My writing sucks lately. My only hope is that next year I can get my head out of my ass and take things even more seriously.
--
It's a great thought to have resolutions, but I've never really understood them. All really seems to do is mislead habitual people for a few weeks, and clog up the gym when I want to work out. All I want to do next year is find more time to write. Will that happen? No. It's shaping up the be the busiest year of my life. A little happiness, and less time spent fighting with loved ones (including my fiance) would be nice, but that probably won't happen either. I am, and am surrounded by people who are constantly on fire about every aspect of their lives. And, when those things don't pan out, they turn on each other. It's that, or everyone is too damn busy to find time for complete resolution. You be the judge.
I just wanna write stories with ghastly ghouls and mischievous monster. Things that go bump in the night, and things that traumatize children. Writing more poetry that promotes deep thought, and/or is something that people can relate to would be ideal as well. Basically, I wanna keep on keeping on.
Happy new year. Stay warm. Have a scotch. Love your neighbor. Love yourself. Love me.
Love you.
~Torres
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Untitled...With Reason
Untitled...With Reason
You think that the fact that we are going to die would be enough…
You think that we be enough.
Motivation to be kind to each other—
Believe in something besides fairy tales.
Love harder than you thought possible.
Be loved back.
But it isn’t.
It isn’t enough
to walk with both eyes open in wonder.
We won’t let it be so.
We favor our differences over the differences of others.
The crowd refuses to give up its rule.
It refuses to consider that
it
may
be
dead
wrong.
---
Moving around the stanzas and lines can be fun sometimes. This is the first time I really did it.
But, I haven’t written poetry is a couple months. It’s sad, but true. I’ve been doing a lot of
editing. I’ve been doing some submitting. And, I’ve been focused on writing spooky stories and the like.
I miss poetry. But at least I’m writing something.
Later,
~Torres
You think that the fact that we are going to die would be enough…
You think that we be enough.
Motivation to be kind to each other—
Believe in something besides fairy tales.
Love harder than you thought possible.
Be loved back.
But it isn’t.
It isn’t enough
to walk with both eyes open in wonder.
We won’t let it be so.
We favor our differences over the differences of others.
The crowd refuses to give up its rule.
It refuses to consider that
it
may
be
dead
wrong.
---
Moving around the stanzas and lines can be fun sometimes. This is the first time I really did it.
But, I haven’t written poetry is a couple months. It’s sad, but true. I’ve been doing a lot of
editing. I’ve been doing some submitting. And, I’ve been focused on writing spooky stories and the like.
I miss poetry. But at least I’m writing something.
Later,
~Torres
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
The Squalid Number
I used the title "The Squalid Number" because an English gentlemen used the term when describing "The Life of Brian" to John Cleese during an interview. It's fun to say; sounds like a Victorian horror story; and has a great meaning (a dirty/unpleasant bit of info/material).
It has nothing to do with this post.
--
In this post, I will provide you with a Bukowski video that (I think) everyone should watch (Tom Waits is reading this one). Then, I will attempt to reach you with poesy of my own. Behold!
The Laughing Heart
Now, it's my turn...
-------------------------
Wanda
The Laughing Heart
Now, it's my turn...
-------------------------
Wanda
The first girl I ever kissed
when I was 8 years old
is wanted for manufacturing
and dealing
in my home town.
Judging by her mugshot
(from an arrest a year ago),
it was a more serious chemical this time.
Back them,
she was cute
and shy.
A rose of promise.
Her father was gone,
but her mother would beat her
with one of his belts
on a regular basis.
Her brother was overbearing
and over-protective.
There was no neck tattoo back then.
No luggage under her lids.
No scar on her left cheek.
She was as pure,
and as tan
as untouched
Puerto Rican
sand
along Arecibo.
We were building Lego castles
in the toy room
of my old house
when she leaned it,
and I felt the softness
of the opposite sex
for the first time
upon my lips.
"If you tell anyone, I'll kill you,"
She said with a smile,
before strolling down Chestnut street
unguarded,
back to Lebanon's own
little Barrio
on the other side
of the train tracks.
It looks like she's been there ever since.
--------------------------------------------------
~Torres
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Every Creepy Opportunity That I Can Find
As it turns out, my fascinations with strange or otherworldly phenomena has a tendency to obscure the way that others view me. I know that there are times when I become almost entranced by a mind frame that is horror-bent or supernaturally charged, but that's only because I need to feel fear in order to write about fear.
Lately, I've been feeling as though people seek me out for explanation or further investigation when they experience something strange. It doesn't bother me that they do this. In fact, I welcome it. Like I said before, it inspires me. Even if it makes me scream and wet myself.
The newest addition of creepdom (my word) in my life is a part-time job that I took in order to save money for my wedding. The job is a simple one (for those that aren't deathly afraid of the dark, or, most things for that matter): work an after party for wedding guests and be the night-watchman/innkeeper from about 3 p.m. to 3 a.m. The boss said that I could stay in the renovated innkeeper's apartment on the property. He even had a desk put in the bedroom and urged me to bring my typewriter. It's perfect because there's no TV. No distractions from a busy highway, or noisy neighbors. The grounds are beautiful.
but, it's almost too quiet.
The first weekend I spent there went exactly as you are probably assuming that it did. I unpacked some clothes, a typewriter, and my pet rabbit (Henry) into the apartment, and went for a walk around the property. Keep in mind that I arrived on a Friday around 6 p.m. (I start later on Fridays because I'm coming from my full-time job), so it had already been dark for an hour.
I, almost immediately, began searching around the inn for a flashlight. I ended up finding one in the innkeeper's office (convenient, I know), along with a spare key for the innkeeper's apartment. There was no one around, so I couldn't ask if it was alright to take one of the keys, but I knew that I needed it. I needed it because the last thing I wanted was to have a stranger in the apartment (by accident or not). I did not want to keep the door unlocked while I worked.
Do you see how easy it is for me to get paranoid? I blame all the great horror stories and the men and women who pen (or have penned) them.
The night went by typically. There were guests who needed ice, or their cable adjusted; there were some drunks who needed help relocating their rooms; and there were decent tips made.
And then, the night came to a close, and it was time to turn off all of the lights on the two acres of land. It was 2 a.m. when I began this task.
The first step involved walking to the top parking lot where the valets park the cars before an event start. There are two lights up in the lot. One is in the dead center, and once it is extinguished you can see all the constellations you had to memorize in high school. The other light is beyond the fence, in the tall grass. Now, with weeds up to your knees, one cannot help but wonder what might be skulking through the vegetation towards you. once those lights were out, and I began walking away from the lot, I felt a bit of relief.
When I rounded the corner next to the old innkeeper's apartment (a separate one from where I was staying), I hit another outside light which illuminated a breezeway between those living quarters and the "old barn." I then opened the door to the "old barn" and went inside.
The "old barn" is where the after parties took place. At this point, we had cleaned up all the garbage and food scraps, I had doused the embers in the fireplace with water, and no one was in there anymore. When all the lights were out, every creak in the old wood floor scared the hell out of me. There was a time when I saw the ghostly silhouette of a woman pass by the large window on the second floor. while I was valeting. I didn't want to see her tonight.
I locked the doors to the "old barn" and split. I began creeping my way down the stone pathway that led to the steps of the bridal suite. There was a light on in there too, but the suite was empty as well. As soon as I opened the door, I was hit with a wave of perfume and women's sweat. The bridal suite was small, especially when a bride has such a large group of ladies all getting their hair and make-up done in the same place at the same time. It tends to get hot in there.
Of course, the light switch was on the wall at the other end of the suite, right in front of the 10-foot by 8-foot mirror. It awakened an old fear in me that ran from the age of eight to about nineteen. I was afraid to look into a mirror if the lights were out. Fearful that that the reflection wasn't true. That something else was beyond the mirror. And that maybe, if I didn't turn the light back on, and then off again, it would crawl through the reflective portal and kill me in my sleep.
But I don't have that fear anymore.
I am grateful.
After I closed the door, I continued down the stone path to the "new barn" or the "reception hall." It was the largest building on the property, and I had to enter through the kitchen because, at this point, it was the only door that was unlocked. All I had to do here was double check everything and lock that kitchen door behind me. The servers are supposed to turn everything out at the end of the night.
Walking back, I took the server's path, which ran behind the English courtyard. It was the same red stoned path where the dark figure of a man can sometimes be seen walking along. Once he even bumped into me.
I didn't want to see him either.
