Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Hidden Stolen rhododendrons in my hand— the old imperfections of a heart at large. I draw near my rope’s end shrunk to common size, ignored in this tawdry harbor, hidden like a lizard beaten by history’s hazardous lack of action. Unlucky hero born in the province of the stuck record where the most watchful tailors go jobless and scissor cut their own patterns.   Blameless children stand looking at a field of horses, necks bent, tails streaming against the green backdrop of sycamores.

Rough disaffection,  do not look at my skin nor touch my lips.  The exterior that covers my bones in revelation needs to be moisturized with truth.  What are you seeing in my mirror this morning? The ease with which you deal with your pretentions? For I am your brother corrected and already raised. I have known you over and over again as I’ve lived throughout this city.

Reseco Áspero desamor. No mires   mi piel ni toques mis labios.  Estoy reseco sin esperanza de humectar la dermis que me cubre. 

If It Ever Happens that a Candle Goes Out It’s never the same longing that leads me into the dredges at the fishery. It’s always something unclear, muddied by what gathers around my eyes. Something like a cuckoo calls the hours like an old clock, only not the hours that are essential.  I think I see the day tossing back what it is shown.  But you cannot hope backwards or in reverse.  Someone I love has died, I am certain, but I cannot tell who.

Inventory the tyrannical empire of the absurd   the tears waiting at the curve the way you sheltered my heart the silence you dispensed like a wall in the dark lofts of desire the mother that died when you were a child the kiss that rotted on our lips the beach inhabited by worms the bed flying in a void the avalanche of gods and myths everything given and taken the shit we hopelessly dumped on each other the bread we shared the caresses, the weight of our open hands

fifteen and empty fried green tomatoes unable to get past the first two lines broken in combat the last thing I’ll hear is me

Breaching the Discipline of Time Someone once said I wasn’t born for the thick prose of hard labor, insisted I was pure and agile, like the sea breeze, a wave of fragrance in the petal of a rose breaching the discipline of time. Aren't we all?

In the Woods We found each other in the woods. His touch did not alarm me. It provoked a soothing sensation  as if I had been slightly salted. Our cars were still running.  There were cats everywhere, wild cats on the prowl  wanting to mate.  We got out of the cars to talk but soon enough we were touching each other.  The silence was thick. We allowed nature to watch.

Aubade I want us to watch the dawn while our faces turn toward each other and the clothes we wear burn off in the newborn light. You said we should always be brave.  I try to be every morning over my toothbrush and the waning stars. I stare through your eyes, your firm heart beating peaceful rhythms with determination and a brush of bells.