Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

the past  had its magic . . . its silent,  yet crowded, shore of ships  whose freight was everything

he reeks of the grave— a terror more barbarous than the hiccups of a dying dog

Caminé para Abniel Marat Quiero corroer los busques que desataron la lluvia con vientos mutilados para bañarme de sal, porque soy faro de lo indefinido y traficó voces de ausencias, murallas de esqueletos que contrabandean libertad. Mi tierra es un poema que da sombra a los ilegales pensamientos de una noche perdida entre tu tiempo antillano, y el sol lleno de cámaras transita sobre mi piel como un fantasma que reclama lo suyo con evidencia. Caminé al frente de los ecos de mi huida hacia un corazón disfrazado de delirios teatrales con mi historia arrugada y mi amor negro bailando la intensidad del jazz.  Recorrí tu cuerpo con mi sangre revolucionaria dejando huellas profundas sobre tus ojos color canela.

desire falls  across my body  like cherry blossoms . . .  never allowing the traffic  to smother it with noise

how imprecise  the smell of desire . . . my solitude  is the guise of unending  repetition of a hanging 

thirteen ways of looking at a skylark . . . after death the poor have a better view, as the dead cross over into song

now and then a smell of grass displaced by fear—no sight, no sound, no touch, or taste

burning alive with mad  devotion— is it better  to anticipate love  or to age alone

Nobility of Blood Dear Lord, this Thanksgiving all the drug-lords promise to thank you for AIDS, although it has not made them transcend into the 21st century. They are still caught up in superficial things like money, BMWs, and killing. We thank you for tent evangelists, brothers and sisters alike, breeders of hate crimes, that reject the perfect beauty of homemade remedies and blood transfusions. Lord, forgive my arrogance toward the medical community and appoint faith healers to pharmaceuticals. Dear God, 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 the rapid spread of HIV  in Africa, where water, food, and medical supplies have always been scarce or costly, where rape and violence towards women is beyond control, where children have no choice but to fight...

Me dejó atrás— Fue la distancia de tu cadáver que perforó un agujero dónde estabas tú. Fue el imaginarse esa inimaginable travesía . . . Mi Ulises sin cuerpo sin Ítaca. Fue ese tácito clima al que nos referimos cuando no hay más voz ni consuelo en nuestra morada. Fui yo al no saber cuál cuerpo tu tomaste en mis sueños— yo, deseando más que una visión. Fue el no querer clausura, una memoria sencilla, el desvanecerse de tu voz, tus ojos, la calidez de tus brazos.

in the hallway of life you were a bougainvillea with no thorns . . . I, the caretaker sweeping away the fallen petals

su mantilla es encaje de roble negro, siempre hay alguien llorando- mi desnudo yo inflexible

the best part of me  was always him . . .  he's moved on  yet I can't erase  his face from the starlight 

in his eyes  I found the best part of me...  though he's gone  I still see his gaze  in the starlight

susurrando mentiras a los muertos— un jacinto en la luz otoñal de la luna ondea mi calma

so many ways  to avoid seeing how  others suffer  such wounded flesh...  a bad moon on the rise

The Birthday Party Gambia. Alhaji, twenty-one and gay, had been planning his birthday for months. The guest list carefully locked away; there was that real threat of decapitation to consider. However, he could no longer find peace by avoiding life. how old is need, how knotted are the corridors of loneliness? Imam , there is no angel with an orange by my bed His friends gathered by the poolside, each with his past shut in him like the leaves of a book, eyeing the uninvited guest snapping photographs.  freedom is a fire that runs like a staircase up then down— my lover's lips the color of soft-skin mangoes

for Alhaji, a 21-year-old gay man from Gambia freedom is a fire  that runs like a staircase  up then down— my lover's lips the color  of soft-skin mangoes

¿Cuán vieja es la penuria, cuán anudado está el pasillo de la soledad? Monseñor , no hay un ángel con una naranja en mi cama

coiled  in each other's blood they drive  BMWs & sleek black  luxury Audis...Caribbean slaves