By the time I got back to the parking lot next to the inn. Next to building where I was staying. And there, in the darkness, I heard a voice.
"Who's there?" he said.
"Night-watch," I replied. "Go to bed."
And he did.
"Jeezus, that was easy," I said to myself.
Then I took a walk about the inn and tried to keep the thoughts of the ghost of a little girl that guests claim to see and/or hear from time to time out of my mind.
I then locked the back door when I was done, and went to bed.
Nothing really happened. I was proud of myself. I could do it. I proved it to myself.
That night, I slept. And, as I did, I dreamed that a man was standing in the threshold of the bedroom, staring down at me. He was angry. And there was a darkness that crept across the room, up the walls, and resonated from him.
Then I awoke. The morning sun was pouring through the blinds and I was hungry. The bedroom door was closed, and the man wasn't there anymore.
This job will be going on for the next several weeks. Wish me luck.
~Torres
Lately, I've been feeling as though people seek me out for explanation or further investigation when they experience something strange. It doesn't bother me that they do this. In fact, I welcome it. Like I said before, it inspires me. Even if it makes me scream and wet myself.
The newest addition of creepdom (my word) in my life is a part-time job that I took in order to save money for my wedding. The job is a simple one (for those that aren't deathly afraid of the dark, or, most things for that matter): work an after party for wedding guests and be the night-watchman/innkeeper from about 3 p.m. to 3 a.m. The boss said that I could stay in the renovated innkeeper's apartment on the property. He even had a desk put in the bedroom and urged me to bring my typewriter. It's perfect because there's no TV. No distractions from a busy highway, or noisy neighbors. The grounds are beautiful.
but, it's almost too quiet.
The first weekend I spent there went exactly as you are probably assuming that it did. I unpacked some clothes, a typewriter, and my pet rabbit (Henry) into the apartment, and went for a walk around the property. Keep in mind that I arrived on a Friday around 6 p.m. (I start later on Fridays because I'm coming from my full-time job), so it had already been dark for an hour.
I, almost immediately, began searching around the inn for a flashlight. I ended up finding one in the innkeeper's office (convenient, I know), along with a spare key for the innkeeper's apartment. There was no one around, so I couldn't ask if it was alright to take one of the keys, but I knew that I needed it. I needed it because the last thing I wanted was to have a stranger in the apartment (by accident or not). I did not want to keep the door unlocked while I worked.
Do you see how easy it is for me to get paranoid? I blame all the great horror stories and the men and women who pen (or have penned) them.
The night went by typically. There were guests who needed ice, or their cable adjusted; there were some drunks who needed help relocating their rooms; and there were decent tips made.
And then, the night came to a close, and it was time to turn off all of the lights on the two acres of land. It was 2 a.m. when I began this task.
The first step involved walking to the top parking lot where the valets park the cars before an event start. There are two lights up in the lot. One is in the dead center, and once it is extinguished you can see all the constellations you had to memorize in high school. The other light is beyond the fence, in the tall grass. Now, with weeds up to your knees, one cannot help but wonder what might be skulking through the vegetation towards you. once those lights were out, and I began walking away from the lot, I felt a bit of relief.
When I rounded the corner next to the old innkeeper's apartment (a separate one from where I was staying), I hit another outside light which illuminated a breezeway between those living quarters and the "old barn." I then opened the door to the "old barn" and went inside.
The "old barn" is where the after parties took place. At this point, we had cleaned up all the garbage and food scraps, I had doused the embers in the fireplace with water, and no one was in there anymore. When all the lights were out, every creak in the old wood floor scared the hell out of me. There was a time when I saw the ghostly silhouette of a woman pass by the large window on the second floor. while I was valeting. I didn't want to see her tonight.
I locked the doors to the "old barn" and split. I began creeping my way down the stone pathway that led to the steps of the bridal suite. There was a light on in there too, but the suite was empty as well. As soon as I opened the door, I was hit with a wave of perfume and women's sweat. The bridal suite was small, especially when a bride has such a large group of ladies all getting their hair and make-up done in the same place at the same time. It tends to get hot in there.
Of course, the light switch was on the wall at the other end of the suite, right in front of the 10-foot by 8-foot mirror. It awakened an old fear in me that ran from the age of eight to about nineteen. I was afraid to look into a mirror if the lights were out. Fearful that that the reflection wasn't true. That something else was beyond the mirror. And that maybe, if I didn't turn the light back on, and then off again, it would crawl through the reflective portal and kill me in my sleep.
But I don't have that fear anymore.
I am grateful.
After I closed the door, I continued down the stone path to the "new barn" or the "reception hall." It was the largest building on the property, and I had to enter through the kitchen because, at this point, it was the only door that was unlocked. All I had to do here was double check everything and lock that kitchen door behind me. The servers are supposed to turn everything out at the end of the night.
Walking back, I took the server's path, which ran behind the English courtyard. It was the same red stoned path where the dark figure of a man can sometimes be seen walking along. Once he even bumped into me.
I didn't want to see him either.
By the time I got back to the parking lot next to the inn. Next to building where I was staying. And there, in the darkness, I heard a voice.
"Who's there?" he said.
"Night-watch," I replied. "Go to bed."
And he did.
"Jeezus, that was easy," I said to myself.
Then I took a walk about the inn and tried to keep the thoughts of the ghost of a little girl that guests claim to see and/or hear from time to time out of my mind.
I then locked the back door when I was done, and went to bed.
Nothing really happened. I was proud of myself. I could do it. I proved it to myself.
That night, I slept. And, as I did, I dreamed that a man was standing in the threshold of the bedroom, staring down at me. He was angry. And there was a darkness that crept across the room, up the walls, and resonated from him.
Then I awoke. The morning sun was pouring through the blinds and I was hungry. The bedroom door was closed, and the man wasn't there anymore.
This job will be going on for the next several weeks. Wish me luck.
~Torres
Friday, November 14, 2014
Hot Static
Have you ever heard of shadow people? It's a particular "theory" that comes up from time to time when I'm discussing weird or supernatural fiction with others. I'll fill you in a bit....
Okay, so "shadow people"are--somewhat disturbing--images that people tend to see out of their peripheral vision. Now, let me ask you the following: have you ever noticed something moving out of the corner of your eye? Perhaps a swiftly moving lump of darkness that takes shelter behind a telephone pole or down an alleyway?
If so, have you ever wondered what it was? There are several theories.
Some believe that these dark features come from other dimensions. That we share a space between this world and others.
Then, there are those who claim that they are an energy source from this world. What some call "ghosts," or "paranormal energy."
Regardless of what you think, feel, or believe, the concept of "shadow people" is an interesting one to those whose curiosity reaches beyond the realm of the world that they perceive on a conscious basis.
By the way, I named this short post "Hot Static" after a description I had heard once when someone was referring to this "energy." It's what the individual claimed that it "felt and looked like."
Yes. It is going to become the title of one of my short stories...
If you have a story to share about this topic, leave it in the comment section. I can't wait to read them.
~Torres
Okay, so "shadow people"are--somewhat disturbing--images that people tend to see out of their peripheral vision. Now, let me ask you the following: have you ever noticed something moving out of the corner of your eye? Perhaps a swiftly moving lump of darkness that takes shelter behind a telephone pole or down an alleyway?
If so, have you ever wondered what it was? There are several theories.
Some believe that these dark features come from other dimensions. That we share a space between this world and others.
Then, there are those who claim that they are an energy source from this world. What some call "ghosts," or "paranormal energy."
Regardless of what you think, feel, or believe, the concept of "shadow people" is an interesting one to those whose curiosity reaches beyond the realm of the world that they perceive on a conscious basis.
By the way, I named this short post "Hot Static" after a description I had heard once when someone was referring to this "energy." It's what the individual claimed that it "felt and looked like."
Yes. It is going to become the title of one of my short stories...
If you have a story to share about this topic, leave it in the comment section. I can't wait to read them.
~Torres
Saturday, November 8, 2014
Subconjunctival hemorrhage
Haven't posted in a while, but I did injure my eye. Here's a poem about it.
_-_-_-_-_-
Subconjunctival hemorrhage
I got kicked in the face
By my pet rabbit
After he tried to eat a poisonous
Houseplant.
And I got scared.
Turning him upside down and
Lifting his jowls.
Whump!
I laughed.
Then my vision went blurry.
And I could tell
By the look in his face
That he regretted his decision
I was only trying to help.
I went to the ER
And all the Doctor's laughed at me.
