Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

A Coyote Lurks Be vigilant of the coyote prowling your words. He'll butcher the jacaranda. We must avoid his ambush. The poets who know the spells of language advise we strike the word match against a stone and light up the word bonfire to keep him away. Coyotes scurry when they spot fire dancing with air.

Confused I hear a ghost undress, so I wait. Dead birds have thirteen unlucky hearts. I sit on a chair in front of the last corner of the night.

Drunk on Sunsets To return to what we were as children we must grow inside as light filtered through sorrow. Devour the rivers that whiten the memory. Listen to the cries of flowering trees. Fly kites with colored arms at the seashore then sit and watch the afternoon sun as it sets in our pockets.

By all that is Holy Kiss the other, and let her settle the sacred earth of a frozen forest. Then  burn your inner self with the language animals use during intercourse. The sincerest words, a response to desperation.

A Grammatically Correct Biographical Note Who do we believe we are, if all we do fits into a couple of lines?

Invisibles stirred the cauldron of history over the flames where their legends burned ... now the cooling hands of women

Cannons         Invisibles jiggle in the cauldron of history. Those who do not remember the name of their president hide in their houses between pages of deleted files in the Networks where they trap their own legends. Tomorrow is the last day of the arid void of their deserts, tombs where animals that do not know how to become extinct lie  preserved forever.         Invisibles stirred the cauldron of history over the flames where their legends burned ... now the cooling hands of women.

Lithograph by Fran z Cižek The Hinge          Forgive the craft of pouring myself into pitchers. Water cannot tolerate thirst for long periods of time, the thirst that invaded my home during the years of submarginal words. Burglars burned down the charity bazaars and school libraries. Now my son will inherit a handful of ashes. Only "The Imprint of Reticence"   remains.

Uno de mis poemas acaba de llegar en Segundo lugar en una competencia de poesía en España. Les dejo saber más dentro de poco.

I am as Lonely as Falling Drops of Rain I am the poem that began at dawn. One day all the sand of Abyssinia sprouted from my eyes and all the perfume in Paris originated from my fingers. Another day I saw the moon rise on a river in the Far East, saw her drown herself completely drunk on life. I also remember that long night when I wept bitterly the wrath of God in the dying eyes of a sad alpaca. And that other day when I opened two hundred and eighty-three doors looking for a letter that said: We learned to challenge darkness with more darkness. I am that poem that began  at dawn  but soon ended.

by Frida Kahlo Adiós “Cuando te hablen de amor y de ilusiones,”                                     José Alfredo Jiménez                      Soy melodía de un amor que no es mío, álgebra del aire remoto que asciende desde los sepulcros. Quiero ir perdiéndome en aquel espacio perfecto donde la piel       termine de pudrirse.  Sal                                          ...

We, the poets of the Waka tradition sometimes get married and when our demanding spouse puts us through the rag we flee from the conjugal house, with the healthy purpose of walking the dog, or filling the kettle with evening water from the river Placid .

No Time to Lose It's cold here. Its color, a ninja turtle orange, and only 5 days left for el Presidente Electo to inaugurate his burned hair, his head of a hijo de la chingada, his midget politician tweets. People say it's worth traveling to this Swearing In, that this kind of shit makes you grow. The thing is my body cannot stand another Jetblue seat, another Greyhound cafe. Besides, winter hurts. Its whiteness rusts the snow. Its racism confuses me, makes me feel small, like a very distant echo. Fuck it, if I go back to D.C. it's because I want to visit the Smithsonian's African American Collection. Where merchant ships loaded with shipwrecked slaves cry out my name.

No hay tiempo que perder Aquí sigue haciendo un frio color ninja turtle naranja y solo quedan 5 días para que el President Elect inaugure sus cabellos quemados, su cabeza de chingada madre, sus tweets de político enano. La gente está diciendo que vale la pena viajar a la juramentación, que esa mierda te hace crecer. Solo que mi cuerpo no aguanta otro asiento de Jetblue, otro Greyhound caf é . Además, me duele el invierno, me oxida la blancura de la nieve. El racismo me confunde, me hace sentir pequeño, me escucho como un eco muy distante. Al carajo, si vuelvo al D.C. va a ser para ir al Smithsonian donde buques cargados de esclavos náufragos me llaman.

a male Indigo Bunting has been feeding on my eyes in the morning dark ... death, you hurt in my thinning hair

On I Becoming Eloquent I had to              come into  a lighter shade of café au lait             from my father’s side             be designated the boy             Mom had to             take on all other roles             ensure my teeth fell before they grew crooked             confirm I passed my courses at the university    so I wouldn’t have to become a farmer I had to             reject Mom’s dream             of me becoming a lawyer        ...

When Darkness Falls He got there with a nugget for a tear and a face full of pity,  the transvestite asking me for heat                           and then he wanted to bang me in the fanny. The girls dance alone, like their mothers. The boys look at them sitting in their lofts. They imagine the girls kissing and when they get excited they begin to kiss each other, rub their beard and lingual barbells to the rhythm of techno pop. Some are journalist. Some are strictly DIFFERENT but EQUAL. At five in the morning they kiss and touch then high speed out of there and … craaaassssh. Night ends in tragedy. And what do they do? They return whenever needed. They wait and hope morning doesn't arrive. They return to the corner where the travesties do their rounds for money and pleasure. They throw in the towel for the speed of a gesture. For the volatile in their emotions. ...

Abysses   I live between two abysses          The staggering patience   of him who walks far too long             to lean on the rail of a footbridge             ―my only afternoon ceremony―             to watch the waters roll by             And the enormous impatience             of him who wants to reach   the end zone at all costs             but only sees the size    of his insomnia             and jumps off the bridge           into your bosom 

Witching the World Real loneliness is like a window from wherein you cannot hear a thing. My loneliness is the tracks at a train crossing, a damnation of gunfire and impact. In silence my name: the instant at which the gods finally forget to call. I keep thinking, sing to yourself and survive. Expand to infinity like a deaf man expands his voice in a dream.

a dog named pink is it safe here are there others like me should I assume the worst yes comfortable others like me of course there are sensitive maybe a little defensive