Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Poem Up at AMARYLLIS : Piece of My Heart Piece of My Heart Ms. Joplin your voice rips apart my face, my tie― the mark of all hanged men. My remains roll on the ground and the edge of your voice blows my Monday into pieces. I have the hunger of the employee staring with contempt at the image of his face in the glass door. My hunger, a factory of anxieties, its certainties, is convinced that nothing will improve, that this flagship raised during youth will also sink. My last refuge will have to be the skin or the solitary bottle of whisky. Janis, your voice is a knife vibrating in the throat of pain. But now silence. I have come to the place where little masters live and I hurry to annihilate the desire of damning all to hell.

sentry nowhere left to look the rain cleared the way no dream with open doors       the only devotee         confinement outside, night strolls  on its high heels I lie in wait of myself the hours trip  on what I never say

Spring Birth Born in March, I was never baptized, my parents decided I should decide for myself. Grew up in a Wesleyan school. I have recited Our Father Who so many times I'm dumb. I don't miss  the uniform, the ties, or the chemistry teacher. Now I almost never pray. I liked not being popular. But I've had more than five good friends. Raised in an exclusive neighborhood of an inclusive city on rice-beans and pork chops. The first grandchild, nephew, son. I was, as expected,  spoiled. My grandfather was a poet and a journalist. Grandma hid his manuscripts,  but I read his poems in secret. Enjoyed my family,  although I told them little of my life. Collected the songs of Felipe Pirela. Discovered love at twenty, wept for the love  at twenty-six, confused it with lust  and transformed it into  a good many farewells at forty. True, the best shags are not  those one-night stands.

Poem Up at Door is a Jar Magazine

Poem Up at Excavation Lit journal, Toilets, I'm so glad this poem finally got published.

PIN Quarterly Journal just published two of my poems. This is a Nigerian publication, and I love it! The poems are: Bare Embers, a gay erotica poem ( breaking ground, since I hear there is a 14 year prison sentence for being gay in Nigeria) and There Were Windy Street, an anti-Syrian war poem dedicated to the Syrian children.

Canine shadow bleeding gargoyles      canine pluslachrymal amid bastard                contraplayful rubs of my very absent       margins Nymphomaniac hawk             with ululation hounding predream                     hymens. Viable delucid             canine shadow penumbra riddled by interrogating          red harpoon cocks, deep gray ivy              cockeyed weary guest inside the wrong         apartment.

Poem Up at Psaltery & Lyre

Poem Up at YES POETRY

Urban Apparition He emerged from the underground, or was it the sky? Injured by the noise, motionless, silent, badly wounded. Kneeling between the afternoon & the inevitable, veins attached to horror, the asphalt. Holy eyes sagging, completely naked almost blue, that’s how white he was. His bare skin a nectar petal, a bipanel chest of soft full moon, such echo of my echo, fuck beats and tides. Give me your balaa. *balaa - means “calamity/distress/trial/misfortune” in English

Superardent  I'm still alone, following myself & the following, in another self-engrossed empty mud pile on neurdead paths. Opium hours, chase me with so many other beautiful seashells  & erocrazy conchs,  fleeting deaths, absent memories, other greasy oozes, constructs that oppose me while I follow myself & the following, superfollow myself from one end to the other ardently, without being with myself or the other.

Poem Up at PPP Ezine Vol. 1  

Fatigue  Tired? Yes, I'm tired of two lips, twenty fingers, & don't know how many words. Of fragmented grayish memories. Worn-out of this old modest skeleton so chaste that when it undresses I won't know if they're the same bones used while living. Drained of lacking feelers, of not having one eye on each shoulder blade & an authentic cheerful tail. Of this degenerate hypocritical little ass. But above all, weary of being with myself when the dream ends. Me, with the same nose and legs like I don't want to wait for the shoal in my beach complexion, offering the dew two magnolia breasts, caressing earth with my caterpillar belly.

One of my poems Up at " Helen, A Literary Magazine ,"   The House Without Verandas,    and it has a video .

  Opus 69 The beginning  should have been this two bodies devouring each other empty abdomens consumed by fire devoted to the explosion  of love & desire There is a straight inevitable road leading to the hollow of a dark  warm mouth  in which we can disappear  Love is also that  a return to the beginning where we burn with lust  before turning into stardust

Taurus                  after looking at a painting of Remedios Varo What delirious dream drew your yellow figure, winged bull, feminine face, horse legs, sad look and mustache you rise lost in a limbo created by you expelled from your house, the second in the zodiacal path away from your earth element you cross with visible resignation the constellations of the canvas and there is not enough space for you in catalogs and scholarly classifications there are no phrases that translate your drama using other phrases because the astral loneliness that you inhabit is only yours you come to me with an ignited arrow narrowly missing my eyes you come from the pit of the past, a dark bird carrying charcoal wounds in its beak you talk to me about the internal scorch that crying leaves the tedium that engulfs us for several days making it impossible to speak to others the links found between the departure of the man I love...

Then there is you ―contained noise, acrobatic. I fell, you hurt. I oscillated, you healed.

Piece of my Heart  Ms. Joplin, your rips apart  my face,  my tie  ―  the mark  of all hanged men. My remains roll on the ground and the edge of your voice blows my Monday into pieces. I have the hunger of the employee  staring with contempt at the image  of his face in the glass door. My hunger, a factory of anxieties, the certainties, is convinced that nothing will improve, that this flagship raised during youth will also sink. My last refuge  will have to be the skin  or the solitary bottle of whisky. Janis, your voice is a knife vibrating in the throat of pain. But  now silence. I have come to the place where  little masters live and I hurry to annihilate the desire  of damning all to hell.   

You Can’t Trick the Moon You've wanted to enumerate every particle of dust, every layer of sadness, number every blow delivered by frustration, every trick to fool the noon that cut your figure in half in its shadow. But you can't, so you bring your hand to your head, discover that in that survey there's an image of yourself. It surprises you that in its contours & distance ―barely in its shadow― you still recognize yourself. Something stops you now. You said too much & it got you into trouble. The shadow & old pain that kept you awake shelter your feelings of revenge. You can't go forward like you want. The desert you presume  to remember is extensive.

Toilets I’m in love with a homeless man. Listen, we’ve got a lot in common, lawyers            politicians rejection. We have heated discussions about the face fucking activity in D. C. toilets. But when he grabs my dick & licks my nipples it’s just me & him.