I made their nights.
The pharmacist
Laughed at me too.
So did the ophthalmologist.
That's what i get for loving
Animals
A little too much.
One eye normal.
One eye that's halfway
To blood red.
There's a small scratch
On the white of my eye.
It's a word I've never said before.
I've had enough of waiting rooms.
With screaming kids
And slurring men
Reading the travel magazines out loud
All the while bitching about how poor they are.
When i finally got home,
My wife to be
Fixed my a gauze eye patch and taped it over my tell-tale flaw.
She's always prepared.
A real good woman.
She finds it sexy.
I feel like James Joyce.
Or some great gladiator
But only when my shirt's off.
Perhaps it's a good time to write
My own Ulysses.
Or try rabbit stew
For the first time.
___________
"I can see clearly now--the rain is gone..."
~Torres
_-_-_-_-_-
Subconjunctival hemorrhage
I got kicked in the face
By my pet rabbit
After he tried to eat a poisonous
Houseplant.
And I got scared.
Turning him upside down and
Lifting his jowls.
Whump!
I laughed.
Then my vision went blurry.
And I could tell
By the look in his face
That he regretted his decision
I was only trying to help.
I went to the ER
And all the Doctor's laughed at me.
I made their nights.
The pharmacist
Laughed at me too.
So did the ophthalmologist.
That's what i get for loving
Animals
A little too much.
One eye normal.
One eye that's halfway
To blood red.
There's a small scratch
On the white of my eye.
It's a word I've never said before.
I've had enough of waiting rooms.
With screaming kids
And slurring men
Reading the travel magazines out loud
All the while bitching about how poor they are.
When i finally got home,
My wife to be
Fixed my a gauze eye patch and taped it over my tell-tale flaw.
She's always prepared.
A real good woman.
She finds it sexy.
I feel like James Joyce.
Or some great gladiator
But only when my shirt's off.
Perhaps it's a good time to write
My own Ulysses.
Or try rabbit stew
For the first time.
___________
"I can see clearly now--the rain is gone..."
~Torres
Saturday, October 18, 2014
The Transparent Bride
Because my last post got a lot of attention since yesterday, I a story for ya. It's perfect for this time of year. Hope you like it.
_________
_________
The
Transparent Bride
By
Ryan J. Torres
Will was alone in the hotel when he heard footsteps above him.
Usually, it was easy to mistake footsteps in an empty house for old boards settling under the heat from the furnace. But this was different. This was distinct. It was high heels on hard wood.
The innkeeper left his paperwork, got out his chair, and made his way from his office and to the foot of the staircase. As he glanced up into the darkness of the second floor, he called out to the noise to see if anyone, the owner, the housekeeper, a groundskeeper, anybody, had made their way into the hotel and up the steps without Will noticing.
There was no response.
Step by step, Will made his way up. His eyes were transfixed on the light switch at the top of the staircase. And as he reached the top, he flicked the switch, and the main hallway of the second floor sprang to life.
Usually, it was easy to mistake footsteps in an empty house for old boards settling under the heat from the furnace. But this was different. This was distinct. It was high heels on hard wood.
The innkeeper left his paperwork, got out his chair, and made his way from his office and to the foot of the staircase. As he glanced up into the darkness of the second floor, he called out to the noise to see if anyone, the owner, the housekeeper, a groundskeeper, anybody, had made their way into the hotel and up the steps without Will noticing.
There was no response.
Step by step, Will made his way up. His eyes were transfixed on the light switch at the top of the staircase. And as he reached the top, he flicked the switch, and the main hallway of the second floor sprang to life.
The door to room 2, the one that was right above his office, was halfway
down the hall and on the left.
There was an eerie silence that tormented Will as he made his way toward the room. Even with the lights on, he hated the dreary hallways of the Colonial inn. The thin plastered walls with a solid moss-green coat and white trim mixing with the burgundy carpeting made him feel as though he was walking through a lung infection. But, loss of appetite aside, it was--after all--a steady paycheck.
Will dug his skeleton key out of his pocket and unlocked room 2. The door felt cold as he placed the palm of his left hand upon it and slowly pushed it open. His breath was stifled.
As the door was whining itself open all the way to the stopper, Will grazed the wallpaper for the light switch. But, for a moment, he hesitated flicking the switch. Harsh winter moonlight was pouring in through the two windows in the room and spilling onto the hardwood floor. Behind that light, there was an Italian leather fainting sofa. And, on that sofa, Will thought he saw the silhouette of a woman splayed across it. The outline of a head, neck, and shoulders were recognizable on the pillow of the chaise.
There was an eerie silence that tormented Will as he made his way toward the room. Even with the lights on, he hated the dreary hallways of the Colonial inn. The thin plastered walls with a solid moss-green coat and white trim mixing with the burgundy carpeting made him feel as though he was walking through a lung infection. But, loss of appetite aside, it was--after all--a steady paycheck.
Will dug his skeleton key out of his pocket and unlocked room 2. The door felt cold as he placed the palm of his left hand upon it and slowly pushed it open. His breath was stifled.
As the door was whining itself open all the way to the stopper, Will grazed the wallpaper for the light switch. But, for a moment, he hesitated flicking the switch. Harsh winter moonlight was pouring in through the two windows in the room and spilling onto the hardwood floor. Behind that light, there was an Italian leather fainting sofa. And, on that sofa, Will thought he saw the silhouette of a woman splayed across it. The outline of a head, neck, and shoulders were recognizable on the pillow of the chaise.
Will turned on the light.
No one was there.
With senses peaked,
he turned off the light and closed the door. Then, while walking back down the
hall, he caught his reflection in the small mirror that was hanging from the
wall. As he grew nearer to his reflection and, ultimately, the staircase, his
saw something else in the mirror, a silhouette of a woman, over his right
shoulder.
Will
spun around and examined the dimly lit hallway, but found nothing. He waited.
And when the hairs on the back of his neck rested once more, he turned again.
This
time, she was standing right in front of him. Her eyes were wide, black, and
accusing, and she wore a long, strapless wedding dress. Her dark hair wafted
around her head as if she were underwater.
Will
stepped back, away from the apparition, but found no footing between the top
step and the landing. He then fell backwards and rolled, all the way to the
bottom of the stairs.
As
Will laid there broken and choking for breath at the foot of the steps, the
transparent bride, who was descending the stairs after him, interrupted his
last mortal moments. Her arms were outstretched. Her eyes were wide and damned.
And her touch was a January eulogy as she claimed her new groom.
________
Happy Halloween.
~Torres
________
Happy Halloween.
~Torres
Friday, October 17, 2014
True Ghost Stories
Some believe. Some don't. Some see. Some don't.
I see... but it's always difficult to believe.
I see... but it's always difficult to believe.
______
I only use the term "ghost" when I'm writing a story because it appeals to the horror element (in relation to the readers). Any other time (when things actual happen to me) I use the term, "energy," "figure," or the phrase "what seemed to be" because they are less bias than other terms.
Now comes the fun part.
_________
My mother is the one who sees the bulk of the terrifying things that those with fingers still grasping their mortal coil cannot comprehend (how's that for a Lovecraftian opening?), but--when I came "of age"--I began to experience my own chilling episodes.
When I was a kid, we lived in the suburbs of Lebanon, Pennsylvania. The house in which my parents and I resided had a history. It had once been a funeral home for many years. And, throughout the span of the years that we lived there, my mother and I saw many things that my father never believed. My mother's stories, in relation to that house, are better than my own.
She told me, after we moved out of the house (for fear of scaring me even more) that she would be visited by several people that she could clearly see. If she was in her room folding laundry, she would often see "what appeared to be" a few men, who were dressed in suits that dated them back to the 1940's, passing through the room and disappearing through the wall. There were also times when she would see a girl of about six, who would run up and down the hall on the second floor and into one of the rooms. The girl wore a red dress with matching ribbons that were looped around each pigtail.
She saw all of this, and never told me a damn thing until we moved out of the house.
When we moved to the farm where my parents currently reside, I started to see things that, I too, was hesitant to share.When the farm on Lincoln Avenue was built, and the three of us settled in, something stirred. It wanted me to know.
