Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Where will Children Play Their names, carved in the keel of the vessel in which they traveled. Their margins, our boundaries pushed to the side in view of what really matters in our fallible, sensitive lives, seek a response from the unknown.  Position yourselves next to the mystery of their music. Is child play the glimmer that does not bond to anything, a mirror of water, the closed curtain in the school of human affections? Gunshot signals the rescue, yet you deny them entry. A growing weakness reminds me that there is no beginning or end in the life of your phosphoric limbo, Mr. President.

Nobility of Blood Dear Lord, this congressional recess the President's Cabinet promises to thank you for AIDS, though it has not made them transcend into the 21st century. They are still caught up in superficial things like fake news, taxes, bans, the wall. We thank you for these tent evangelists, brothers and sisters alike, breeders of hate crimes, that reject the perfect beauty of homemade remedies and blood transfusions. Lord, forgive their arrogance toward the medical community and appoint faith healers to Obama Care, or whatever Mr. Trump decides to call it. Thank you for allowing me to live on the periphery of society, where nobody asks yet everybody tells.  Thank you for the innocent illusion of my open exhibitions of affection toward Omar. Thank you for not letting in immigrants from Muslim Africa, where water, food, and medical supplies have always been scarce and costly, where rape and viole

Our Wealth Is it now illegal to be gay in the USA?   Will we need to join underground to escape the fog of an orange tyrant?  Take off your shirt, tattoo a machine gun and a dove dripping blood from its heart. Join the Resistance. Become a poet. Be a rainbow in the gale of life free of heavily-lidded eyes on the battlefield “Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.*” Do not answer the middle-of-the-night-knocking at your door without resistance.  We are no longer children of the half-light. Artless fog man-on-man smithereens in a moment orange-on-orange blemish without a purpose *John F. Kennedy