Grand Theft Auto Monstrosity Glassed over, unblinking to the furious light. The rainbow blood flashing across the television screens of his eyes. This nine year old, fingers cramped into a constellation. Grappling a controller against his undeveloped chest. Eyes opened wide, each finger in contact with what is torn: dodging bullets in the pixilated air of a 27” screen. The length of a health bar becomes his ultimate tragedy. He virtually smashes mailboxes, grabs prostitutes, puts them in trunks of cars. Slashes torsos with bullets from 9mm glocks; everyone writhing. All pixels wound continually in the pupils of his eyes, like azalea blossoms stirring. Waiting Rooms They talk of days after the war of the days before Those disembodied days that once danced in the sun Others talk of sisters in Virginia trading recipes of delicious cakes Solitary baking at dawn till gathering birds fly off in a swarm swoop Still others talk of grandchildren Of their faces chubby and rosy, faces like cherubs Their eyes are nebulae, a rebirthing of themselves And I sit among the blinded, the youngest of them all No walking cane or skin grappling with gravity In my late twenties, my eyes are wild with ash One with shrieks inside it, the other smothered in soot I wish I were in another place Where raging sunlight is graceful The words of books, glimmering in just the right angle Instead madly I wait, in the scented dark of waiting rooms Hoping one day the music of my eyes bloom An Alcoholic’s Villanelle My liver twisted into disaster The hours drunkenly spent Shadows, time lost in a flutter of chaotic shaking. Accept the fluster, the poisonous blood stream intent to twist my kidneys into disaster I should know better Shot glasses on counters and empty cabinets Shadows, time rage in a flutter The piercing light. The heart beating faster. Curse this weakness that is evident The liver twisted like disaster Morning now, roaches scatter away from light. Their grievous commitment to shadows raging in a flutter On the table a bottle sits like danger Wounded, writhing, spent This spine twisted into disaster Time drifting. Lost in a flutter. Sunday in October Among a cricket cacophony, she strides along brick wals A rosary captive in the palm of her hand. The harsh moonlight and the spattered wind. Her feet—a marching confession. Satellite dishes are crucifixes in the monochrome night. Over her head the tired screams of clouds. Pigeon shit on sidewalks. An airplane nosing its way to a paradisal island. The clunkish rattling of clothes dryers. A vigilance against the sweaty hours. Yet, she sings, Christo no esta muerto My skin fails to scatter. Christo esta vivo A lullaby that triggers my spine. Not into glory but into the rancid dust of faith. The Flamenco Dancer Hearing the flamenco dancer’s feet pummel the wooden planks of a stage And a guitarist’s furious strumming echoes through the great hall of a strange church The sound roars through our bodies and fills the air with seductive melody Outstretched—her arms blur into melody Beyond the pews, the sorcery of her feet enchants us all, brings weakness to our bodies She stomps and twirls like fire swept across the stage Forever lost. Lost in a small church. Her dress blooms open. Spain’s passion echoes. Walls tremble and sensuous vibrations echo in the tunnel of our ears. A symphonic melody holds us captive, prisoners of a low-lit church We journey with her, though, never rising on our feet Everything fades away except her gracefulness on stage What matters most is the flame in my body And I love to see her hair wrap around her body And the snapping of her fingers becomes a roaring echo And it fills my heart to watch her burn up the stage And she pries wide my eyes with thrilling melody Her arms defy peace in a church She opposes darkness with fiery feet The guitarist’s strumming guides her feet Against the air, she battles with her body She rains vengeance inside a glowing church Sounds of battle, clashes of echoes And the night turns crimson with melody Beneath autumn clouds, I witness conquest of sages The thought of spirits blessing the stage The devotion of limbs, hands, hungry feet cry out their bleak and night-long melodies She sings, “Fall belongs to your bodies. Everyone embrace my echoes within this restless church!” We become alive within our broken bodies Become marvelous through her booming echoes inside the sprouting garden of a church Old Birthday Card Triptych I. In late autumn night old birthday cards scatter around me Descending like leaves from a shedding oak A reminder that someone loves me Not this shallow rusted casing Not this trembling coward more afraid of the emerald light But the gilded heart, they know I swallowed When you look into the mirror I study the glittered page I want you to see eyes that sparkle Trees begin to shake in earnest and maybe a few mischievous thoughts I try not to think about my heart ready to stop, nostalgic like a decade The killing years, I thought would be enough to rediscover the mystery of cheating time II. Of all the daddies In all the lands That there could ever be Slowly reading, his eyes downcast A father gripping his heart The incurable follow alongside of him And yet no one to recognize It is a good thing to be outside again Among the bleak buildings and trees Carrying an old birthday card, he looks like a suicide “It’s been three years,” he mutters beneath the amethyst glow of light No more contiguous giggles No more struggling absurdities a daughter brings For once in his life, he dreams being in a church ignoring a preacher’s ornate sermon Instead he reads the scribbling of a seven year old Even though you think you’re sick. Always, I’ll be around. III. The room seems hazy, too clean for its own good she sits upright on a bed Cancer blossoming in her lungs, Arthritis crippling her fingers, but, with a drip of morphine, she is able to read this old birthday card There will never be enough time The words bleed into her wrists, To tell you how much I’ll miss you She thinks of Radames, her husband, battling the war of his body too So, she sticks close to these words, that border on bipolarity, the ups and downs of his spirit to battle what she fights inside *** Return to Current Issue Current%20Issue.htmlshapeimage_1_link_0
Radames Ortiz