Category Archives: strange

Tenth Anniversary Posting, 2007-2017

Ten years ago this month, I started posting here at WordPress. It was (and still is) just a way to share some of my “creative” work with the world. It has been an inconsistent, nonsensical, non-sequitur of a blog, but I am glad that I started it. Most of the things I find interesting or entertaining, still end up just as ideas in one of my many notebooks. I am not a working artist or writer, but more of a scribbler, a doodler who occasionally stumbles across something interesting that might be worth sharing.

Most of it isn’t good enough to share, of course. It’s just me entertaining myself.

But I didn’t want the TENTH ANNIVERSARY of this blog to go without any posts, so I turned to my notebooks to see if there was anything worth sharing. I’ll let you decide if there was anything interesting. What I found was:



Happy suns, angels and mystics?

A sketch of “Slenderman”

I made for my oldest son, when he was into that sort of thing

“Voynich manuscript sketches”

Drawings inspired by the supposedly mysterious and undeciphered book. My intention was to color them in, but I got bored with the idea and moved on.

AND Drawings made just messing with a fountain pen.

“madre y muerte”

“mi familia”

“terror from the sky”

I love having a creative outlet that is also a kind of electronic repository for my thoughts and ideas. Long after I am gone (if net non-neutrality doesn’t wipe me out) this blog will exist as advertised: “the journal of a man living outside the demographic sweet spot”.

Thank you to anyone and everyone who has ever stopped by, accidentally or otherwise. I never imagined I would still be posting ten years from when I started. But I am glad that I started.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2017. All rights reserved.tenth

poem for the pickpocket

now that I remember you

          stopping me           to ask for directions

          opening          the          map           and

          having me                      hold one side

        while you went to work

    under cover,

let me apologize

               for only having           twelve dollars (12) cash

and warn you

               against trying to use any of the credit cards

          because they were maxed out

                    months ago

            and are part of the bankruptcy now

— I only carry them around to feel

                   less broke than I am, and

                         really you can have them.

You will find the Barnes & Noble

gift card is still worth its full

value of twenty five dollars

     but the Dunkin Donuts card

     has less than a cup of coffee’s

     worth left on it … I believe the 2

     Cracker Barrel gift certificates

     have expired, even though

     they don’t have a printed expiration

     date on them.

The rest of the cards, my driver’s license,

my work ID, my library card

and such, may be valuable to you

if you are not just a pickpocket

but gifted in forgery as well.

If you do try to pass as me,

here are a few pointers to help.

My last name is tricky,

so practice spelling and

pronouncing it, and be sure

to stress the vowels. Also

my mother’s maiden name

was Diaz and I never had a

childhood pet. All my passwords

are the same and they

contain a Latin quote and

the most beautiful part of the

Fibonacci sequence. Lastly,

I’d like to ask that you please

return to me the lock of hair I

carried with me (it belongs

to my first son from his

first haircut) and the clear

piece of plastic next to it

(I’ll explain that one later).

And thank you for leaving

behind something worth telling.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

The trouble with poetry

(answering Billy Collins)


I realized after reading your poem

how small my fish tank is

and how I forget to care for it

on account of having to deal

with bankers who are real sharks.


I wish I had rabbits right now.

And knew enough to care for them.

And knew how to sell them

like your poetry book

that I have in my hands.


I know of your urges

and I have broken in tonight

to share with you

a memory of summer asphalt

cooled by a fire hydrant

spitting through a tin cylinder

knocking over laughing

children who never saw

a lighthouse or dewy grass.


I stole that from no one.


But I know what you mean

about secretly wanting an end.


Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.