Without a class
or a visit to see
anything hanging on walls
or protected by glass.
Having never believed
explanations in boxes
or words shared in the halls,
by others who wanted
but merely to view.
The artists must do what they do.
© 2008 henry toromoreno
© 2008 henry toromoreno
© 2008 henry toromoreno
© 2008 henry toromoreno
b/c
it’s ez-R
& faster
4 u
u think <
of me
& don’t
write any
+
© 2007 henry toromoreno
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
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
The clamor of chains in the dark, embarking on a trip,
in the middle of the ocean, pushing along the trade,
in human cargo,
and never an embargo was discussed.
And thus, in god we trusted, for three hundred years;
the nails were rusted and replaced, by skinny black shadows,
huddled and hunched, and squirming in the paste of death’s stomach;
in the wooden belly of a whitemare, crossing the blue blood of earth.
A wicked poison in the veins of the American birth;
the haunting sound track was the crack of the whip,
and on the ship, the important thing was getting to the end of the trip,
and getting paid, by the owners at the blocks of the slaves.
Yes, those auctions; the cornerstone of the You SSSssss Dollar.
Another African holler in the middle of the night,
as the passage of the package begins, on the whitemare’s flight.
The night was not as dark as the dreams
of the captains, who had already schemed
by counting up the bones on board,
and multiplying by a clotted coefficient.
© 2007 henry toromoreno
Originally published in Downtown Brooklyn, Issue #5, 1996
words with no names 