It happened at 3:30 a.m., on a February morning. I awoke from sleep to the sound of boots coming up the spiral staircase, and down the hall towards my bedroom. They were heavy steps. Like a burly frame had sprouted from the tops of those boots and was making its way towards me. At first I thought it was my father. He rents apartments, and one of his buildings stands in a rougher part of the city. So, it wasn't uncommon for him to be woken up in the middle of the night because of some kind of disturbance. A few times he even took me with him for backup. However, this was altogether different. As soon as the boot steps were just outside my door, I began to experience what I call "the big chill." The chill starts at the tailbone and works all the way up the spine until your neck hairs are standing on end. It happens every time I am about to experience something.
I sat there and waited. And the waiting was otherworldly. It was as if I could feel the panic leaping out of my chest with every breath. I could feel the chill moving up and down my spine. I thought I heard breathing coming from someone else as I tried to stifle my own. I was damn sure that whatever was on the other side of that door was not my father.
When I was finally able to turn my head to look at the neon green glow of the alarm clock. It was 4:30 a.m.
After the realization of the time officially sank in, I decided to act. I stood up, fighting the fear and the cold, and crossed the room to the doorknob. It too was cold. I took a deep breath, hit the light switch, and pulled the door open.
The light that shone past me and into the hallway revealed nothing. Just silence and my shadow.
That was the last time I heard the boots in the house, but it wouldn't be the last time that I experienced that chill, or fear. There have been many times since. Most recently, there was an incident that took place in the school where I currently work. Let's just say that I went in there to drop off some donations on a Saturday night, alone, and something didn't want me there at all.
But that story will be for another time.
Boo...
~Torres
She saw all of this, and never told me a damn thing until we moved out of the house.
When we moved to the farm where my parents currently reside, I started to see things that, I too, was hesitant to share.When the farm on Lincoln Avenue was built, and the three of us settled in, something stirred. It wanted me to know.
It happened at 3:30 a.m., on a February morning. I awoke from sleep to the sound of boots coming up the spiral staircase, and down the hall towards my bedroom. They were heavy steps. Like a burly frame had sprouted from the tops of those boots and was making its way towards me. At first I thought it was my father. He rents apartments, and one of his buildings stands in a rougher part of the city. So, it wasn't uncommon for him to be woken up in the middle of the night because of some kind of disturbance. A few times he even took me with him for backup. However, this was altogether different. As soon as the boot steps were just outside my door, I began to experience what I call "the big chill." The chill starts at the tailbone and works all the way up the spine until your neck hairs are standing on end. It happens every time I am about to experience something.
I sat there and waited. And the waiting was otherworldly. It was as if I could feel the panic leaping out of my chest with every breath. I could feel the chill moving up and down my spine. I thought I heard breathing coming from someone else as I tried to stifle my own. I was damn sure that whatever was on the other side of that door was not my father.
When I was finally able to turn my head to look at the neon green glow of the alarm clock. It was 4:30 a.m.
After the realization of the time officially sank in, I decided to act. I stood up, fighting the fear and the cold, and crossed the room to the doorknob. It too was cold. I took a deep breath, hit the light switch, and pulled the door open.
The light that shone past me and into the hallway revealed nothing. Just silence and my shadow.
That was the last time I heard the boots in the house, but it wouldn't be the last time that I experienced that chill, or fear. There have been many times since. Most recently, there was an incident that took place in the school where I currently work. Let's just say that I went in there to drop off some donations on a Saturday night, alone, and something didn't want me there at all.
But that story will be for another time.
Boo...
~Torres
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Good Spirits
It's true that too much of a good thing can end poorly. That is especially true when it comes to drinking. I remember my first sip...
---
I was 5 years old, and, I was curious about the silver and red can that was next to my grandmother's rocker. I couldn't make out the words, but--with my grandest assumption possible--I thought that it was some sort of soda. I made sure to spring up from my Legos and make a grab for the can when she went to the kitchen to check on dinner. I seized the perspiring aluminum, took my first swig of the hop hazard, and tears immediately poured down my face as it greased my throat.
Then, my grandmother came back into the living room as I was placing the can back from whence I snatched it.
"Ryan," (or, as it is pronounced with a heavy Pennsylvanian German accent "Rhy-en") she said. "Did you jus' take a sip o' that ol' Milwahkay?"
My stomach turned. a kaleidoscope replaced my vision. I was confused, and poisoned. But still, I made an attempt to lie.
Then she cut me off.
"Ya shoulda jus' asked, hon," she said. "I would have given you one sip."
And that was my very first experience.
---
Since that time, I didn't drink anything else until I was 18 and my mother caught me with a bottle of Goldschlager in my room (I know...disgusting). I never spent time drinking, partying, or doing anything else until I was "of age" because I was too goal orientated and scared of my youth. I was lame by other peoples' standards.
Now, I take time to enjoy things (and not just a good Irish whiskey, a nice bottle of Cabernet with dinner, or a stout during the bleakest of Decembers). I'm becoming used to taking risks and reaping the benefits of dangling ones toes near the edge. And, as always, I've been taking advantage of how refreshing life can be when you shed the filters that hinder you speech, thought, and actions (within reason) and live not for others, but with others, and--most importantly--for yourself.
Okay, I'm done being a corny, albeit truthful (as always) little Puerto Rican/PA German bastard. Here's some poesy.
____________________
Why I drink
I don't get it.
I walk into the cafe
and all the kids look like
they stepped out of catalogs,
and off the pages of calendars.
They're not what I was promised.
They aren't as run down as me.
They fear their body hair
and their bodily functions.
They didn't have to smell their dinner
before they debated over whether of not
to eat
or starve.
I bet they don't know my freedom.
Or,
if they do,
I bet they aren't as afraid of it
as I am,
And the older crowd
They seem to rickety
in this town.
They refuse to believe
that the good days
are never dead and gone.
They don't look like flowers anymore.
They hang around until it's time
to push up daises.
The youth
aren't lost anymore.
Their shadows sit too heavy
upon their backs.
They crave distraction
and don't make time
to cradle sadness.
I'm afraid that they don't know how to live with themselves anymore.
A pint
should have remained a unit
of liquid measurement
whilst failing math class.
A shot
is for gambling,
or what rings out
while running away with something
that doesn't belong to you.
I should stop.
But they won't.
So, why bother?
____________________
My ride's here.
~Torres
---
I was 5 years old, and, I was curious about the silver and red can that was next to my grandmother's rocker. I couldn't make out the words, but--with my grandest assumption possible--I thought that it was some sort of soda. I made sure to spring up from my Legos and make a grab for the can when she went to the kitchen to check on dinner. I seized the perspiring aluminum, took my first swig of the hop hazard, and tears immediately poured down my face as it greased my throat.
Then, my grandmother came back into the living room as I was placing the can back from whence I snatched it.
"Ryan," (or, as it is pronounced with a heavy Pennsylvanian German accent "Rhy-en") she said. "Did you jus' take a sip o' that ol' Milwahkay?"
My stomach turned. a kaleidoscope replaced my vision. I was confused, and poisoned. But still, I made an attempt to lie.
Then she cut me off.
"Ya shoulda jus' asked, hon," she said. "I would have given you one sip."
And that was my very first experience.
---
Since that time, I didn't drink anything else until I was 18 and my mother caught me with a bottle of Goldschlager in my room (I know...disgusting). I never spent time drinking, partying, or doing anything else until I was "of age" because I was too goal orientated and scared of my youth. I was lame by other peoples' standards.
Now, I take time to enjoy things (and not just a good Irish whiskey, a nice bottle of Cabernet with dinner, or a stout during the bleakest of Decembers). I'm becoming used to taking risks and reaping the benefits of dangling ones toes near the edge. And, as always, I've been taking advantage of how refreshing life can be when you shed the filters that hinder you speech, thought, and actions (within reason) and live not for others, but with others, and--most importantly--for yourself.
Okay, I'm done being a corny, albeit truthful (as always) little Puerto Rican/PA German bastard. Here's some poesy.
____________________
Why I drink
I don't get it.
I walk into the cafe
and all the kids look like
they stepped out of catalogs,
and off the pages of calendars.
They're not what I was promised.
They aren't as run down as me.
They fear their body hair
and their bodily functions.
They didn't have to smell their dinner
before they debated over whether of not
to eat
or starve.
I bet they don't know my freedom.
Or,
if they do,
I bet they aren't as afraid of it
as I am,
And the older crowd
They seem to rickety
in this town.
They refuse to believe
that the good days
are never dead and gone.
They don't look like flowers anymore.
They hang around until it's time
to push up daises.
The youth
aren't lost anymore.
Their shadows sit too heavy
upon their backs.
They crave distraction
and don't make time
to cradle sadness.
