Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

he soiled his bushy muse with sequins— he ordered in a trick and called it dial-a-dick

we empty the dark in the dark . . . somehow someone finds by mistake a need fulfilled

he knew how to touch fire and leave unharmed . . . I knew how to open every door

we have rituals of regret, boys sent back home in body bags . . . we lie down in meadows and leave behind their corpses

wordless   as the flight of birds endless streams and mountains— Mandela

a quiet exit free  Nelson Mandela— from a prison rock quarry to the presidential suite 

Sergio Ortiz

Me publicaron unas poesías en una revista literaria Mexicana;  CUADRIVIO http://cuadrivio.net/2013/08/naufrago-de-sombras/ Tu sexo Extraño tu sexo ciñéndose a mi lengua. Amo tu racimo de sudores olvidados, la gota de coñac que resbala por tu muslo con la indiferencia de una nube que se aleja. Amo tus claras humedades: las de tu esperma tramposa las de tus ojos lacrimosos. Mi silencio con sus fauces te rodea.

I trust that horses run through vast canyons though I watch through the window with small flutters of fear

deceived, once again misled— it’s the pain of loving someone who doesn’t want you back

crickets and dragonflies— the sage ask that you understand there is a beast within you

touched by water, a spring... touched blindly to dress his wound, the injury of being

Cuando ya no contestas mis llamadas Al final tu cuerpo se apodera de la memoria. De una mente que no existe no hay nada que confiscar.

Tristeza Se funde la luz de tu vida sin embargo esto no es una plegaria ni un reclamo de herencia no consigue ser ni una disculpa, tampoco es un adiós la casa que me arrancaron sigue viva— visitada devotamente por sus muertos.

page after page of blank torsos longing— even the weathervanes look happy

Shadows unusual bird furious to free himself from his hatred of moral negligence— he’ll drift home quietly his ghost will darken soon enough and loom through new snow, he’ll sit down alone by the river whittling a root he’ll say nothing as the waters flow—just think, think of his wedding day

I had surgery on Friday.  Today I wrote this tanka,  it has been changed into a tanka sequence.  It was accepted for publication.  I was thrilled. Coming Out shrouded in mist I wear a torn place on my sleeve — turning like a mirror on a string a key in a lock, I have no more tongue than a wound beads of an abacus— the shed skin of a snake remembers what it once held calculating all the ways I numbed myself casting minute after minute into the wind . . . taking off the mask

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