worse than learning
what it is
is realizing it’s the stuff
that’s getting in the way
of actually being
in the world
completely,
and worst of all
is knowing
that it’s mostly
empty space
repelling through
its charges
our merging
into everything.
Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2012. All rights reserved.
You know
the many reasons
that we named you Gabriel;
.
arriving in the world
when and how you did
according to a fashion
unguided by the stars
directed by the chances
of who and what we were
.
I know my story states
there is no grand designer,
there is no author penning
lines for you to say
there are no demons coming
or angels to save the day
.
and I cannot use the devil
or eternal damnation
to turn you away
from the “dark side”
… what they call temptation
.
now that you have
no use of a soul
or a search for salvation
to easily tell you
what’s wrong
and what’s right
.
now that you know
that we may be alone
in this corner
of space and time in the night
.
now that you’ve learned
of the treasures we’ve earned
as social loners
making culture and learning to write
.
now you’ve been told
all the monsters before
were imagined and less deadly
than the monsters we know
.
now that I’ve shown you
in form and in poem
in lines and at home
through kindness
and failure and flaws
what little I know
of the nature of laws
.
I am sure you too
you will find yours.
.
Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2011. All rights reserved.
I don’t like cleaning –
and not just for the obvious reasons
like taking away from
all the nothing else I might be doing
.
it’s because cleaning reminds me
of how awfully endless the simplest
nastiest tiniest specks of the universe
are falling forever and finally landing
all over everything I own
.
even me, I am falling apart, all over
my apartment, flaking away little bits
of my skin, leaving my oils and my
stink like my cousins who live in the jungles
traces of hair and my preference for beer
.
and cleaning can take on a strength
all its own and possess me for stretches
where I’m looking for hours behind doors
meant to cover all the clutter that’s gathered
and quietly planning to take over my home
.
worst of all, cleaning can lead me,
and does now more than before,
to collections that have had real time
to marinate in the taste of forgotten
.
pictures and letters and buttons and
faded ribbons pinned to nothing
boxes that might have meant something
were I Pepys or Strong
.
Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.
pa’ mi mami
.
The first guests, my godparents,
turn the corner to begin their walk
down the driveway,
.
(50 feet of uneven pavement
framed between
my parents’ home and
the Chinese neighbors
who’ve thrown away
a grocery bag of garbage
every week for 20 years)
.
… a ceremonial walkway for the invited
.
the gate left open to let what used to be
a flood of relatives through …
but we are older
and have lost a few to the earth
and others to unresolved conflicts
.
(Even today, on my mother’s 60th
a new injury will be born
when my middle brother
fails to celebrate with us)
.
I could see now, clearly what we had become
as my father greeted his compadre and comadre,
my youngest brother,
(a suit wearing executive during the week,
in his weekend barrio wear;
pressed khakis & ultra-brite white tee)
pulling green plastic chairs for them to sit.
.
My godparents are frail,
like half the crowd who will come today,
guests with measured steps and canes,
and more still that come locked in arms
with the same person I remember them with
from my childhood.
.
The music, Ecuadorian ballads mixed with
Puerto Rican merengue and other
tunes from the roots of our America
.
(that faraway south
painted in greens and grays and decorated
with eyes and teeth that strike out
like stars in the night sky; smiling mouths
stuffed with bacalao and ceviche
and full of laughter and Spanish)
.
Here too, the food is ready,
paid for by my brother,
prepared by memories of my mother and
abuela in the kitchens of the past;
my hands mix the red cebollas
and lemons and limes and
cilantro into nearly everything.
Everywhere there is pepper and garlic
mixing into the smoke dancing
from the three grills we have going.
.
We brought together again,
those people we only see at funerals now,
to celebrate what they had started
before we existed;
leaving their childhoods behind
they ventured out of sand dunes
and into snowstorms, unheralded;
they traded their tiempo, every last
minute measured by train tokens
and time cards they punched;
measured by checks that paid them
only for their output and
never considered what they were
really giving back to the dream
that is this America.
.
They sat around now
frail, but victorious,
eating gumbo and platanos,
arroz y gandules, barbecued chicken
camarones, hot dogs and
hamburgers, topped with
ketchup and salsa picante, listening
to the sounds of the past
exploding today in celebraccion.
