Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Poem Up @ * Loch Raven Review , Volume 13, No. 2, 2017,  Taurus  take a look!

Tell Me Tell me how your hours go by, your startled hates, your cheerful dynamites and the electric waves that carry you lost in the versatile foam of a surreal whiteness. Tell me how you live. Come to me, face to face; tell me your deceptions (mine are worse), your grudges (I also suffer them), and that stupid pride (I understand). Tell me how you survive death. You have no secrets: the gap of emptiness (or pleasure) is the same, the sudden madness of some living moment, the longing that stubbornly deepens emptiness. Tell me how you die, how you resign -Mr. Wise- how -Mr. Frivolous- you shine like pure fugitive, how you end up as nothing.

Nostalgic Hate My ears listen to you lovingly until the very end of love. At the finish my hatreds harken, my mind figures it's a weapon made of paper and tattoo ink. I'd journey to East Asia and do us love-making in origami. Listen to the paper fold finely. Imagine my ears there, where the only thing that's heard is me disassembling, each time, every time, at the end of tenderness. Where hate is nostalgic finalization of affection.

Nina Simone Explica Delirios al Gobernador de Puerto Rico ¿Qué perspectiva única trae un estudiante minoritario a una clase de física? - Juez de Justicia John Roberts, Tribunal Supremo de los EE. UU., Fisher v. Texas, 9 de diciembre de 2015 Nosotros fuimos inocentes una vez, sin la protección de nuestras mentiras. Sin dragones. Celebramos incrementalmente el no real, el nunca lo fue. Lo que pasó fríamente sobre los mares olvidados y la roca del río— fusionada entre una pradera sin nombre y un delta desconocido— todavía se extiende sin interrupción, sin proclamación. Llamamos al perro muerto porque los niños pequeños no entienden la muerte. Cuando Cortés llegó a la costa de México ordenó que trajeran a un nativo a su barco, ya que él creía que era el perfecto conquistador. Le preguntó a su cautivo. Ma c'uhah que , el hombre respondió, y los españoles oyeron su primer yucateco en el lugar de su descubrimiento, donde Ma c'uhah que...

Comrades of the Dream I recognize you, those with the moon spread on their face, whose faces have no beginning but have a resounding and enveloping end, the ones with smiling sores on their bodies, who sweeten thorns and pin hope to hearts, who have painful tails and tender eyes, and move like a falling leaf or a shooting star. I regret your arrival before or after the pain, always at the wrong time but when needed. Volunteers of laughter, multipliers of atmospheres, inventors of the game who win without winning even when losing. Brothers of the flesh, companions of the fierce tooth that leaves a mark, connoisseurs of navels and buttocks and of their own music, I greet you!

Pablo Moreno de Alborán Ferrándiz [a]  (born 31 May 1989 in  Malaga ) popularly known as  Pablo Alborán , [1] [2]  is a Spanish musician, singer, and songwriter. [3]  In 2011, he was nominated for three  Latin Grammy Awards . [4]  Alborán has released three studio albums, two live albums, and various musical collaborations. His records are distributed by Warner Music which debuted in 2010 with their first official release, " Solamente Tú ", the first single from his debut album  Pablo Alboran (2011), released in February 2011. The album ranked No. 1 in its first week of sales, making Alborán the first solo artist to sign a complete debut album to rank to the top since 1998 in  Spain . [5] A few months after releasing his first album, it was published in acoustic as the first recorded live concert by the singer. Several weeks after it debuted to the top in Spain, it was launched in Portugal, getting to be No. 1 for several weeks. O...

Today at 5:30pm Montreal time Post Review will publish one of my poems . It's the first time I get published in Montreal, Canada.

