Talking to your food

is not a sign

of mental illness …

most of all

he gets a pass

because he’s four

and just because

he talks to his food

how do those

who took these notes

know exactly

how it’s going on

from where he sits

how do they know

that in his mind

he’s not thanking

the potatoes for

being so delicious

and that in his heart

he knows that

while whole potatoes

may have eyes

you have to speak

kind of loud

to thank them

because they lack ears

and do not always

pay attention.

I think people

might learn a thing or two

if they had a conversation

with their food.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2011. All rights reserved.

To my son, on searching for his wings

You know

the many reasons

that we named you Gabriel;

.

arriving in the world

when and how you did

according to a fashion

unguided by the stars

directed by the chances

of who and what we were

.

I know my story says

there is no grand designer,

there is no author penning

lines for you to say

there are no demons coming

or angels to save the day

.

and I cannot use the devil

or eternal damnation

to turn you away

from the “dark side”

… what they call temptation

.

now that you have

no use of a soul

or a search for salvation

to easily tell you

what’s wrong

and what’s right

.

now that you know

that we may be alone

in this corner

of space and time in the night

 .

now that you’ve learned

of the treasures we’ve earned

as social loners

making culture and learning to write

.

now that you know

all the monsters before

were imagined and less deadly

than the monsters we know

.

now that I’ve shown you

in form and in poem

in lines and at home

through kindness

and failure and flaws

what little I know

of the nature of laws

.

I am sure you too

you will find yours.

.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2011. All rights reserved.

on geography & love

we are all Sisyphus

   with our own boulders

.

         you my love

      are Sisyphus as mother

   as teacher

as humbled crumbled

      daughter …

.

      rolling your bones

   like a lover

longing for a cliff

.

         when we are lost

      or tired, you know …

.

         there are times we

      must stop to rest

   when we let the rock go

hurling along and we

      bend low to wash

.

      to bow our heads

for a moment

.

         to take measure

      of our course and recall

   that we have been

here before

.

but everything is different

      it is not the same river now

            the land has changed

         we are tired

      in different places

         having seen things

            from the valleys

         having stood at times

      near the top

..

our rest is

sometimes broken

when the rock

comes

rolling

back.

.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2011. All rights reserved.

on where our enemies may come from next

our enemies may not come at us in planes

they may come in limousines

our enemies may not come at us wearing sheets

they may come in pin striped suits and cowboy boots

our enemies may not come at us to push their weed or mushroom caps

they may come with pretty pills with tested names like prozac

our enemies may not come at us at knifepoint to steal from our pockets

they may come electronically to take our life savings

our enemies may not come at us to share a drink or toke

they may come to lock you up for moonshine or smoking

our enemies may not come at us speaking little English

they may come unaware that they put a little English on everything

our enemies may not come at us when we’re not looking

they may come in daylight with papers from the state

our enemies may not come at us from outside

they may come from the room next door.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2011. All rights reserved.

Memory poem on your birthday

hermano, amigo

               I don’t gots nothing more

                    but words for you …

an open invitation

   like the blanket I hung

    as a door when we lived

side by side, all the places

          where we were young together

 .

even these things are leaving

               us now,

          that we don’t talk,

                    that you can’t call

     to say “I love you too”

               now that I’m just another

          Facebook friend or bit I.M.

 .

Te acuerdas,

               remember how we met?

          ¿como todo paso?

. 

how by accident your mother

               bought the house across the street

          from ours? How twelve years

               earlier we had both surprised

          our fathers and bent their tomorrows.

 .

¿Que cosas, no?

 .

that so much had to go,

               had to break a certain way

to find us playing tag in

               the summertime, dodging

between cars or playing kick the can

              and waiting for the street lights

to turn on.

 .

Te acuerdas como nos conocimos?

 .

                    You doing your imitation of John

              Travolta from Saturday Night Fever

                 and singing the Bee Gees’

                    “Staying Alive”

                   to mock whoever the hell was “it”

                … except me …

         we were already running as a team

. 

        Ploying silently to keep the

                rest at bay, pushing to be better

               than each other because no one

            wanted to be Robin, because

          we both felt absolutely golden,

      whenever we were together,

          you were Larry and I was Magic

              even though our skin said

                   we had it backwards

                      … we knew better

 .

Ya tu sabes!

 .

So here’s a list that only

          you will understand with your

decoder ring and secret index

        of punchlines and memories

. 

Pink Champale and Greased Lightning,

     Lower Grant and their mutant bigs,

Hershey Park spinning on its side,

     Reggie, the bleachers and spaghetti,

Willie on the train and the fucking fractions,

     Missions to van Sicilen, Crescent or Norwood

The middle of winter and a rat’s nest,

     Pitufas and soft shelled crabs,

The Dominican outback needing dancers,

     Fernando in the ambulance,

Shoeless football, stir fry and home grown,

     Seafood Mamajuanas, Billy Joel and

about a million other words I could

     string together to hang around our necks

like totems signifying we know

     exactly what they meant.

. 

But we don’t.

. 

We have our own stories, no?

          Even if we shared that

glory time so long ago, all things

          can gather enough dust

to be covered in the end.

. 

Te acuerdo, te amo, te extraño.

.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2011. All rights reserved.

said the fallen angel *

es lo que es

las noticias de la vida

todo cambia pero

quedan las heridas

y yo que fui

tan perdido por aquí

me encontraré

la paz sin ser

cometido ha mentiras

.

(musical interlude … lots of horns)

.

Y es lo que es

la vida por noticias

nada cambia pero

quedan injusticias

y yo que fui

educado por aquí

me encontraré

razon sin ser

cometido ha malicias

.

 (repeat music … end with horns and cymbals)

 .

* dijo el angel caído 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2011. All rights reserved.

the next great thing

the crowds are here today

they wrap around the block

and seem to go for miles

 .

they’re here to see the birth

of that very special something

that will bring them smiles

 ..

and everyone will walk away

happy for the gift today

and it will be enough for a while

 ..

it will entertain their brain

until it all becomes the same again

and then it will fall out of style

 .

they’ll be back in line somewhere

not too long from now, I’m sure

giving something else a trial

 .

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2011. All rights reserved.

pasando por aqui *

for Paolo Ernesto

.

the rules for all of this

come from distant worlds

we are satellites of satellites

bound to every detail of the past

.

we trod around our

flooded rock imagining

we could be stars

but we know now

that we are very far

.

we are made from pieces

that fall apart to blend again

with earth and rain

and other broken things

.

like water at different degrees

we are held in a temporary state

awakened for a moment

and given a name and birthdate

.

if we are lucky,

our days cannot measured

only by our presence

or the illusion of our reflections

.

instead we learn to love and live

above the center of the dance

where the music is played

in plasma waves and memories

of romance and laughter; until

yesterday is more engaged

for moments …

.

before the bad news breaks

to remind us of our origins,

.

               that the lotus is retreating

               that the universe ends up freezing

               that there is no way to kiss your gentle face again.

.

* “passing through here” or “happening here”

.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2011. All rights reserved.

kali @ the club

18″ x 24″ Collage, magazine clippings.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved. 

lost prayer

… and I said send me a message

          or show me a sign

because my eyes are wide open

          but I am feeling so blind

I understand all the reasons

         and none of the rhyme

and I have changed with the seasons

         to mine the sublime

and while I long for discovery

         I’m growing shorter on time

I’m afraid all the answers

         don’t get along in my mind

as the more that I learn

         the less I can define

what you call angels and demons

         good deeds and crimes.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.