Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

To the rock of Sisyphus a tide, yes a tide of blood. We say so weedy a race only happens in mythology.  There the famished plump the bellies of their camels in wars empty of complaints. Unicorns thin out in paper jungles to survive the vinegar of our contracted livers. Uta’s stare, and the absolute silence of slender bony people wearing black cornflowers, and purple cabbage-roses on their surgically-enhanced-lipped smiles at funerals revive our fears.  There is no Shangri-La, no forest, canyon, or wilderness far enough to stand and guard against their stiff and lean assault on peace. ©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 17, 2010