Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

The Museum of Disappointment “Shut the door. Give me the bat if you can’t do it yourself.” “Guadalupe, he’s only six years old.” She takes a hit at his head, then his ribs, arms, legs. "My God, Guadalupe, what have you done?" “Just get him out of here—there's a dumpster on the corner." mother, someone follows you into the long rain— perhaps the child you bore from that callous womb

Insomnia –tanka sequence can I fix my eyes on the flight of birds for answers, or draw closer by melting with languor are my walls under siege from smaller men who call themselves heroes insomnia— in the throes of a nervous breakdown, the stirrings of a bird trapped indoors then I found Omar, king of all comforts— for eight years together we rambled where larks sang

A Happening by the Ocean who can blame us, we are attuned to shadows that strafe the shore — an osprey spins above the trees we guide our flock towards the next field with care: the sound of a herd moving along the basin the leaves shift and we fade into a pattern of grass and shadows, return happy and haunted to a dark sunrise by the ocean

Egypt, a new stele with hundreds  of names . . .  even death will not ease the lot of the people

a sigh coming from deep within . . . the hum in my left ear

soy el árbol que tiembla al disiparse  la niebla . . . trabajando el lenguaje de mi silencio

a tree  trembles  after the mist has  lifted . . . I work on  the language of my irate silence who will speak these days, if not I, who will be the throat of these hours       there’s a triangular rainbow stuck to my tongue and it wants to lick your genitals 

an hour's length  in our noisy city  starts with sadness  leaves me starring  at this empty page

Poema # 3 No todos los silencios son iguales, no hay poemas perfectos como la sombra . . . En ese lago de cerrada indiferencia donde cruje la cama como una bolsa cargada de lluvia todo fuimos talla 30.

I can wait longer than sadness . . . standing for hours among the sweet narcissus in my garden

I manage terror by examining how things work, count my sins and grip your rhythm to my body in the perfect form of stillness

let us live  near each other's skin. . .  secretly between the shadows  and the soul Published as TankaArt in the Summer Issue of Kernelsonline.com 2013

I burn  in the dark fire of ambivalence . . . suffering  is one very long moment