Poem Up at The Linnet's Wing Come read

Finishing Line Press just accepted my chapbook, "An Animal Resembling Desire," for publication. I will be sending out notices for pre-orders as soon as I know the details. Sergio A. Ortiz

La Memoria en la que M e he Convertido Las frases giran como lo que recordamos desde el momento en que  nacimos la primera vez. He construido estas memorias con palabras, pero  ahora solo son sombras. Sé que todo origen es una Roma que arde, toda belleza nada más que arrepentimiento. Lo que he trabajado corre como agua través de los tubos de drenaje del olvido. Inquieto, como las palabras, desposeído, basado en la repetición cautelosa de tu frágil inmensidad, reconciliado con el silencio brutal que llevo por dentro, una tierna autoridad. Los días no dan respuestas. Pero los días son descuidados en su apariencia. Para prosperar uno debe estar  infundido con supervivencia hasta cuando la duda es anunciada y arreglada impecablemente a medida que las voces desvanecen y el aliento toma el control en tenue progresión.

Your Moaning, my Moaning Our salt-pepper locks gallop translucent at dawn Your lips and my lips saltpeter at daybreak Your eyes and my eyes Your hands and my hands bodies dripping slippery algae Oh desire, my desire our morning seashore

Visibilidad afuera llueve está oscura la tarde pesadas nubes se mueven lentamente giran alrededor de un centro de gravedad que compite con la tierra empujando hacia arriba todo lo que encuentra a su paso canales y tuberías de tormenta no pueden hacerle frente a toda esa agua las luces están apagadas los celulares no tienen señal solo te acompaña el concreto húmedo de la ciudad no puedes esconderte detrás de un teléfono no hay conexión en ausencia de estos monstruos el vacío ó lo que queda de el es lo único que tienes

Consciousness And if I were to expand to the point of bursting into thousands of pieces, if my suffering should reach that level do not sanction my heart do not let it escape into the void like an insignificant hot gas

The Meaning of Nothing There was a certain sadness to it all, grey moss and violence remained --a sorrow music could not disclose where it came from-- it just kept floating by me, aging pure and perfect, the sound pounding its inescapable presence, a vow of eternal ownership. It was a warning, like the kind discovered when sentences start with "it must have been." As with the things that must have been, there is never an offering of a revelation, a meaning.

Mudanzas y  Cambios . . Me he querido mudar lejos del huracán de la incompetencia y los viejos ladrones de Wall Street creciendo a orillas del Atlántico. He querido irme lejos de todo lo que se repite interminablemente en esta isla al descubierto. No sirven los fantasmas de papel que contamina las conciencias con vapores inútiles y truenos que no asustan a nadie. Me he querido ir lejos pero temo no haber vivido el mismo dolor de mi terruño cubierto de tantas mentiras absurdas

Cold Water . . Save me, I'm about to faint. I lift my hand to hold up the sky. Not for the flag. Not because of hunger. It's not the thirst. It's my solitude surrounded by screams. It's knowing  what motivates my desire. It's the fatigue of being a puppet. My strings collapse amid the beauty and laughter of children. I can't save myself. I'm this crumbling, desperate country, this unthinkable winter. Water, who has a bottle  of cold water  for me to bathe in?

Oh, Dios de la Miseria - Oh, God of misery and incompetence chain the winds of destruction to the doors of the Casinos of the orange giant. May he suffer until his reality is no longer a reality and we take turns spitting his face.

A Presidential Mistake  . toilet paper  or disposable towels...  insensitive son  of a bitch--do we really need  to kiss his presidential ass? . can we afford  another five hundred  years of insults, grave diggings, war deaths  and stupidity?

 presidential tanka poem, Somoka :  . toilet paper  or disposable towels...  insensitive son  of a bitch--do we really need  to kiss his presidential ass? . can we afford  another five hundred  years of insults, grave diggings, war deaths  and stupidity?

Hasta El Silencio Se desvistio la noche su cuerpo quedó al descubierto dejo de llorar y llamar al sendero perdido se fue a rescatar lo poco que quedó de su orgullo, los puertos, el espacio aéreo, corazones subyugados, el puño combativo sin saber que el yugo pesado doblegó hasta el silencio