Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Joshua Villena Portrait at Sixteen Beardless, skinny, long-haired, he makes love to everything: the lark, the oak, the butterfly, the distance. Days have no name or date, they ignore the cage of hours, they are the same as a desire, can belong to yesterday or tomorrow. The streets down there are an open hand, between whose fingers the sun plays to nail its fangs. The deer bellows on the hill, the yelp of the fox is heard— their eyes go into the undergrowth drunk with rain. The sun yellows his face, paints his hands westerly, he leaves his shadow among the pines, squashes the tiger on the floor.

De-Creation Once the world was made            man arrived with an ax a bow a rifle a harpoon a bomb and armed from head to toe with bad intentions he killed rabbits eagles tigers whales and men

Colli Albani This is where light fell. Where oblivion became stone ash and mud skull and bone. Air became a bird, tree became flight, man                hunger, valley             escape, and mountain green rain. This is where man turned into clay, returned to silence, meddling in the night.

I spent all of yesterday morning in the Emergency Room with asma.  I didn't feel better until today at 2am.  This is what I wrote today: Before the Kingdom Comes I must pursue your body as far as two bodies fight over your dark alley and dangerously day has contact with light that does not belong to it —belonging to itself— possessed to the degree that the demolition of spells does not forgive the sound of words I must pursue your body as far as the end of its streets where greetings create corners with the wind and the impossible security of known hands gives life to wishes—constellations in the single balance of the shadow