Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

To the rock of Sisyphus: North Korea : 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, or canyon far enough to stand guard against their stiff lean assault on peace.

Heart   He used to wake me up at 5 a.m.,   8 every Saturday and Sunday.   I’d stare into the eyes of that skinflint   angel caressing the most dull-witted features   of my morning thoughtlessness.   All sorts of miracles occurred throughout   the day, tricks of the heart. Then   he bought me an alarm. I knew a rook   had made its nest in his trunk. It was   as if he’d moved me back and forth   through dosshouses.  I couldn’t sleep.   My friends said I resembled a comma.   That was, of course, until I met Omar.   He’d call me up at 5 a.m.,   8 every Saturday and Sunday, and grunt   like a grizzly without constraints.   Why, my teeth would actually chatter,   and my skin sounded like the roasting   of a crackling pig.   But my heart never did get over   those everlasting Monday’s when Steve   softly poked whatever cheek he’d choose   to kiss that day and say: honey: wake up !  

On the Sands of the Mojave  Those forbidden twilights, brandished balloons hanging from hands fusing my horizons. Your scheme, Medusa, wrecking the tender years when wonderment still struck my heart’s core, was anchored on those midnight moons that pierced time’s foundation. Twenty years gone astray, yet bees still sizzle and cymbals snap at the thought of desire. Today I sit and twang my concertina in the nude on the sands of the Mojave humming revivalist songs for lack of any hearthstone affection.

The Lottery of Stars   The great payoff   is over. Turn your mirror   to the caterwauls   of Satan’s bride   if superbly round breast   and two weeks’   vacation in the azure   with Circe were your goal.   Death has a first,   second, and third prize   in the lottery of stars:   a rare rump, a magical orb   sweetly rolling around   your arm pits, and clouds   on their way home   along the seashore.   The streets sing as well,   to hydrocephalic   politicians reeking   of a haunt, a way to bring back jobs.

Monologue I tend to overlook the obvious. Nothing wrong with some skin covering the exact dimensions of my desire when you are by my side in a dream. I deposit time in your body, divide myself between you and your eyes. I say: it’s the last time. Listen, and self-destruct. Seagulls and the surf approach and touch me but they are not your hand. I watch you sleep Among the far away oceans, my Ulysses, and understand why mermaids sing to heroes. I approach you with my echo,   but you remain distant, fortified in your alliances.