Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Para Gabo despierto sobre flores de rododendro amarillo--Cien Años de Soledad

for Gabo a hundred years of solitude— I awaken to a blossom of yellow rhododendron

Young & Old - tanka sequence here I am, at 63 waiting for the rain… I am old                        a dry head among breezy spaces, yet I feel young, drunk in the midst of leaves whispering to the Titans in the land of enchantment… here I am

transcendence in the middle of the sunflower I call Your name and paint the migration of geese some things breathe, exhale and puzzle, reminding us of vast blue skies grant me laughter's bounty, and eyes filled with affection for the sun touches deeper than thought

I listen, hear nothing, only the lion, the lion of such   hollowness, roaring down my bones…

Death and Royalties In India, the high costs of seed and chemicals  have produced a debt trap, and 284,694 Indian farmers  have committed suicide. Why is putting a toxic gene  into a plant cell “creating” or “inventing” a plant? There is  no intellectual property in a seed. The “Life Lord” of our  planet is collecting rent from farmers. Monsanto’s  seeds of suicide—  the dark stain  of engineered  cotton

Gabo has passed away March 6, 1927– April 17, 2014 From Gabriel Garcia Marquez I learned there are old men with wings, drowned men so gorgeous they must be named Estéban, women so stunning that when they die they ascend to heaven in plain sight, and banana companies, like Monsanto, are always ready to steal, or contaminate, our lands.

something  has come between us— it will not sleep it whimpers settles in the interstice

bailing out-- no parachute beside my bed

in la Belle Epoque    of the imagination,  the egg came first... a box without corners an isolated oddity

Jolts from the not too Distant Past no way to bail out, no parachute beside my bed…       I wrapped myself around the AIDs epidemic in the 80’s.  The fear grew well into the 90’s, when I saw a man on a starvation drip. (no more Lazarus for him) He had had enough of needles and ventilators and AZT and gauze and scars and tubing. Suddenly my fear was gone, and there was a raw sense of militancy. I was determined to give him a dignified burial. What else could I do for a person who had starved himself to death rather than go on fighting a lost battle. One really needs to be brave and distinguished to accomplish such a deed with honor. I knew that, the nurses knew that.  His family knew nothing but the looming gossip around them.

come as you are before it snows again— chrysanthemum shaped fireworks explode over the sky

Each to his fidgety revenge  It was you  who threw away  my name. Where were you  when I was burning alive  with duende, learning  to love myself  too much?

insomnia living in the house of chaos— my place until the sun is in my window I listen to the things I own, the murmur of an empty mattress, the steady accusations of the clock my factory where decay's silent armies clock in to steal the grace of sleep

Remind me to kill you later of who I am of my country Remind me to look-up the name of this cancer to cuddle Remind me of my own dear friends                         my hunger                         my suicide                         to levitate                         and fill my pockets with rocks Remind me of the clouds                         and the daffodils      ...

Clouds The last time I saw the place where clouds are formed was from my window. Rich moisture moving through the saguaros, touching them from head to toe. Once I saw the place where clouds are formed in your eyes, high above the stars, wet, damp, tearful. I had nothing to say, no story to tell, just a sad hum.

He is what is left of my life a blizzard of one snowflake the lies I tell him are different from the lies I tell myself. When I walk, I part the air between us, and "air moves in to fill the spaces where my body's been."

Marilyn Monroe August 5, 1962 the nightmare a tortured poet the manic fear an imperfection half-drugged eyes under the lids of teal shadows Marilyn’s face dissolved in ink used by men of ambiguous capacities hers was no common emptiness her self-consciousness was really her infatuation with her own fame in perfect solitude there is a lasting fire

Vietnam I was a hippie apprentice, a secret heard for the last time, a song moving through the city like a widow. I was snow shredded with gunfire, and roseflower petals on a black dog.