© 2007 henry toromoreno
Monthly Archives: December 2007
goodbye, to a few men and mi vieja
Like so many
on the eve of maybe
beginning another year
we expect to complete,
at one of those lists
saying goodbye to people
most of us never meet,
but who we somehow “know”.
Of the fifty faces
this site listed,
I paused to say goodbye
to a few men
who shared with me
more than words.
And I raced to find this picture
of my vieja, mi abuela —
who this past year we buried
after years of faint departures —
and while no one knew her
in the crowd,
she made for me the difference,
in the corners of her empanadas,
and the meter of her laughter.
Before I ever read a single word,
it was mi abuela’s stories
that I heard.
© 2007 henry toromoreno
acronym soup: 34 second message
P.T.I.P.S.A.F.Y.I.R.I.F.
Pardon the interruption.
Public service announcement.
For your information.
Reading is fundamental.
what happens when you mix mcluhan, public enemy, home movies, crappy mixing, windows movie maker and curiosity together?
an antidote to television
© 2007 henry toromoreno
ezekial’s vision
© 2007 henry toromoreno
green marley
© 2007 henry toromoreno
me-mail (eulogy for letter writing)
b/c
it’s ez-R
& faster
4 u
u think <
of me
& don’t
write any
+
© 2007 henry toromoreno
outside the manger
outside the manger, (sketch while thinking about Christmas)
© 2007 henry toromoreno
a terse history of communication
What we talked about when we huddled ‘round fire
was closer to truth, to god and desire.
What we say to each other when connected by phone
e-mail, or blackberry, still leaves us feeling alone.
What we heard about when we sat around listening in caves
was news of real things that connected our ways.
What we hear nowadays is about red-carpet events
making sure we continue manufacturing consent.
© 2007 henry toromoreno
e-guernica
e-guernica (the electronic bombing of our culture)
© 2007 henry toromoreno
Picasso said while painting the original on which I base my sketch: “My whole life as an artist has been nothing more than a continuous struggle against reaction and the death of art.”
his math collides with scripture
On the first floor of 317 Matthew Street,
the hero of the day comes to believe
the voices that he’s hearing are not in his head.
The instructions are in words he knows he’s seen before.
But the way they’re spoken now, is like they’re straight from revelation.
He tries to calm himself by not thinking of temptation,
but the dirty number 8, splits the seal and takes his reasons for salvation.
For thirty minutes he is desperate, searching for his gun.
When looking out the window, remembering the genesis
of this twenty second day of march.
How upon his early rising and taking stock of his surroundings,
he started hearing trumpets, while he was dressing for his job.
© henry toromoreno
words with no names 