Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Fue bolsillo de mesa de ocho negro para todas sus rayas, el único que ella no se molesto en tocar. Ablandó su permanente aparentando ser chico duro de campo que sabia las reglas del billar, periodista inverosímil de bailarinas y gongos, viaje bárbaro de peine fino, no hubo otra consecuencia posible que ser modificador de vida. . © Sergio A. Ortiz, 15 de marzo de 2010

On Family Days You don’t try hard enough, she’d say. All the while, his thoughts grow increasingly grisaille. She can’t smell the fear he inhabits, a macabre work of art from which he comes and goes, the run of wind at a deserted crime scene. She forgets, like he forgets, control will arrive soon enough, and that brachiated spectacle of blame and praise will dissipate like hurricanes weaken after touching land. They’ll both be left wondering about the pieces of debris, the river’s current, and how much to fix of whatever comes undone. ©  Sergio A. Ortiz, Published in Right Hand Pointing Issue # 31, 2010

Dedications To my enemies:   a  face-à-face .   To insomnia:   pears or apples, a carrot.   To landscapes:   a white South African security guard asleep  in a Kimberly diamond mine.   To classrooms:   a clock, the sobriety of water.   To distance:   what I remember about Omar,  the brightness of a sweaty, naked body. a stealthy light deep within my pupils.   To love: a truce, and then another truce. Divination, Photography, Labyrinth    First Movement: The Divination I am / you are / we are: This hemlock teardrop, if it makes  you love me a little longer / this fractured foam /  this island continent of death / this wavering weakness /  this burning carousel /  this casting of lots. Second Movement: The Photography I am / you are / we are: This uncertain space in the still-relief of birds / this song coming off the fused pistil  of a violet tulip / this deep blue shawl  carefully extended over fretful  grey waters / this Styrofoam abstract  on the sidewalk. Third Movement:

Sick in Bed Ogres tiptoe across the red quicksand of my dreams so as not to awaken their own visions. What whims do they pursue? Whose heart will they cut out and roast? Night’s silence is so fragile that any gesture could provoke a serious affliction. Another hour moves away from my restless shadow. The Nobel Humus seeps up my toes, a dark, dreamy exhaustion for which I’ve just won the Nobel in literature: Tales of detritus ideals and passions. Then you said I was your minimal sadness, that you search for an even greater sorrow. I walked away with my prize. © Sergio A. Ortiz:  Published in foam:e, Issue 7, March 14, 2010