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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.

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Line Drawing of Lorraine

© 2008 henry toromoreno

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b/c

it’s ez-R

& faster

4 u

u think <

of me

& don’t

write any

+

© 2007 henry toromoreno

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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

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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

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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

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