Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

The Heart does not Wither but it Tires We are the hand raised against our time. The wrath dreaming it could save mankind. One boiling night. The actual meaning of death. Ripped off arms never hug. Shattered legs cannot run. Inattentive mouths do not smile. We wanted to be more than just an epoch of bones, more than a sunset of displaced shadows from their bodies. Wanted to be useful, say what's right, constantly look at beautiful. But not even the seed of serenity reached its best shot. Our desires became the songs of flies feeding on dead arms. This day, a hollow bottle. Life, a table full of empty days, defeated, observed from distance by animals drunk on destiny. The world, a tavern that does not open on Sundays.

Poem Up at: Algebra of Owls , "On the Day of the Dead"

Bloodink The thing to do   when naught is left― hold on to dreams,  and after dreams         to nothing. Are you afraid of the wolf who inhabited your nightmares? Look at your teeth, they're ready to devour him. My friend discovers an invitation to mystery where I see nothing but empty space. When he sings, I ask him to be silent. When he runs, I demand that he not move. My friend always in the middle of life while I’m barely more than a blind eye looking at him without understanding. Watch him run knowing I cannot reach him, listen to him sing without grasping a word. He with his rhythm in the middle of life. I, saving the fall, hooked to his gaze. To become a wrinkle  is the condemnation of my friend. For him, the beam of my heart, good morning is a human right.

My poems: accepted by Red Fez, PoetryCircle, Eunoia Review, Former People Journal, Futures Trading Lit. Some of them will be audios of me reading my poems.

when naught is left the thing to do is hold on to dreams after dreams nothing