I'm afraid that they don't know how to live with themselves anymore.
A pint
should have remained a unit
of liquid measurement
whilst failing math class.
A shot
is for gambling,
or what rings out
while running away with something
that doesn't belong to you.
I should stop.
But they won't.
So, why bother?
____________________
My ride's here.
~Torres
Thursday, September 18, 2014
100,000,000 Poets for Change
I wanted to take a second to post about an upcoming event. The details are as follows:
12:00PM - 12:45PM: Ellen Tepper, Celtic Harpist
*Satellite program held in the poetry tent
100 Thousand Poets for Change
at the Souderton Art Jam in Souderton Park
Saturday, September 27, 2014
10:00AM - 6:00PM
Souderton Community Park
Wile Ave & Reliance Rd
Souderton, PA 18964
Wile Ave & Reliance Rd
Souderton, PA 18964
Organizer: Joanne Leva Contact: joanneleva@comcast.
The lineup is below. The New Hope Poets have the 2:00 p.m. to 2:30 p.m time slot.
100TPC FINAL LINE-UP (2014)
10:00AM - 10:15AM: Set up by Boy Scouts Troup 401
10:15AM - 10:30AM: Musical Improvization and Political Satire by Rick Horner
*Satellite program held in the poetry tent
10:30AM – 11:30AM: Traveling Poets Project lead by MCPL Kristina Moriconi
10:30AM: - 11:00AM: Host, Aaren Perry
Poets: Catalina Rios, Lynn Levin
Theme: Embracing Change
11:00AM - 11:30PM: Brian Fanelli
Theme: Workers' Rights
11:30AM: - 12:00AM: Host, Uriah Young
Poets: Vicki Anderson, Karen Hana
Theme: Society's Cries Against War
12:00PM - 12:45PM: Ellen Tepper, Celtic Harpist
12:45PM - 1:00PM: Musical Improvization and Political Satire by Rick Horner
1:00PM - 1:30PM: Host, MCPL Kristina Moriconi
Poets: J.C. Todd, Laren McClung
Poets: J.C. Todd, Laren McClung
Theme: Conflict and Survival
1:30PM - 2:00PM: Host, Joanne Leva, founder of the Forgotten Voices Poetry Group
Poets: Marilyn Gross, Barbara Shisler, Jim Fillman, Steve Pollack, Dorothy Shelly,
Chris Bernstorf
Theme: Human Relationships: The Gifts We Give Eachother
*Satellite program held in the poetry tent
2:00PM – 3:00PM: Traveling Poets Project lead by MCPL Kristina Moriconi
2:00PM – 2:30PM: Host, Ryan Torres
Poets: Roy Smith, Amanda Midkiff
Theme: Let Love In
2:30PM – 3:00PM: Host, Elise Brand, SAHS Creative Writing Teacher
Poets: Souderton Area High School Creative Writing Students (grades 9-12)
Theme: Social Change through the High School Lens
Theme: Social Change through the High School Lens
3:00PM - 3:30PM: Host, Marylou Streznewski
Poets: MCPL Elizabeth Rivers, BCPL Bernadette McBride
Theme: The Environment
3:30PM - 4:00PM: Host, Cleveland Wall
Poet: Danielle Notaro
Theme: Economic Justice
4:00PM - 4:15PM: Musical Improvization and Political Satire by Rick Horner
4:00PM - 5:00PM: Host, BCPL Camille Norvaisas
Poets: Elizabeth Austin, Rodger Lowenthal
Theme: Women: Pressed (Op, Re, De or Im)
Hope to see you there.
~Torres
Monday, September 8, 2014
Up Jumped the Devil
I never really understood why people say that these current times are the worst that we've ever seen as a species (in all of human history). Usually, when somebody says something along the lines of "Cops are going crazy and killing people, journalists are being beheaded by fundamentalists, and Robin Williams is dead, this is the worst time in human history." I usually let it go. I find that it's not worth to argue about these kind of things because it's coming from an emotional standpoint. But, when I hear something like that statement more than once, I do something better. I write about it and explore the issue more.
What I am doing here is what I do every time before I begin writing a new project. I'm merely letting you take a glimpse inside of my head and wade in the tempest (if you're interested).
It was the worst of times. It was the worst of times.
I misquote that beloved opening to a great novel because that seems to be the general consensus of the 21st century according to the extremely religious. That we are living in a debouched age that is awaiting damnation and ushering in the apocalypse. Please note that I used some religious connotations there because it is becoming more and more evident, to me, that religious fervor is going to be the downfall of us all.
A spooky, unresponsive father figure
Think about it. I do all the time.
With a million religions in the world, and a million gods buzzing about, it feels like, for an agnostic, you may be playing Russian roulette with your soul. Besides my usual thought of "what's the point" before going off and worrying about real problems, I tend to think about the what if scenario. What if one of the religions was right? And just one religion. Not all of them, half of them, or 42 of them (get the reference?), but just one of them. I hope it's Bokononism.
Black Dog
It doesn't matter who you are or what you've accomplished, if you suffer from a mental disorder, it's going to take precedent over how awesome you may be. Robin Williams was awesome, but he still hanged himself because depression got the best of him. I think that's the catch-22 for everyone who is extremely creative. They always seem to suffer in silence until it is too late. You could spend all day naming such people (Jackson Pollock, Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemingway, etc.). I don't think suicide is selfish. I don't think it's a sin. I think carries a sense of honor, but people are usually too busy caring about their own sorrow because of the death that they refuse to celebrate the person's life and see them off properly. Now, I'm not saying that if you're suffering you should off yourself. You should get help. You're not alone.
And sometimes you need to heed your own advice.
Be kind, unwind
You do not, I repeat, do not have to be religious in order to be kind to other people. There seems to be a common misconception when it comes to the term "humble." It's not a religious term. But... like many words in our now bastardized language, we attach a made-up definition to it.
Just be nice. That's all. Well... actually, you should be nice, but if the person you're being nice to isn't interested in returning the courtesy then fuck em. Leave them alone.
"There's only one rule that I know of, babies-- god damn it, you've got to be kind." ~ Kurt Vonnegut.
In Con...fusion
I'm not a believer. And when you chose to believe in humanity rather than fantasy, people of "faith" either assume that you are lost, or that you are an evil person. I tell them that I am saved. I'm saved from having to live my life in fear of something that does not exist, OR, from loving something that does not profess its love back to me in any form. I'm saved from all of that because I think and ask questions. The two things that faith hates, and that the faithful do not have the concept of doing. I then tell them that I am not evil because, well, I just am not. In fact, the last time I checked, religion was the main reason behind most murder, wars, and torture than anything else in human history. The next of course being the fight for food, shelter, and reproduction. Which proves that we are nothing but animals, but happen to be more civilized now. Religion, however, has never seemed civilized. This is why they have to constantly change their teachings in order to appeal to an evolving society.
Think about it.
I'm done for now. This whole thing started because I was pulled into a religious debate and wanted to share the points I made there with everyone who reads this blog.
Think about it. But, most importantly, keep working on your art. It's your only true salvation.
Amen.
~Torres
What I am doing here is what I do every time before I begin writing a new project. I'm merely letting you take a glimpse inside of my head and wade in the tempest (if you're interested).
It was the worst of times. It was the worst of times.
I misquote that beloved opening to a great novel because that seems to be the general consensus of the 21st century according to the extremely religious. That we are living in a debouched age that is awaiting damnation and ushering in the apocalypse. Please note that I used some religious connotations there because it is becoming more and more evident, to me, that religious fervor is going to be the downfall of us all.
A spooky, unresponsive father figure
Think about it. I do all the time.
With a million religions in the world, and a million gods buzzing about, it feels like, for an agnostic, you may be playing Russian roulette with your soul. Besides my usual thought of "what's the point" before going off and worrying about real problems, I tend to think about the what if scenario. What if one of the religions was right? And just one religion. Not all of them, half of them, or 42 of them (get the reference?), but just one of them. I hope it's Bokononism.
Black Dog
It doesn't matter who you are or what you've accomplished, if you suffer from a mental disorder, it's going to take precedent over how awesome you may be. Robin Williams was awesome, but he still hanged himself because depression got the best of him. I think that's the catch-22 for everyone who is extremely creative. They always seem to suffer in silence until it is too late. You could spend all day naming such people (Jackson Pollock, Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemingway, etc.). I don't think suicide is selfish. I don't think it's a sin. I think carries a sense of honor, but people are usually too busy caring about their own sorrow because of the death that they refuse to celebrate the person's life and see them off properly. Now, I'm not saying that if you're suffering you should off yourself. You should get help. You're not alone.
