Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

When Alone Your voice, sickle echo, rebounds off the wall. I, a thousand Argos look at myself in your mirror skin for a few seconds but the slightest noise drives you away. I see you leave through the door of the book, the atlas ceiling, the floor board, the glass page. You leave me without a pulse or voice, without a face, no mask like a naked man in the middle of the Street of Stares. You’re the one I talk to when I forge the sun with your footsteps.

Sleepwalking semblance for prenatal dolls knocking on the door with its nose shattered hemorrhage Fallen from the sky semblance Hindenburg fire rusty shadows of the last angel Face waiting at the language gate  trojan horse  night exposure of palatine judges Resuscitating semblance in the garden of heavenly delights uninterrupted looting of Rome millions of souls reduced to tens of thousands of beggars The face that knows what beds are for  will sleep forever in its dollhouse

the corner of sky heaven grants me doesn't let go― its blue devours my fear, hugs & talks sweetly to silence

Next Best Thing Our parents were astronauts of two extremes. Every vacant lot where we used to play started boiling over, so we grew up (in word only) against the prognosis of a possible plague of perverts arriving to snatch us. We were unlabeled objects on the pavement sculpting our silhouettes for the trap, babbling and babbling until we vomited the true value of silence. At the end of the space race reality always exceed fiction.

An Early End to Life My skin, scroll written by your trembling hands, refulgence of your epidermis in my skin’s blind memory. My complexion, the crystallized mirror of your smile strolling through this world devoid of trust. What you cried, "don't hold your breath," is learning to ramble the earth. What you called "love affair" is not blood but it watered my body’s garden as if it were. Yes, everything I own is yours, yet I know something closer than myself lives to the finish. That makes the very life you give me impossible.

I am the Featured Poet at  Sheila-Na-Gig Online . Six of my Poems are Up !

Poem Up at Red Fez ,   There Were Windy Streets  

Between Two Bastions I am the guestbook pages  hundreds  of people  with a single name  and many languages sign.  Elegies chase after me. I believe in the elephant, if he sings verses, in music, when it creates itself, in the flower of the Nile  when it isolates its soul after death, in the storyteller, if he takes off his shoes before lighting the funeral pyre. I am the earth in clusters of unknown maps. Reason in the consciousness of unconsciousness. The smell of fingers in the knitted shawl. The pencil in its paperless orphanage. I am the fire-eater on death’s mount. The dancer in the open-air festivals  of murderous sheikhs who renounce  their right to my alms. I am the book of doubt in the Word. The temple walls with drawings  of a thousand scenes of passion. The tired god as he walks the streets carrying the secrets spiders  already revealed.

There was crime  in your eyes, piercing truths gallop in the air like absolute nonsense. Your absence, a precise trauma. There were litanies, erased, deleted invocations, maps  of ashstorms  that still hurt my lungs. Patience was happy with impatience. You tried the calm,  but committed the crime, in your eyes, your pupils. You don’t need to explain. an old adios never forgotten.

I love to hate disjointed Nations, the hatred of two hundred  and seventeen thousand years under the harmful influence of cloistered gods. I hate sugarbirds of ice, hay, and alum. I love to hate a bloody face with immense doors opened to the abyss. The hatred of broken economies of expansionist countries on millions of naked people treated like beasts. Nations who adopt the simple hate weapons of crime and sleep over, who drink the starving pottage of the hottest blood of the day.

Two Poems Up at   Compose/ A Journal of Simply Good Writing ! ! !

I have two poems up at HEart Online Journal ! This is special because my two poems are in 3MP format. 

monster  lovely-haired creature  devours my verses ... born too soon vermin  bellowing to God

Last Truth  for the US Congress The wind moans among dry grasslands. Monster, lovely-haired creature devouring my flesh. Born too soon vermin bellowing to God. A specter rises, heavy with loneliness, probing the past. Paper castles, deadly derechos,  you will glow in the dark .

Poem up at " Impossible Archetype !!!"

*82 Review (Star 82 Review) just accepted on of my poems. I'll let you all know when they go up!

Sitting on my Corpse I'm picking up the pieces of my life, disabled, winged in agony, the latent bottom of my illness. Bodies like mine born     worn flesh and bones already ancient.

Defeated A body wants to be sea and choose shades of turquoise, of tempest, of calm. A body wants to be tree, have branches inhabited, roots feed off the ground,                                and decide modes of density, leaf shapes, ways to burn. How to explain                   this era of polluted seas spitting dust, smoke, ashes a peck of salt. How to explain acres of burned stumps, droughts, the collapse of a drifting horizon.

Ground Fresh Thursday (GFT)  Just published one of my poems !

Tropical Rain Day purge, night cleansing, tropical rains open bodies to hundreds of eyes. Bodies overcome by light withdrawn from murderess skin, devour waves of sunshine. Reinvent ablaze amaryllis flowers floating on static waters. Bodies, rainwater, adrift on a silent surf.