Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Bubba I am going to have a conversation with la Edith Piaf; I am tired of living out of neatly packed suitcases, too many years looking over my shoulders while I vanish into the space between a couple of fig trees. Once, comfort came walking in like a careless lover.  He decorated my drink with one of those a little umbrellas manufactured in Thailand, shipped in giant crates from India, and distributed to Mexico.  It’s not right to die on the heat of a cowboy’s saddle. When he left the family picture on the grand piano dislocated.  There was so much blood between us, our lips were colored by sweat and optical illusions on the bed.   I miss  that fucking bed.

Stallion I touch your flesh, your dilated nose and rub my temples against your lower lip.  You set me down and lick my ankles.  Your smile helps me walk through this tousled wilderness and kiss the hamlet rose in bloom. Bleed on me, bleed on me, bleed on me. Let me stroke my scrotum on your crest, Feel the fervor of your muscles grow.

Fragmented Cloud on a Sunday Morning Flight In the middle of blue skies I see a cloud so old  it wants to sail to Timbuktu , Timbuktu and rain. Emily keeps calling the bees. She wants to blame them for not hiding the joy of their last flight. No happiness is greater than the flight taken to the glitter of your own flower. Where is Eden ? Is there a hammock there? Can we sing and never cut down trees? Eden from the clouds looks like fancy food, food rushing through river of dreams while the dead back-crawl to the table where men sit and forcibly bend to eat.