Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

This is Where the Poem Ends Today I’ve chosen to humidify   my homage with stale dust. The results of my death are not in,   yet I shall wait for that coffin   in silence. I still have half an empty   bottle of Nitrostat. Julia, my twin sister, writers die the same in an Earthenware   bottle on a city street, or a Newport   smoke museum inhabited by paper   unicorns with gigolo faces.   This is where this poem ends, but no! It’s like being on a pulpit   spitting out some moral answer. Not every frog looks the same, although they are all called frog. The most incredible thing about death is that disappearing act and total silence,   except in the case of poets.

Postcard to Michael Ondaatje - 1 Dear Michael, The secret love only you and I know about worries me.  It cruises through the Amsterdam canals lost; it’s in the slow demolition of the ceiling; the naked children shaking from the morning dew; whales coming to die in New York City.   The hunter’s arrow pierces my most silent sensibility.  My inconclusive poems are dying of neglect; I have a throbbing head-ache.  Please, come back home as soon as possible.