And sometimes you need to heed your own advice.
Be kind, unwind
You do not, I repeat, do not have to be religious in order to be kind to other people. There seems to be a common misconception when it comes to the term "humble." It's not a religious term. But... like many words in our now bastardized language, we attach a made-up definition to it.
Just be nice. That's all. Well... actually, you should be nice, but if the person you're being nice to isn't interested in returning the courtesy then fuck em. Leave them alone.
"There's only one rule that I know of, babies-- god damn it, you've got to be kind." ~ Kurt Vonnegut.
In Con...fusion
I'm not a believer. And when you chose to believe in humanity rather than fantasy, people of "faith" either assume that you are lost, or that you are an evil person. I tell them that I am saved. I'm saved from having to live my life in fear of something that does not exist, OR, from loving something that does not profess its love back to me in any form. I'm saved from all of that because I think and ask questions. The two things that faith hates, and that the faithful do not have the concept of doing. I then tell them that I am not evil because, well, I just am not. In fact, the last time I checked, religion was the main reason behind most murder, wars, and torture than anything else in human history. The next of course being the fight for food, shelter, and reproduction. Which proves that we are nothing but animals, but happen to be more civilized now. Religion, however, has never seemed civilized. This is why they have to constantly change their teachings in order to appeal to an evolving society.
Think about it.
I'm done for now. This whole thing started because I was pulled into a religious debate and wanted to share the points I made there with everyone who reads this blog.
Think about it. But, most importantly, keep working on your art. It's your only true salvation.
Amen.
~Torres
Friday, August 29, 2014
"Newly" Published Stuff
I haven't posted anything in a while. And, truthfully, I don't know what to write tonight. I have a couple projects that I'm working on at the moment, but nothing worth posting about.
Apiary published one of my poems a couple months or so ago, and I forgot to post it. Enjoy.
APIARY Post
Please leave some love on APIARY's page. They are a great publication (and not just because they published my shit).
I'll knock another post out of the park later.
Cheers.
~Torres
Apiary published one of my poems a couple months or so ago, and I forgot to post it. Enjoy.
APIARY Post
Please leave some love on APIARY's page. They are a great publication (and not just because they published my shit).
I'll knock another post out of the park later.
Cheers.
~Torres
Monday, August 18, 2014
Past Work Doesn't Matter
"The only thing that interests me is what I'm going to write tomorrow night."
--
It's also nice to hear that other people begin to feel sick if they go more than two days without writing something.
I've been on a good kick for the past couple weeks. I've been able to write every day. I don't care if it's one sentence, one phrase, or just one word. It's always the right sentence, phrase, or word.
Because I'm lucky enough to find creativity every day, the dark days have been few and far between.
Enough for now. Here's a new poem.
______________________________
List poem are cliché
I love this shit.
I love this poetry and prose shit.
I love the way that my brain says “stop what your doing and put this down on paper because it’s time to make love without having to wax your carrot.”
I love it when the poetry is simple and you don’t need a dictionary.
I love when the booze mixes with hot august weather,
and it’s raining outside,
and I can just sit in my underwear and let the beads of sweat roll down towards the page.
I love the smell of just-before-the-rain moonlight.
I love the smell of old books.
I love the smell of oil on typewriter keys,
and licking my envelopes shut.
I love the minute of silence I get after the poem is down--
before the world crawls back in--
and my brain
and heart
and balls
become separate entities once again.
I love being broke.
And I love when the words don’t come
and I just sit there
and listen to my own heartbeat.
I love how people don’t take the most important thing seriously anymore
I love it even more because a brilliant man--
before he killed himself--
said that words and verse
can and will save this world.
I love him for saying that.
I love writing.
Editing.
Rewriting.
Editing.
Rewriting.
Editing.
Rewriting.
Editing.
Rewriting.
Final read.
Submission.
Rejection.
Submission.
Rejection.
Submission.
Rejection.
Submission.
Rejection.
Submission.
Acceptance.
Because it evokes a fire in me.
It is poetry
that helps me cope
with this mortal coil
that I have been given--
not by choice--
and not by creator,
but by personal genius.
I love this shit.
_________________________
I love you.
~Torres
--
It's also nice to hear that other people begin to feel sick if they go more than two days without writing something.
I've been on a good kick for the past couple weeks. I've been able to write every day. I don't care if it's one sentence, one phrase, or just one word. It's always the right sentence, phrase, or word.
Because I'm lucky enough to find creativity every day, the dark days have been few and far between.
Enough for now. Here's a new poem.
______________________________
List poem are cliché
I love this shit.
I love this poetry and prose shit.
I love the way that my brain says “stop what your doing and put this down on paper because it’s time to make love without having to wax your carrot.”
I love it when the poetry is simple and you don’t need a dictionary.
I love when the booze mixes with hot august weather,
and it’s raining outside,
and I can just sit in my underwear and let the beads of sweat roll down towards the page.
I love the smell of just-before-the-rain moonlight.
I love the smell of old books.
I love the smell of oil on typewriter keys,
and licking my envelopes shut.
I love the minute of silence I get after the poem is down--
before the world crawls back in--
and my brain
and heart
and balls
become separate entities once again.
I love being broke.
And I love when the words don’t come
and I just sit there
and listen to my own heartbeat.
I love how people don’t take the most important thing seriously anymore
I love it even more because a brilliant man--
before he killed himself--
said that words and verse
can and will save this world.
I love him for saying that.
I love writing.
Editing.
Rewriting.
Editing.
Rewriting.
Editing.
Rewriting.
Editing.
Rewriting.
Final read.
Submission.
Rejection.
Submission.
Rejection.
Submission.
Rejection.
Submission.
Rejection.
Submission.
Acceptance.
Because it evokes a fire in me.
It is poetry
that helps me cope
with this mortal coil
that I have been given--
not by choice--
and not by creator,
but by personal genius.
I love this shit.
_________________________
I love you.
~Torres
Thursday, August 7, 2014
A Modesty Proposal
"Be proud of what you've done, but don't look back. There's still plenty of work to do."
--
I like that quote. It's the exact way that I look at my art. When you get published... it's awesome. Enjoy it for about 2 minutes, then let it go. Think back on it when you're at your lowest, but other than that, keep moving forward. Keep working. Better your art.
Maya Angelou said that modesty was a terrible personality trait for writers of merit. I think that's a bunch of shit. There are too many narcissistic writers, artists, what-have-you. The last thing we need, aside from bullshit, is another asshole blowing it out on a regular basis.
Again... I ask you to be modest, despite your talent level. You do not know everything. And, more importantly, you have more work to do.
Time to shut up. Here's a poem.
_________________________________
--
I like that quote. It's the exact way that I look at my art. When you get published... it's awesome. Enjoy it for about 2 minutes, then let it go. Think back on it when you're at your lowest, but other than that, keep moving forward. Keep working. Better your art.
Maya Angelou said that modesty was a terrible personality trait for writers of merit. I think that's a bunch of shit. There are too many narcissistic writers, artists, what-have-you. The last thing we need, aside from bullshit, is another asshole blowing it out on a regular basis.
Again... I ask you to be modest, despite your talent level. You do not know everything. And, more importantly, you have more work to do.
Time to shut up. Here's a poem.
_________________________________
Like Termites
If
you give them the chance
And make the opening wide enough,
the poet's will come out
of the woodwork.
From patched roofs
to upscale coffee bars
with microphone functional,
they will come.
A field of dreams
for those the rest of humanity
fails to understand--
but were always curious about.
Those
who put down the books
and pick up the pens.
Those
lucky enough to lose their jobs
and worries along with it.
Those
With strong friendship
and family bonds
especially among themselves.
Those
with wine stained portfolios,
and the love of their lives
taging along--
never behind--
but right beside them.
Those
who have emerged from bookshelves
and books shops.
Those
who continue to live
though their gypsy hearts have given out.
Those
are the ones
who never leave.
And we know
who we
are.
And make the opening wide enough,
the poet's will come out
of the woodwork.
From patched roofs
to upscale coffee bars
with microphone functional,
they will come.
A field of dreams
for those the rest of humanity
fails to understand--
but were always curious about.
Those
who put down the books
and pick up the pens.
Those
lucky enough to lose their jobs
and worries along with it.
