Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

The place  from where you call in your first return is always far away its serene center strays  when it tries to explain the last farewell, the fringes fall  into expected shades of sadness

In your mouth  I can care for the dying even those who spit in my face who take themselves to the lottery cemeteries today I'm where your lips are  more beautiful than death but, do not get angry I am the eternal little cherry stone in your mouth

All of this years, 2017 NaPoWriMon entries have been taken down, they have all been submitted and journals don't want to see them on a blog.

Reaching for Lips frost music the authenticity of dirty snow the impenetrable instant when a body begins to approach another body when a river starts to enter another river without undressing plunging into another dimension in a humble Arcadia of infancy it might not even be a river, or a movement, or form,  but a garment covering bodies under a cherry tree with branches  strangely open  but it's not a cherry tree  it's more the shadow of a guardian angel knees tremble when lips reach lips

Another Virginal Silence I do not believe  in the Name of the Father. I believe in you, who tosses  and whisks my woods when praying on my body. I prefer to celebrate  this slow euthanasia with sweat-laden body  and exorbitant eyes on a meadow of radioactive stars, beheaded mallards on my lap. You dreamed the schism of the saints the mystery of hermaphrodite wreckfish. the Virgin of the dunes  and vinegar  for wandering antelopes. When I see you sleep, night perfumes herself with oranges.

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