Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

She came out of church dressed   like her other life, purple, ready   for the parties and   las palizas ,   carrying the eighty extra pounds   of luggage she pawned the day before.   "Funny how a lonely day   can make a person say,   what good is my life…" The first time I felt   mutual kisses, whispers   nibbling on my ears,   under the cover  invitations penetrating, taking flight,   I went along with the salutation.   "Funny how I often seem   to pick and find another dream…"   The boxer, the man I bumped   into on the corner,   Sylvia Rexach and her guitar   taking my imagination into humidity.   W e were one   "This is me, this is me…"   His hand on my back   crossing me to the other side   of the street, taking me   to the movies, giving me his lucky charm .  "This is my life   and I don't give a damn   for lost emotion… ."   The day the Jewish boy picked   me up from a gutter, sat me   on his bike,

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Gloria a esas manos negras porque trabajaban. Gloria a esas manos blancas porque trabajaban.” Juan Antonio Corretjer there among the moon and sun Iguanaboina signaled my arrival i had found the cave the serpent and a stone from which Atabey drilled and looked through the hole Inriri carved my future existence in the clouds there were dreams and in the bite of the reptile-cobra those dreams became a sounding conch the owls regained their razor-slit eyes and my life was set free free to worship flamboyant trees and dualities © Sergio A. Ortiz Feb, 2010