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Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

The horrowshow Milkbar

also known now as the best mesto

for my droogs and me,

where, “What’s it going to be then, eh”

is the question repeated

by malchicks and devotchkas …

any random nochy with a thirst

for twenty-to-one, or any other

way to filly out the bezoomny

we feel trapped in the old mozg.

 

Bog himself knows the starry lewdies

try everything they can to escape

their grazzy cheepooka. They

have different ways of lying

about the jeezny, my brother.

 

But if you viddy their glazzies

after a few rounds of their

favorite poisons, behind their guffs

and ha ha ha creeches

you’ll hear from their poogly rot

what sounds like a hound and horny

excuse for why they wake up every

morning to ookadeet their domy and drat

for the measly hem-korm in their pockets …

why they rabbit until their plots

fall apart and are left with nothing

but to itty or take in

the last unending spatchka.

 

It’s why we’re showing mercy, my brother,

and a beautiful thing, kleb and krovvy,

when we take these broken vecks

out back to bend ’em at their altar

in the darkness of the alley

and smash them in the litso —

make a mark in the rassoodock,

so it plays like a shoomny sneety,

like a scene we’d see at the sinny.

 

It’s the only way to prod a bratty.

 

* Inspired by a student who invited me to read and discuss A Clockwork Orange with him.

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On one of the days

of that week of creation

(the sources aren’t sure

if it was the 3rd or the 6th)

the angels were told

to bow down before Adam

for man was God’s favorite

invention; made as he was

in his own image

from the mist and the mud …

how could this tiny

material thing, be greater

than those who’d known only

Heaven?

And this is when

the angels conspired to whisper

forever into the ears of men,

lies about the nature of nature

and the terrible predicament

that we are all in.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2018. All rights reserved

 

 

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Martin and Malcolm and Bobby and Jack.

You still hear their echoes inside of books.

Heroes are killed, and they never come back.

 

Stepped to the front and took lead of the pack.

Out of the valley and onto the brooks.

Martin and Malcolm and Bobby and Jack.

 

Believed in defense, but not first attack,

avoiding the jabs, the crosses and hooks.

Bullets kill heroes, and they never come back.

 

Tried to save Rome from the sieve and the sack,

warning the people of liars and crooks.

Martin and Malcolm and Bobby and Jack.

 

Were placed center stage and then on the rack;

received with suspicions and sideways looks.

Villains kill heroes, and they never come back.

 

Their efforts and names are fading to black,

for whatever they said has been mistook.

Martin and Malcolm and Bobby and Jack.

People kill heroes, then they want them back.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2016. All rights reserved.

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cropped-the-view.jpg

We look across the flat lands of New Mexico,

from a seat on the Sandilla Mountains.

It is near sunset and the whole scene looks red

and reminds me of a blazed clay shell

occasionally interrupted by the jutting of an

ancient cordillera spine. It is the backbone

of the native western earth; it is where the sun

was stored at night for safekeeping, away from

the Old World’s shores. We watch low clouds

cross below us, stoking the hard earth with

their shadows, and I imagine they must cool

whatever life there is down there. It is hard

to see anything but red, red earth. Hard to

imagine anything good growing here.

And she just sits next to me in silence, too.

Looking out and imagining who knows what.

She is quiet and unwilling to pose for a picture,

unwilling to participate in the pure illusion of a moment.

Instead she sits next to me looking out at the horizon,

like a person sitting at the bottom of the ocean

wanting air.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2014. All rights reserved.

* NOTE ABOUT THIS POEM: This poem was originally written in 1994 and is about one of my favorite personal pictures. The picture was taken by my friend, Camille Pansewicz, and it is of my future wife and I from behind, looking out across the horizon. There are too many reasons why this picture is one of my all time favorites to explain here. The poem is not one of my faves, but it is a reminder that writing is like taking a picture with words.

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(for my students & my sons)

…..

Be strong and dare to dream;

……….your life is more than what it seems.

Be good, be well, be nice;

……….these things you don’t consider twice.

Be calm, be fit, be smart;

……….take careful measure from where you start.

Be brave, be kind, be wise;

……….learn to tell the truth, even when disguised.

Be fair, be just, be true;

……….these things with time, get harder to do.

Be strange, unique and pure;

……….keep people guessing what else is in store.

Be bright, alive and … smile.

……….recall our lives, are but a while.

 ……….

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2014. All rights reserved.

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By the third day of my vacation
I am nearing the end of reading my book*
(Unlike most others around me
mine is still printed and on paper).
I sit drinking black coffee, finishing a creole roll
and reapplying sunscreen to the top of my head,
where my thin grey matte is no better
against the sun than being completely bare.

.

The book is about numbers
and the mathematicians who have turned
into Madison Avenue alchemists,
promising their overlords that they
can turn you and me into symbols
and equations; that we can be sliced and
sorted into factors, primes, variables which can
then be adjusted, aligned, tweaked
all in the end really, to get to the gold.

.

It hurts me to think that I am
so easy to know; that even after so many years
of trying to create a self that could stand out
amongst angels, I could be so predictable.

.

A congregation of plovers drops in
again, just as I read the last page,
and I feed them the rest of my roll.

.

.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2014. All rights reserved.

* The Numerati, by Stephen Baker

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the greens and blues,

 

with mes and yous

 

these things are true …

 

the wheres, the whose,

 

the whats, left clues;

 

time can’t undo,

 

what’s laid, what grew.

 

the dusks, the dews,

 

the lights, the hues.

 

the sun, the moon,

 

with you seemed new.

 

the songs, the tunes,

 

the ocean’s bloom …

 

let’s both escape

 

on this balloon.

 

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2014. All rights reserved.

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