My piece “Sycophant” up at Free Verse Revolution #short prose #poetry #free verse

Dear Readers,

My piece “Sycophant” is now up at Free Verse Revolution.

It rains letters of your name. The name of a sycophant.
Poisoned waters gave birth to a worm. What? Are you …

Continue reading here.

My apologies for not reading your blogs. I am currently dealing with a death in family. If you wish to comment, please do so on the Free Verse Revolution site.

Thank you.


Image: Jiri Hlousek; Shutterstock; [link]


Tombs #short prose #poetry

The significance of that which is locked in tombs: bones, skin, my father’s wedding band, jewelries, artifacts.
One hundred years from now – desecrating tombs – thieves will thrive on each piece of glitter they can find.
Yet the sole significance of a tomb is the love we bury inside it.
A tomb is a depository of physical treasures only for the blind.

Papá, I will always love you. 

@short-prose-fiction. all rights reserved.

image: Yan luca; Shutterstock; [link]


Adam’s sin #poem #poetry #published

a canary sings
nuptial interludes
your flesh pays its tribute to some other lovers
transitory birds
come and go like seasons
noisy V-shaped flocks
i sigh
then i listen to a monk who reads
from a book of psalms
rings sleep on my fingers
arabesque designs shiver on my skin
pastel sunsets whisper in the winter’s sheen

i walk through your dreams
soaked in poetry, baptized by your verses
your heart adorns my chest
(work of ancient minters)
your lips burn my rings, and with them my fingers
agonizing wings toll bells in the air
i go for your veins, my hands rip your shirt
everything’s a dream
at the edge of silence
mirrors sleep and grin

you’re forever mine!
do you think i joke?
here’s the silver coin which can get you off

that’s what i thought
you would never take it
in the lovers’ bed monasticism’s asleep
a cat purrs on my thigh
your eyes become my eyes
my skin tastes like sweet pie
see, why Adam was so keen to sin?
for hidden in deep waters
You is always I
even in a dream

Published by Spillwords on January 22, 2019


image: PinkCat/Shutterstock


Who’s the God of an empty box? #short prose #flash fiction #poetry


I hope you do not expect me to greet you.

I do not greet takers and parasites. The sins of takers – who laugh in the faces of those who give – cannot be expiated.

Oh, you pray God! To whose God do you pray?

Who’s the God of an empty box?

Your actions are similar to those of others. Perhaps too similar.

Don’t confuse your emptiness with the majesty of death.

This August is too hot.


@short-prose-fiction. all rights reserved.

image: CARACOLLA; Shutterstock; [link]


Ancestral Night #short prose #poetry

The scales of the clouds gave me their blessings. Therefore, with my bare hands, I built my ship and I launched it into the sky.

Engine pumped by my blood. Sail hoisted by my soul. Deep inside the breath of the first ancestral night my eyes, hour glasses, measuring 30 seconds at the time.

The sky vanished. The axis mundi tilted.

I braved the galactic winds solely to find that thought of yours: your first thought when you set eyes upon me.

Lulled by the sighs of a suicidal piano, the time disappeared in another dimension.

The meaning of all things, never to be found only in one thing, spoke your thought:

“I want that woman to love me.”

Like a somnambule, inverted upon herself, or perhaps like a soldier who forgot the purpose of her battle, I turned my ship around, and I navigated toward you.

The second ancestral night.  

@short-prose-fiction. All rights reserved.

image:  Bruce Rolff; Shutterstock; [link]


my poem “feel me my love” will be published by Z Publishing House into their upcoming anthology #poem #poetry

Dear Readers,

My poem “feel me my love” will be published by Z Publishing House into their 2019 upcoming anthology.

Most editors and publishers contact me via this blog. My most sincere thanks to them and to you for your likes, comments, and views.

Here is a snippet from my poem:

between your spade
and the incandescence of the hurt bull
the blood and sweat of a forgotten afternoon

Hugs to everyone




prayers (intersession, adoration, confession) #poem #poetry

you who know to whisper
(prayers on behalf of others)
songs of love and songs of sorrow
for the sailors from the depths of the tomorrow
sleepy bibles rub their eyes
in the Basilica of San Nicola

you who know to whisper
(homages to blooming flowers)
on Sunday afternoon the air is moist
the tropic breathes mangoes and strawberries
white linen heated bodies covers
symphonies are lusting for their lovers

when you will reach the point of the confession
stop whispering
kneel in front of me
i am your love
your sin, and your redemption
i don’t know past
i don’t know future
i am the last verse of an unknown psalm
and the forever ardor
captured in between your palms

image: Elena Ray/Shutterstock


Love Battles #short prose #flash fiction

Rage darkened Miguel’s green eyes. His blood was boiling. Bible in one hand, sword in the other, breathing heavily, determined not to let his Spanish Armada be sunk the second time.

Ha! And by whom? By a Frenchman?!

Wasn’t Jacques supposed to spend his entire life alluring the other sex?

Oh, how wrong all of us were to judge Jacques like that!

And how dearly we were to pay for that juvenile judgement of ours.

Steely blue eyes, coat of arms engraved on his shield, Jacques was fighting to conquer only one heart: the heart of the woman who Miguel loved.
Both of them reduced me to a war trophy.

In the old, beautifully tiled hacienda, darkness broke loose.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers


image:  ELORDUY; Shuttershock; [link]


Thoughts [2] #short prose #flash fiction

I would rather worship the silence of empty walls than your barren heart that you hold so dear; that heart that has never learned how to give.

You thrived in mud like a spring flower, yet by dawn you did not bloom. An infernal amalgam of erudition and sexuality eats your soul like worms eat dead plants. You became one of them: a decomposer par excellence.

I seek purification.

Therefore, forever forgotten – I hope – I return and kneel inside “The Wisdom of the Sands.”*

In the distance patheticism licks your self-inflicted wounds.

*reference to Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s  The Wisdom of the Sands