Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Batman I put my hands where my gloves wanted, my face where my mask could reveal itself. My only feat, not to be true, to lie with the awareness that I am not telling the truth. I have used the word love as a scalpel, and then I have seen the greenish scar that remains in the beloved and in the lover, and the scar shines in these words, and in my gaze I stroke the fleshy, thin edges of the scar. Night passed, took my old statues, erased the bubbling silence of conspirators, heroes who lost their heroism at birth. The great veil of the tropic, like a body adrift, falls upon us. Falls with slow waves of insects, and heat is the obscene language that licks the bodies of the living and the dead. From the sea, the last birds return. From what face, could I pull my mask to test the fabric of my life, the great wrapping of what surrounds me? Night sinks into faces, the tropics spread their hot, damp blankets over my heart. A slow b

You happen in time you cross, you leave, you rub the surface of death and distracted continue to where I do not know if you continue. It's you who crosses time as if death were a curtain, the one who uncovers the mirror as if it were a coca cola can. You drink and throw the empty can on the asphalt.

Ulysses Returns I cannot give them anymore of me. In my skeleton, my lunar atrocity, what shines is the scarce             bleeding the remains of my stars. The smallest and weakest point of my sentence is a vague movement             of water after the shipwreck, when everything has disappeared from the surface and the very rhythm of the sea acquires the release of certain absences. This verbal challenge, this uprooting of the soul, this hand to hand melee of night with the legend while darkness takes the form of trees, faces             delivered to the appearance of the kiss, even this time lets us hear the sea, the ancient moaning of the beaches like a humanity tolerated             by the dreams of their gods, the blow of the dagger of its best killers. The wise man distrusts the taste of the jungle of the soul, of the body that bathes in the supplication of its own flesh             foaming grief of a man kneeling before the abst