Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

In the window Naked as the sun skull, I blow murmurs to the clouds, impregnate the pale neck of light with my groping hands, and swallow the agony of the tired images  in the puddles. The rain stops. Immersed in the howl and the gratitude of eyes I discover my Aunt's favorite collection of poems. A cigarette walks across  the moon's dark ear.  An Old-World sparrow pecks  a hole in the metaphors  while I write for the afternoon  make-believe wages.

I am a Bird When the sun starts to hide when it sinks parsimoniously like a burned-out fire at the bottom of the immense chalice of sleeping water I start singing and become a black-whiskered vireo on the trembling branch of a mangrove moved by the breeze shaking bathed leaves by the last glimmer of twilight water I sing to the jumping fish They rise to the surface sweetened by my trills of slow sunsets hidden in the thicket of the agonizing horizon

Preterits of Another Light These are the signs of the old flags pierced by the gales of discord The wide-eyed stares of the hordes passed through here Deranged, thirsty for relentless revenge In these dilated savannahs impaled those who dared defy the secular domains of dogma On the margins of these confines waved Presidential flags and the strangled voices of his ragged constituents remain screaming in agony while day comes to light They remain the postponed promises of legions of preterits mocked and reviled We are the heirs of the sad vilification of cloistered convents, peaceful tombs and withered gardens This earth has dried and from its bowels sprout thorns in whose bosom bud the horizontally crucified rising to the edges of the world

My soaring boy who levitates on December afternoons: I take care of you, cover your light slumber  on cold early mornings A faint twilight thread draws your river god  body paddling over my calm waters  on weightless Mondays I celebrate your untamed, unheeded,  festive beauty while you row back  and forth from my stubborn warnings to your delightful torso which you attempt to keep secret  during evening escapades on my waters

Three Poems Up at Rat's Ass Review

all those voices lurking in the urns of my death— my shortcomings break your window shutters

Poem Up at Califragile , "Two Months After Maria."

On Warm Afternoons Your whispers call me, write the prophecies that die on my skin. I overflow in concave, flexible moments where everything I have invented about you fits. I never find the tender caravan of fans with which you cover your body, or the mutual days of ecstasies in the spaces of time. The reason hides in the shape of a bronze stone man. My imagination peeks to protect and avoid melting at inopportune moments of love. This is how blood travels  to the farthest corners of my tested sweetness, inhabiting the limits of your lusts full of mysteries. I escape your burning witchcraft with hands ready to rescue old tenderness. The swift banks of my memory suppress drunken details. I hear a dissertation embedded in the vases of death, the abys that rubs my shortcomings on your chest curls up, breaks the windows of your beach. Draws snakes with fangs that steal my hours of rest then stretches out on your seas...

Approaching Infinity I am not the fragile child who thought nothingness would one morning appear to become nothingness. I am not that baby boy in whose arms reigned motionless, lonely, silent arms. Flight is all my soul needs to feel your sorrow.

The Waves The body is wakeful space in translation, inexhaustible tension between outside and inside. There are no shores to contain the storms and inward darkness of its sweeping winds. The body does not know the extent of its inner anger. The waves expel and everything is erased. I refuse to see the empty corners of my frame. In its translations I'm still a child.

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