| Radames Ortiz Alleys |
Other Poems by Radames Ortiz
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| In summer afternoons Russell and I stalk Neighborhood alleys Two boys with spiked Hair and broken-down fence Teeth search through weeds For lost treasure. Once We found a mud covered Penthouse, pages crisp Like old newspaper. We Wrestle one another Until falling, our backs against A wooden fence. We glimpse At breasts as big as melons At pussies wrinkled like Wet toilet paper. We laugh And say things like "I'd fuck Her", "Yeah, she wants it" And "Damn, that's sick" Russell sits close, breathing Down my neck and tells Me he's never done it. I look up and see his hand In his pocket, moving like a Slug on damp grass. "Chale", I say Throwing the magazine in his Lap. The next day, in the alleys Among old tires and broken radiators We find silence in empty Pepsi bottles |
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| Radames Ortiz is the author of a chapbook of poems, Below the Surface, which was illustrated by artist Tiziano D. Hernandez. His poems have appeared in Exquisite Corpse, Azimuth, Barriolife.com, Fusion Ink, 2 River View, Adirondack Review, The Mesquite Review, among other journals. His awards include the Fabian Worsham Award for Poetry and the Megaera Award for Poetry.
He is the editor of both The Bayou Review, the literary journal for the University of Houston-Downtown and the online journal Coyote Magazine: Bringing Literature and Art Across Borders. |
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Alleys
In summer afternoons
Russell and I stalk
Neighborhood alleys
Two boys with spiked
Hair and broken-down fence
Teeth search through weeds
For lost treasure. Once
We found a mud covered
Penthouse, pages crisp
Like old newspaper. We
Wrestle one another
Until falling, our backs against
A wooden fence. We glimpse
At breasts as big as melons
At pussies wrinkled like
Wet toilet paper. We laugh
And say things like "I'd fuck
Her", "Yeah, she wants it"
And "Damn, that's sick"
Russell sits close, breathing
Down my neck and tells
Me he's never done it.
I look up and see his hand
In his pocket, moving like a
Slug on damp grass. "Chale", I say
Throwing the magazine in his
Lap. The next day, in the alleys
Among old tires and broken radiators
We find silence in empty Pepsi bottles
Radames Ortiz