Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

I dive into those tiny pitfalls that set us up for life, traps as small as the cages to hunt sparrows. Some days, on specific days, Mondays and Fridays, when opening my balcony, I look and see with all my senses, hear with all my senses, smell with all the senses. I am a stubborn fiddle in evidence, a delusional excuse and life flips on me like a card game. It makes me fall in love with new lips, hurries and makes me as essential as driving credentials, a: here is my hand, my millions of hands. My skin quivers with infinite pity. Humankind kills, dies, lies, steals, gives up with its back to Beethoven's Ninth in the voracious desire for permanence. Confuses freedom with movement. Sleeps armed against other men and against the little man inhabiting the clearest corners of my chest despite that music, despite the sun that rises. Despite the fierce, clean, morning Ode to Joy denying the spoils of yesterday's dinner. Life...

On my Way to Disbelief There are times when everyone remembers the living as if they were dead, the way time disappears from noisy places. I want my life to fade from the globe, be inspired by the silent rotation where all things are hushed and not even God survives.

I believe in empty spaces . . . the honey of his skin against my face, the wounds he left in my pith