Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

With You Because the soul does not live in things but in the bold action of deciphering them, I love the light that encourages my senses. A thousand times I've wanted to find out  who I am. After so many names, so much crossing of my own compass, I could hug sand for several centuries. Watch silence pass and embrace it as well. The truth is not in me every second. It is a fleeting attempt to catch the ungraspable. Truth is not in anyone, it's further from a king than from beggar. If someone thinks about pursuing it, do not forget this: fire has always  been a harbinger of decline, the precursor intensity of oblivion. When my eyes return to my origin, I ask for one last gift.   Nothing else. Write all my words in my grave, what I said a thousand times and what I would have liked  to have said at least once. Keep my words nearby, the ones that I used to love, the ones that I learned along the way. Include me

Sergio Ortiz ACENTOS REVIEW  2009   The Shop This afternoon it will rain. I will wrap my fingers around your neck and submerge you in water. You will kick and wiggle out of desperation, you won't let go of life voluntarily. You're driven to wake-up and turn-on the coffee percolator in your remodeled kitchen. Driven to fill the pantry and read the New York Times. You must find out if Justice Sotomayor was confirmed, if swine flu mutated in North Korea. Driven to give your wife multiple orgasms, you’re afraid she'll copulate with another man, a neighbor, maybe the woman she talks to about how little you please her. I will tighten my fingers around your neck and cut off the air. Your eyes will bulge, handcuffs will tear the flesh around your wrists. You'll be seconds from pissing in your pants. This afternoon you'll give in to me for as long as I want, wherever I want, here, in the Calvin Klein mannequin display.         Lost There is no simple, muddled way of getting

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Another Birthday Approaching   There were so many unresolved  hurtful words said in haste  on your way out, mother. Pain that never thawed,  unsympathetic eyes  with blinkers and no  apparent regret.  I could say I forgave  but the blood  on my living room floor  could call me hypocrite  and liar, a blood version  of Dali's, The Face Of War.

  Eighteen and Nowhere to Go but the Noose You raped me         Two months later  you raped me again                      You forced me  to give-it-up for a grade          in college                     another    violation Your doctors ravished          my kindness and ate it         so did  your lawyers                and Housing      Assaulted  I walk aimless            through hellfire