Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

our Sunday feast at the water’s edge autumn evening

Dead Willow [ There is a straw mattress full of bedbugs under the dead willow, where the tears of every whore in town are as open as red hibiscus. It is the only place left to wait. ] We went our separate ways, but when I reached the train tracks I picked up a few rocks to throw at the racemes of trouble hanging in the meadow orchard ahead. My feet, undefined wanderings of a bite, were in pain as I suspect they will continue to be until my time spills over. I knew there was a mystic in the ordinary—(à la Rilke) that would carry me (Oh Orpheus sings!   Oh tall tree in the ear!) through the rest of the day, like that first cup of coffee, or a prayer said in the distant past.

he listen’s to bamboo creaking overhead harvest moon

Snorting Through His Ass He is a medical student on his way to Spain with his intestines full of plastic bags containing cocaine.  He is so good-looking, un sol that thought about little else except his cut.  School became unimportant, la familia didn’t matter. There was nothing he could foresee, not even the possible prison term in a Spanish jail: that is not going to happen.  There will not be any consequences if I keep calm, cool, and collected.    But things don’t always work-out as planned and the beads of sweat are a dead giveaway after a six hour plane ride with your ass stuffed.  Then the “what if” one of those bags ruptures before you pass Customs and you start feeling cold.  Your heart begins to race, suddenly you’re sweating profusely and everything is turning around at 60 miles an hour. You know you’re going to need a hospital, but mother doesn’t know where you are and you’ve arrived with a quarter of a kilo getting sucked by yo