Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Treat us  to your nightmares, become our guru.

The key you have not lost is there between those spaces, not by or in, but flanked between here and there, living like a fugitive on your skin. It is a prelude to our memoirs, the text of a poem fused with nectarines, an exploration through Copper Canyon, visions of Haiti’s angels licking my ears, a hypnotic dance on sands matching the colors that mesh upon your hips, an experiment we refuse to put down, an invitation to cross the doorway of the home I no longer occupy. The key you have not lost is not the manual for a digital camera, or calendar entries for next month’s readings. It is not the Popular Mechanics article you wrote to put food on our table, or a classified add on craigslist. It wants to be the bungee jump into the pangs of a deer in heat, the obituary of bolted doorknobs, or a listing for all the vacant walls on which we'll scribble our love graffiti.

Gypsy Night, the beginning of day, life parting on vagabond raindrops and rented sound effects. Gratitude was once a cherry blossom gypsy robbed of her effervescence, lighter than roaming planets with her moon weeping, rumbling on happier shores.

The Alembic Soft hair and humidity trickled from his torso to his belly button as I moistened my lips. When the fruit ripened, he placed it in containers planked with scented Spanish Oak and covered with moss; export that would later be distilled. But to me Jerez was not what gave him the fragrance of Montilla, it only forced me to savor the memory of his abdomen.

Shattered  Long were the days of sorrow  when maps were studied and places chosen, gifts bought: Tin soldiers and Rajasthani puppets.  Gone  are the days When I believed in blood.

Monólogo Tu piel cubre las dimensiones exactas de mi deseo. Deposito el tiempo en tu cuerpo y me divido entre tu piel y tus ojos. Digo:  será  la última vez. Las gaviotas y el oleaje se acercan y me tocan Pero ellos no son tus manos .