Those
With strong friendship
and family bonds
especially among themselves.
Those
with wine stained portfolios,
and the love of their lives
taging along--
never behind--
but right beside them.
Those
who have emerged from bookshelves
and books shops.
Those
who continue to live
though their gypsy hearts have given out.
Those
are the ones
who never leave.
And we know
who we
are.
__________________________________
Yup...
~Torres
Monday, August 4, 2014
Down, But Never Out
Depression...
It doesn't go away when you're a realist.
I remember being really depressed as a kid. I also remember having 42 board games in my closet and no siblings to play against. I remember having a busy, always inquisitive brain that would not, and still won't, quit. Being a teen didn't help at all. Not when your heroes were offing themselves left and right, and the six o'clock news was blaring from every room in the house.
I don't watch television anymore. The people like me aren't the ones that I see on the screen.
Nights like this spent alone (11:16 p.m. on a Monday, currently) is when it finds its way into my apartment. Melancholia brings her photo albums full of wasted years and sits next to me on this beer christened couch and puts her hand on my shoulder. She leans in close and whispers bitter nothings. She removes my armor and pulls me from the things that I am grateful for. She makes me self-destructive. She won't let you in.
I find myself waiting for the sun to rise.
I find myself longing to seize a new day.
But first,
I show her out.
Then,
I find
myself.
Writing it down is the first step.
I feel better already.
~Torres
It doesn't go away when you're a realist.
I remember being really depressed as a kid. I also remember having 42 board games in my closet and no siblings to play against. I remember having a busy, always inquisitive brain that would not, and still won't, quit. Being a teen didn't help at all. Not when your heroes were offing themselves left and right, and the six o'clock news was blaring from every room in the house.
I don't watch television anymore. The people like me aren't the ones that I see on the screen.
Nights like this spent alone (11:16 p.m. on a Monday, currently) is when it finds its way into my apartment. Melancholia brings her photo albums full of wasted years and sits next to me on this beer christened couch and puts her hand on my shoulder. She leans in close and whispers bitter nothings. She removes my armor and pulls me from the things that I am grateful for. She makes me self-destructive. She won't let you in.
I find myself waiting for the sun to rise.
I find myself longing to seize a new day.
But first,
I show her out.
Then,
I find
myself.
Writing it down is the first step.
I feel better already.
~Torres
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
The Great Read
Most writers tend to be narcissistic assholes who tend to wait for their turn to read instead of listening to the live ammunition that is firing out of other writers' mouths.
I say this with all the love that I can muster.
What's worst are the ones that achieve too greatly. The ones that lose sight of what was born inside them as a driving force in order to cope with their depression, addictions, raw childhoods, and what-have-yous. What's left is a money and power struggle that tends to force out bad writing instead. The kind of writing that is used to fill bookshelves and sell copies.
Do not lose touch with why you began creating you art in the first place.
Here's a little anecdote which involves one of these "authors" and myself:
--
New York City holds (maybe held is more appropriate at this point) a book fair every year in and around Bryant Park. It's called "The Great Read in the Park" or something to that effect. Anyways, a bunch of famous authors always get booked for this event because it's at the end of the summer, early fall, and that's the time of the year when most books are published and/or released (feel free to fact check that; I think I heard the statistic from a drunk man). So, besides having to deal with NYC pedestrian traffic, you have to deal with these book-loving jack-offs that buy special passes to meet special people and think less of you because, at the time, you happened to be a penniless college freshman who dreams of having a novel of your own published someday. You also have to find the room to squeeze past some huge egos that are radiating from the asses of these successful authors. Most of which do not want to be there meeting you, or the book-loving, special privilege assholes.
"Excuse me," says the lanky prick in the tweed jacket. "This line is reserved for VIP passes only."
"You mean this isn't the line for the bathroom?" I asked. "Sorry, man. I didn't realize that you don't shit and breathe like the rest of us."
He ignored my statement, of course. As well as the middle finger I held six inches from the back of his head.
I really do love all people.
I went with a good friend of mine to the Great Read in the Park in 2009. He's a real book addict with contacts around the Broadway district. The people at the theater book shops know him by name. He rambles to the city quite often via the Beiber Bus out of Kutztown University (my Alma Mater) and insisted that we go together this particular year to hear one particular author (who will remain nameless) be interviewed, give a reading, and then sign books afterwards. I told him that I would take a break from academia and go with him. My paper on Puritan literature could wait until the last possible second.
We took the bus together to the Port Authority and walked to Bryant Park, I took a moment to observe my surroundings and make mental notes on what was going on in NYC on that particular day (spoiler alert: it's still a cesspool).
Why does everything in New York City smell like pee. Straight up pee. Not strong pee with a hint of asparagus, but old pee. Not pee from an old person, but pee that has been peed out a while ago and the pee puddle has dried, but the smell still remains. Like walking into the room of an old cottage and saying to yourself "golly, it smells like old pee in here." That's what NYC smells like all the time. Does everyone who lives there get a free pass to pee wherever? Is it included with your rent, or can you apply for one at the DMV?
I want a pee pass...
Urination aside, there were also plenty of people to stare at. Homeless people being ignored, men and women dressed to the 9's, and twenty-somethings, like me, who looked like they bought their shitty-looking clothes from the store that day instead of taking the time to not do laundry and break their clothes in the way I've been doing.
When it comes to a toss up between laundry and books, I always go for the literature. Nobody ever wrote a good book about the their laundry routine (note to self, consider writing that book).
We got to the park a little before noon and were immediately sucked into the rushing crowds and arranged bouquets of shiny new hardbacks from the featured authors.The crowds, the noise, the smell of a fresh pompous ass around every booth clothed in forest green vinyl covers. God, it made me anxious.
I'm going to skip ahead to bring us to the piece de resistance.
After spending the day waiting in line to talk to a couple of famous authors (who will also remain nameless), We went into a building next the the park for the "main event."
Upon entering, my friend and I felt a great deal of confusion. There was hardly anybody in the main hall. But, as we moved down one white corridor and rounded a corner, we began to see signs of life. Posters, plants, and people scattered throughout. And they were beginning to pour into a large auditorium. We followed suit. And found our seats in the very front row.
A no-named host introduced himself as the "blah-blah" (God I need coffee) of the "University of Bloopity Bloop's Chair-yada-yada." Then, he introduced the author, who shuffled his scrawny, New-York-Time-Bestselling ass on the stage and waved. He then took his seat and began to answer every question the first jack-off could muster.
When the interview was over, I looked over at my friend. He did not seem impressed. I could tell. His brow was wrinkled and I thought I heard him mumble "horseshit."
After he left the room we were all directed down another white hallway to the book signing area. My friend and I were the first two people in line.
Now, the moment we've all been waiting for...
So there I was. So there he was. An unknown writer. A Times Best-Seller. The only thing dividing us was a velvet rope. But then, the security guard removed the rope, and the face-off began.
"Hello," he said.
"Sup?"
"So, who should I make this out to?"
So, they end sentences in prepositions too..."Ryan."
"Did you enjoy the talk?"
"Meh. It was cool, I guess."
"Well... Glad you thought it was--"
"Lemme ask you somethin'. Is this what it's all about?"
He stopped writing and shot me with a look that demanded an explanation. "Is what what it's all about."
"The best-seller list. The interviews. Good Morning America. All of these people standing in this line behind me. Is this what it's all about?"
He scowled. Sighed. And then retorted. "I love it. I wouldn't have it any other way."
I shook my head and smiled. "Not good enough, boss. I'll keep that in mind when I'm sitting on your side of the table."
That got him. He scribbled a little more. Closed the cover, and slid the book in front of me.
"Well, kid," he said. "I wish you the best of luck."
I took my book. Walking out in the hallway. And waited for my friend.
The bus ride home was longer than expected. I kept thinking about all those writers that struggled and struggled, and then were engulfed in the fires of fame and fortune. And, how some of them could never get back what the hunger gave to them in the beginning. I always dreamed of making a living off of my writing. But only a living.
I didn't go there to pick a fight. I was just a kid who wanted answers.
And shit, man... I got 'em.
Cheers,
~Torres
I say this with all the love that I can muster.
What's worst are the ones that achieve too greatly. The ones that lose sight of what was born inside them as a driving force in order to cope with their depression, addictions, raw childhoods, and what-have-yous. What's left is a money and power struggle that tends to force out bad writing instead. The kind of writing that is used to fill bookshelves and sell copies.
