Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Then there is you ―contained noise, acrobatic. I fell, you hurt. I oscillated, you healed.

Piece of my Heart  Ms. Joplin, your rips apart  my face,  my tie  ―  the mark  of all hanged men. My remains roll on the ground and the edge of your voice blows my Monday into pieces. I have the hunger of the employee  staring with contempt at the image  of his face in the glass door. My hunger, a factory of anxieties, the certainties, is convinced that nothing will improve, that this flagship raised during youth will also sink. My last refuge  will have to be the skin  or the solitary bottle of whisky. Janis, your voice is a knife vibrating in the throat of pain. But  now silence. I have come to the place where  little masters live and I hurry to annihilate the desire  of damning all to hell.   

You Can’t Trick the Moon You've wanted to enumerate every particle of dust, every layer of sadness, number every blow delivered by frustration, every trick to fool the noon that cut your figure in half in its shadow. But you can't, so you bring your hand to your head, discover that in that survey there's an image of yourself. It surprises you that in its contours & distance ―barely in its shadow― you still recognize yourself. Something stops you now. You said too much & it got you into trouble. The shadow & old pain that kept you awake shelter your feelings of revenge. You can't go forward like you want. The desert you presume  to remember is extensive.