Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Wanting to cry,      almost crying. I bring my youth in my arms, the cloth of my blood on which my heart rests hopeful. Weak, convalescent, strange, deaf to my voice, marked by fright, I arrive to my youth like the leaves the wind spins around trees. I knew very few words to define the strange events of my ravages. Shadow and wound, lust, thirst and tears. I come to my youth and I spill myself on it like angry liquor, the blood of a beautiful horse, water on the thighs of a woman with tight thighs. My youth does not sustain me, I do not know what I'm saying and what I don't speak. I'm in my tenderness like sleep is in eyelids. If I walk, I do so like the blind learning from each step I take. Abandon me here. I'm glad. I expect something. I do not need more than a worthy dream, and incessant failure.

Our Father who Art in Heaven Let's talk about Prince Cancer, Lord of the Lungs, Male of the Prostate, having fun throwing darts to the smooth ovaries, and wilted vaginas, multitudinous Groins My father has the most beautiful cancer ganglion at the root of his neck, under the clavicle, tubercle of the good of God, light bulb of virtuous death. I send all the suns of the world to la chingada. The Lord Cancer, Lord Pendejo, is just an instrument in the dark hands of the sweet VIP's that make up life. In the four drawers of the wooden filing cabinet I keep dear names, clothes of familiar ghosts, words that wander around and my successive skins. I also keep the faces of beloved women, their loved and alone eyes, the chaste kiss of coitus. May good find the shadow of a heavenly tree.

A Hail Mary We buried you yesterday. Yesterday we buried you. We poured land over you yesterday. You were in the ground yesterday. You are surrounded by dirt since yesterday. Above and below and to the sides for your feet and on your head. We put you inside the earth, covered you with dirt yesterday. Yesterday we buried you. Generous Mother of the dead, mother earth, mother vagina of the cold, arms of weather, lap of wind, nest of night, mother of death, pick him up, strip him, take him, save him, finish him. As the children grow up, with all the dead, little by little, you finish. I've been watching you at night above the marble, inside your little house. One day with no eyes, no nose, no ears, another day without a throat, the skin on your forehead cracking, sinking, obscuring the wheat field of your reeds. All of you submerged in moisture and gases, making your waste, (your disorder, your soul) e