off your shirt, tattoo a machine gun and a dove dripping blood from its heart. Join the Resistance. Become a poet. Be a rainbow in the gale of life free of heavily-lidded eyes on the battlefield “Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.*” Do not answer the middle-of-the-night-knocking at your door without resistance.  We are no longer children of the half-light. Artless fog man-on-man smithereens in a moment orange-on-orange blemish without a purpose *John F. Kennedy

Letra de Roberto Carlos Cabalgaré toda la noche Por una senda colorida Mis besos te daré en derroche De una manera algo atrevida Me aferraré de tus cabellos Por no caer de ese galope Voy a atender a mis anhelos Antes que el día nos sofoque Me perderé de madrugada Para encontrarte en mi abrazo Después de nuestra cabalgata Me acostaré en tu regazo Sin importarme si en ese instante Soy dominado o si domino Me sentiré como un gigante O tan pequeño como un niño Y las estrellas del lugar Se nos acercan para ver Y aún conservan su brillar Después de nuestro amanecer Y en la grandeza de ese instante Mi amor cabalga sin saber Que en la belleza de esa hora El sol espera por nacer Y las estrellas del lugar Se nos acercan para ver Y aún conservan su brillar Después de nuestro amanecer Y en la grandeza de ese instante Mi amor cabalga sin saber Que en la belleza de esa hora

Eros and his Hidden Lover Trapped in my surroundings, my place of birth, a ray of moonlight unfolded, revealing the fragrant lavender petals of a desert flower. I moved closer, desperate to express my longing, and calm the madness in Eros's eyes. I found my way to his tent where voices of distant seas inhabit me, where fear blinks as I learn to die from the multiple definitions of East and West, empty like the cracks in dry desert earth. A needle stitched my tears. Two thousand years in the thorny hands of gods, a bitter pleasure. Two worlds, two discernments. Lost in the distracted indiscretion of time. Stunned and twisted.

Mi Obra Maestra es un holograma de cerezos en flor derramando los pétalos de mis pesares en un rayo de luz. El olvido es el laberinto de lo desechado, lo imperfecto. La geografía de mi memoria es mi colección de versos arrebatados a la noche donde un soñador me salvo del desespero camuflado de arco iris.

tiene sangre en las manos y vidrio soplado en los pulmones el corredor del narcotráfico donde mi isla muere tiene sangre en la cara y vidrio molido en sus fosas nasales el corredor de la justicia donde mi isla muere tiene sangre en su pene y vidrio cortado en su colon el corredor de partidos políticos corruptos donde mi isla muere sangra  sangra  sangra iniquidad por la cabeza por los pezones por los pies por la nariz por el pene y aun así   es capaz de salir absuelto

I Refuse to Lose You I follow you to the street where best regards forms a corner wall with the breeze. Where my body fights to enter the overflow of mist in your cloisters. Where clouds move inside a space beyond grief or understanding, and memory, my scandalous mirror, always tells a lie. Filled with longing I came to you prepared for ghosts and found whispers.

The Pianist We buried him yesterday. Night finds little, if any consolation in embellished stars, and although I’ve stopped crying, I still sigh. I listen to music when there's nothing but the luscious scent of emptiness. You were my fallen flower, my one thousand gifts of heavenly abundance, my banquet of endings.

The Storm A dog seeks a place to sleep. Listen to it growl at the boulevard; its broken sidewalks, weeds in every crack. Feel the rain and cool your sweaty flesh like a snuffed candle. Forget your name, the snare that gathers in the mist of night. Imagine someone sleeping in a row-boat tied to a mangrove root undisturbed by the rain or the dog.

We should Rehearse  for the day when we are blind We should all learn to read with our fingers the braille of scars on arms and sperm of melted candles. Remove for one night, every fortnight, the white bulb in our bedroom. Because before death comes blindness. And Charon will not accept our fear as payment to cross the river Styx. For a winged birth the steel must cut the meat and throw away the body. It's not the sky that grants us flight. It's the fall.

CommunicatorsLeague just published 6 of my photographs

MARCAPIEL acaba de publica tres de mis poemas en español: Nosotros los Chicos Invisibles Carmela Xilografía

Valentine Road Larry Fobes King “Leticia”, January 13, 1993 – February 13, 2008 Invisible, given to roughhousing, Brandon, white boy supremacist. What planet do you live on? You love the hunt, the power of, “No,” you can’t be Leticia in a green dress, “No” knee-high boots for you, Larry. The women of this seaside town cannot be the night behind the mirrors. There are faces, there are organs, there are white ferocious animals that look at Leticia with hate. To make sweetness a job is a reactionary act, and anger a swan impregnated by dust unable to comprehend pain, the scent of flowers in the unnamed garden of sin.

Leticia was a Less-Dead Ghost Larry Fobes King “Leticia”, January 13, 1993 – February 13, 2008 Larry’s heart rate was stable, but Leticia could not open her eyes, he was struggling to breath as the veladoras began to bunch up on the sidewalk in front of the school. Leticia suffered a stroke, veiled infinity opened. Her body was zipped into a body-bag, his donated organs took off on a helicopter the day before Valentine’s Day. I asked God for a different street, another leprosy in a glass of wine. Everyone says goodbye to the world as best they can. I prefer silence so as not to embarrass myself for not facing the eyes of so many who hate or love me. When I start to die, God makes a lot of noise and it wakes me up.

Shooting in Realistic Environments       Lawrence "Larry" Fobes King,         January 13, 1993 – February 13, 2008 Children with torches and crosses, sleepwalkers looking for their mother beyond the shadow. Women searching for their children scattered in the river; offspring’s, fragments of a letter of despair. Those that were going to die saw her proceed without recognizing her child. She bid her kid farewell with her hand and hummed until she sank into the horizon.