Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Poem Up at Anti-Heroin Chic

My serenity written on warm dishcloths, and paper placemats with endless drawings of terminally ill rattles; the false premises of marijuana smoking hook-ups   climbing my old suffocations. Sometimes they twinkle because of the deceptive reflection and turbulence of the wild, the useless surrender of my desire. The wind of my anguish chases after you with a great spell, a recipe for all your epochs, a total, fleeting countryside, a cry from thirsty mouths full of supplications. My serenity is a sad, lonely Fairy Tale, petrified guano dispersed in the air, columns of dead bats burning, skin grafts from an obese man inhaling blood. I'm going to sew you a devotional scapular with the words, COME BACK!

Mi Serenidad está escrita en paños tibios, y en manteles de papel con interminables dibujos de cascabeles desahuciados; son las premisas falsas de amantes 420 trepando mis viejos asfixies. En ocasiones centellean pero es solo el reflejo engañoso y turbulento del salvaje compuesto de la entrega inútil. El viento de mi angustia te persigue con un gran hechizo, una receta para todas tus épocas, una campiña total y fugaz, llanto be bocas sedientas de suplicas. Pero la serenidad es un Cuento de Hadas tristes,’ guano petrificado disperso en el aire, columnas de murciélagos muertos incendiados, injertos de piel de hombre obeso inhalando sangre. ¡Te voy a coser un escapulario con la palabra, REGRESA!

Dear Friends,  I am back in the hospital with bronchial spasm. It looks like it might be my heart or it might be the consequence of bronchitis I got last month. So, please feel free to say some prayers for me, I have been a believer in the power of prayer for a very long time. It is one of those things some people call miraculous, you have to see or experience it to believe, and I have seen it and experienced it many times in my life, so I DO BELIEVE IN IT. Sergio 

Poem Up at Co-ZINE with another poem to be published next month. Co-ZINE is a monthly online publication seeking to showcase LGBTQ+ and ally voices and provide diverse, vibrant and educational content to readers everywhere.

No Truce Entropy Our feet strung on a string of dead bodies. We stoop lost in the puzzle, the sunk-eyed terror in our days. So many rotting mirrors on the burning plains of the battlefield, uprooted. Denouncing the afterglow  of what was beautiful, the paradox of useless power. Purple dahlias shout obscene goodbyes from decomposing breasts.

Nostalgic Rainy Afternoon I close my eyes create an opaque image  diminishing the light flashing  in the void, but in so doing,  I get lost. I scream,  silence steals my voice, so, I return to thought. Wandering around like this, between images I could never touch, memories withering  until my will is faint, sitting on the corroded bench time left me, I wait for small  confiscated moments. The day  we met to share old stories no one remembers. I paint stars in the sky so you do not notice I am so small. I leave a trail of footprints on the sand, tell my stories, convince you I am true. I place an order with the universe so you are assured I'm still here. On nostalgic rainy afternoons I travel to your thoughts, so you do not forget all that I remember.

What is Said My hands, two balls of hair trapped in the throat of a feline ghost My fingers, covered by your two-week beard. I want to be a Polaroid snapshot of a sunset. I’ll call it: selfie # 569 while I die. You told me your girlfriend got jealous. She does not know that friends  can love each other or that we tattooed death our arms, and we gave each other stones, and the river took our useless haiku; that is, the filth of the city  devoured by Godzilla. I told you, I would paint my nails red to hide the blood I always carry on my hands when I touch something and it breaks, when I miss you when I search for you  and end up feeling alone.  When I cry inside and rot.

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.