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My Little Pleasures

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2017. All rights reserved.

Pen on paper, Inspired by Kandinsky’s Little Pleasures, No. 179

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Love letter to America

I want you to know

that this started

as a suicide note,

 

that I wanted to end it

by slitting my throat …

 

cortando la lengua

ahogado en sangre

 

kicking and punching

because I was angry –

 

buscando salida o comida

pa’l hambre

 

before I had realized

how this

was coming along.

 

That the words I was

writing transformed

into poem

 

palabras perdidas

de mi corazon –

perdona mi arte

si no tiene razon

 

when by

language and meter

it turned into song

 

filling some hole

that was born and

kept growing

 

nunca sabia

si venia o me iba

 

before I had learned

what was worth

knowing … and by

writing discovered

where the muses

were going

 

tormentas privadas

y como me joden

 

that language

could save me

enslave me to living …

force the forbidden

I keep hiding and

hidden

 

me salvan … palabras,

alarmas y espadas,

siembrada sin planes

que encuentro en mi alma

 

inside me

whatever it is I

awoke that drives me

also derides me …

it’s haunting, but lively

 

idiomas que usan

qualquier instrumento

buscando sentido

y razon pa’l momento

 

and despite it

I keep writing

along

 

like beating a drum

turning the silence

into a hum

of a rhythm to come

flowing and stirring

the smoke and the rum

 

asking me questions

of where I was from

making me look

at what I’ve become

 

the meshing of parts

that somehow you think

is less than the sum

 

the stranger himself

the prodigal son

a brother and father

con un corazon

 

and nobody knows

where it is I belong

they haven’t discerned

if I’m right or I’m wrong

if I’m noise or I’m song

 

But I want you to know,

that while you

may not always love me

yo siempre te quiero

y no puedo, sin ti.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2017. All rights reserved.

 

 

May, To Do

What my desk calendar pages look like after a few weeks.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2017. All rights reserved.

Note to a 12 year old

for Alex, who said he hates me

 

 

It weighs heavy on me,

the things that you say

when you’re angry.

 

How mean you get in a hurry.

How blurry your love seems

at times. Your tongue becomes poison;

betrays our lives together …

we’ve been just fine. But

at times like these, I’m lost.

 

It’s the cost of being your Father,

not your friend. I know.

For now at least, my love,

I will take your slings and arrows,

ignore the million cuts –

 

I’ll tend instead to other seeds

I’ve planted … and hope for you,

strong roots, water, air and plenty of room,

And of course, a great bloom.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2017. All rights reserved.

A flicker among sparrows

birds

Digital collage for a friend

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2017. All rights reserved.

Messenger is Gone

Dead at three twenty six pee em

on four, thirty one, twenty fifteen;

its work is all done.

Ten years in space

thirty five million pictures taken

three thousand orbits and never mistaken.

Slammed into the planet

and just as it passed,

sent back the best selfies of Mercury at last.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2016. All rights reserved.

https://www.nasa.gov/press-release/nasa-completes-messenger-mission-with-expected-impact-on-mercurys-surface

mercury

The dead in windowsills

I don’t like finding the dead bodies of insects

anywhere ‘round my house.

Don’t get me wrong, I smash and swat and kill

the little buggers when they trespass on my space.

They are disgusting after all, and especially to me;

when I consider how alien they seem,

but still share my ancestry.

 

How I hate thinking that they still foment

within their genetic recipe

the blueprints for my symmetry.

 

No, my distaste for finding the leftover husks

of dried out insects comes from the deep

realization that I share that fate with them.

 

That their grotesque beauty should be

so fragile in the end, and so easily extinguished,

left without ceremony, to be collected in a dustpan.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2016. All rights reserved.