.
Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.
So, I’m not good enough?
I don’t match up?
I know it’s the superheroes
that you love so much.
They’re such tough hombres,
even though you say
it’s not the muscles but
the strut;
the way they command a room
when they enter,
the quick reflexes
the poise in dangerous situations
how they give as good as they get
the way they defend your honor
and good name
in their tight rayon/ lycra blend suits
with their superhero signs
emblazoned on their chests.
But what of me?
I’m the one with a real job.
The sensitive male
friend who happens
to be a good listener.
Who awakens early
to shower and shave
to stand & pay
for an overpriced latte
never late to a meeting or a date –
that makes me invisible?
(wouldn’t just one superpower be great?)
So what if I get nervous
in front of cute girls like you
that’s no reason to ignore me.
I’ve got excellent qualities –
I won’t wait ‘til the last moment to take action,
I won’t disappear when you turn to thank me,
I won’t wear the same outfit to various functions,
I won’t hide behind a mask or cape,
Or lead a secret double life
where loving you is less important than saving the day.
.
Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.
I tried to walk the streets,
I tread when I was young;
stopping time and again,
reviewing what’s been done.
Remembered where and when,
the dreams I keep were born;
and began to comprehend,
where yesterday had gone.
I’d not remained to watch,
the changes going on;
and now on my return,
there was emptiness, not song.
The roads had all diverged,
and taken everything along;
and I was just one traveler now,
and very far from home.
.
Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.
Tonight, when the angels
come for me, I will fool them
into staying longer than expected.
I will give them wine
and tell them that it’s water
steal their wings when
their halos are misdirected.
It’s the only way
to get a good thing
from any angels sent to save you.
Because they know
nothing but the light
they think they live in,
angels don’t understand
what it means to
need forgiveness.
Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.
Born of the trails in our minds
marking music and time,
the first gods were known
to have perfect camouflage –
they dressed as the wind and the rain
shook the earth, flooded plains
retreated to the stars above
and slowly grew in our dreams.
.
What happened next
in that darkness
we’ll never know exactly,
but glean from cave walls
and arrow heads, from beads
and bands buried with the dead
that some in the clan
needed magic and preferred
not to be reminded
of their short stay
and had no other way
to learn of the world … yet.
.
So instead, our animal brains
adopted incense and gemstones
drew symbols as portals
fell in love with the abracadabra
of magical thinking,
started linking mere chance with a meaning,
and passed whatever the leader was dreaming
as a sign from above.
.
And little by little
these lies kept infecting
everyone everywhere
while promising protection
from the neighboring gods
and the horde from next door,
while delivering nothing more
than a lifetime of prayer
as salvation from boredom.
.
What a sickness it was.
Like a virus over time
and across space,
leaving no room
for a question that challenged
what little was known of ourselves
and having to face
whatever the gods were pretending
to reveal to the head of the state.
.
In this way the deluded
were able to steal the time
and the minds and the work
of the people they fooled
with cruel lies as a tool
to build monuments and
monoliths with the money
they took from those who
were not in on the ruse.
.
‘Til at last the Truth was revealed
(a little at least) by words
that were spoken by those
who wouldn’t be fleeced,
by people who wouldn’t be sheep
who dared to speak back
about what they had seen
and learned of the world
from eyes and ears that were
keener than those who had
hidden themselves in the spell
whose magic no longer worked
to explain any heaven or hell
or anything ever on Earth.
.
And now, the only gods in good standing
have slipped back into silence
leaving believers nothing but relics
and rituals that belong to an age
before science.
.
* Title is borrowed from a Richard Dawkins speech
Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.
these blushing times we share
in small words set out as picnic items
made to taste of cinnamon and sea breeze
parceled into glazed paper
scented with fruit zest
filled with names we barely
know any better than
a recipe for making cheese,
leaves behind an aftertaste,
like crushed almonds and
snowflakes on our tongues.
Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved
Looking at
a postcard
of the Parthenon
I remember that
we have scuttled
along the
sand enough
to leave a
line like
a desperate crab
dancing in
the momentary
sunlight.
Knowing that
the waves
are coming back
does not deter us
from the stories
that we carry
like our shell,
protecting us
from being
homeless
or lost.
Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved.
words with no names 