Do not lose touch with why you began creating you art in the first place.
Here's a little anecdote which involves one of these "authors" and myself:
--
New York City holds (maybe held is more appropriate at this point) a book fair every year in and around Bryant Park. It's called "The Great Read in the Park" or something to that effect. Anyways, a bunch of famous authors always get booked for this event because it's at the end of the summer, early fall, and that's the time of the year when most books are published and/or released (feel free to fact check that; I think I heard the statistic from a drunk man). So, besides having to deal with NYC pedestrian traffic, you have to deal with these book-loving jack-offs that buy special passes to meet special people and think less of you because, at the time, you happened to be a penniless college freshman who dreams of having a novel of your own published someday. You also have to find the room to squeeze past some huge egos that are radiating from the asses of these successful authors. Most of which do not want to be there meeting you, or the book-loving, special privilege assholes.
"Excuse me," says the lanky prick in the tweed jacket. "This line is reserved for VIP passes only."
"You mean this isn't the line for the bathroom?" I asked. "Sorry, man. I didn't realize that you don't shit and breathe like the rest of us."
He ignored my statement, of course. As well as the middle finger I held six inches from the back of his head.
I really do love all people.
I went with a good friend of mine to the Great Read in the Park in 2009. He's a real book addict with contacts around the Broadway district. The people at the theater book shops know him by name. He rambles to the city quite often via the Beiber Bus out of Kutztown University (my Alma Mater) and insisted that we go together this particular year to hear one particular author (who will remain nameless) be interviewed, give a reading, and then sign books afterwards. I told him that I would take a break from academia and go with him. My paper on Puritan literature could wait until the last possible second.
We took the bus together to the Port Authority and walked to Bryant Park, I took a moment to observe my surroundings and make mental notes on what was going on in NYC on that particular day (spoiler alert: it's still a cesspool).
Why does everything in New York City smell like pee. Straight up pee. Not strong pee with a hint of asparagus, but old pee. Not pee from an old person, but pee that has been peed out a while ago and the pee puddle has dried, but the smell still remains. Like walking into the room of an old cottage and saying to yourself "golly, it smells like old pee in here." That's what NYC smells like all the time. Does everyone who lives there get a free pass to pee wherever? Is it included with your rent, or can you apply for one at the DMV?
I want a pee pass...
Urination aside, there were also plenty of people to stare at. Homeless people being ignored, men and women dressed to the 9's, and twenty-somethings, like me, who looked like they bought their shitty-looking clothes from the store that day instead of taking the time to not do laundry and break their clothes in the way I've been doing.
When it comes to a toss up between laundry and books, I always go for the literature. Nobody ever wrote a good book about the their laundry routine (note to self, consider writing that book).
We got to the park a little before noon and were immediately sucked into the rushing crowds and arranged bouquets of shiny new hardbacks from the featured authors.The crowds, the noise, the smell of a fresh pompous ass around every booth clothed in forest green vinyl covers. God, it made me anxious.
I'm going to skip ahead to bring us to the piece de resistance.
After spending the day waiting in line to talk to a couple of famous authors (who will also remain nameless), We went into a building next the the park for the "main event."
Upon entering, my friend and I felt a great deal of confusion. There was hardly anybody in the main hall. But, as we moved down one white corridor and rounded a corner, we began to see signs of life. Posters, plants, and people scattered throughout. And they were beginning to pour into a large auditorium. We followed suit. And found our seats in the very front row.
A no-named host introduced himself as the "blah-blah" (God I need coffee) of the "University of Bloopity Bloop's Chair-yada-yada." Then, he introduced the author, who shuffled his scrawny, New-York-Time-Bestselling ass on the stage and waved. He then took his seat and began to answer every question the first jack-off could muster.
When the interview was over, I looked over at my friend. He did not seem impressed. I could tell. His brow was wrinkled and I thought I heard him mumble "horseshit."
After he left the room we were all directed down another white hallway to the book signing area. My friend and I were the first two people in line.
Now, the moment we've all been waiting for...
So there I was. So there he was. An unknown writer. A Times Best-Seller. The only thing dividing us was a velvet rope. But then, the security guard removed the rope, and the face-off began.
"Hello," he said.
"Sup?"
"So, who should I make this out to?"
So, they end sentences in prepositions too..."Ryan."
"Did you enjoy the talk?"
"Meh. It was cool, I guess."
"Well... Glad you thought it was--"
"Lemme ask you somethin'. Is this what it's all about?"
He stopped writing and shot me with a look that demanded an explanation. "Is what what it's all about."
"The best-seller list. The interviews. Good Morning America. All of these people standing in this line behind me. Is this what it's all about?"
He scowled. Sighed. And then retorted. "I love it. I wouldn't have it any other way."
I shook my head and smiled. "Not good enough, boss. I'll keep that in mind when I'm sitting on your side of the table."
That got him. He scribbled a little more. Closed the cover, and slid the book in front of me.
"Well, kid," he said. "I wish you the best of luck."
I took my book. Walking out in the hallway. And waited for my friend.
The bus ride home was longer than expected. I kept thinking about all those writers that struggled and struggled, and then were engulfed in the fires of fame and fortune. And, how some of them could never get back what the hunger gave to them in the beginning. I always dreamed of making a living off of my writing. But only a living.
I didn't go there to pick a fight. I was just a kid who wanted answers.
And shit, man... I got 'em.
Cheers,
~Torres
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Keeping the Fire Burning
The following is a rejection letter that I received this past Monday. It has been copied word-for-word for accurate documentation (the name of the magazine has been removed). I missed publication because my poem was, simply, too damn long for the page. I would like to thank the editor for not suggesting to change the poem in any way.
"I am putting together the submissions for review now and I noticed that your poem "The First Day of Spring..." exceeds our line limit, so unfortunately, we won't consider that one for publication. Please continue to submit to _______________-- your voice here is so strong and I really loved the comparisons you forced throughout the poem -- from the title to the last line. Because we try to include as many poems as possible in the print version, we have to adhere to a line limit of 34 lines.
Again, please continue submitting. I look forward to reading more from you!"
Yes, I am going to resubmit. The only problem is that I don't feel comfortable sending the couple poems that I have ready (which are less than 34 lines) because they are either in my chapbook, or have been picked up by other publications. I'll have to dig some poems out of one of the notebooks I carry around with me.
The poem, in case your curious, is about the day that the hate-filled leader of the Westboro Baptist Church died. It's not a poem about hating him in return (never hate, friends. It only creates more useless venom), but, instead, elaborating on how society will move forward a lot smoother without him.
"I am putting together the submissions for review now and I noticed that your poem "The First Day of Spring..." exceeds our line limit, so unfortunately, we won't consider that one for publication. Please continue to submit to _______________-- your voice here is so strong and I really loved the comparisons you forced throughout the poem -- from the title to the last line. Because we try to include as many poems as possible in the print version, we have to adhere to a line limit of 34 lines.
Again, please continue submitting. I look forward to reading more from you!"
Yes, I am going to resubmit. The only problem is that I don't feel comfortable sending the couple poems that I have ready (which are less than 34 lines) because they are either in my chapbook, or have been picked up by other publications. I'll have to dig some poems out of one of the notebooks I carry around with me.
The poem, in case your curious, is about the day that the hate-filled leader of the Westboro Baptist Church died. It's not a poem about hating him in return (never hate, friends. It only creates more useless venom), but, instead, elaborating on how society will move forward a lot smoother without him.
You want to read the poem? Leave a comment below expressing some interest and I'll post it next time (it's the only way I know if anyone is actually reading this thing).
Cheers,
~Torres
Monday, July 21, 2014
The Things We Don't Leave Behind
I remember the kitchen cupboard in my grandparents house. The cupboard had always been there, but I remember that, when I was very young, I was never allowed to open it no matter how much the fancy plates, salt and pepper shakers, various vases, and bottles enticed me. I wanted to be Indiana Jones and they were lost treasures.
I remember how my grandmother would yell (just enough) to get me away from that cupboard when I reached for the cabinets doors in an attempt to put Juicy Juice in one of the Indiana harvest carnival glass cups because I was convinced that one drink of sugar water from one of those cups would give me super powers. They would make me invincible, or grant me the ability to fly. But, alas, those childhood dreams would be forever rejected, and forced back into the ooze of nostalgia when the harsh words came running forth from the mouth of one Pennsylvania Dutch woman.
My grandparents are moving. They are downsizing because time and taxes have caught up with them. Now, I own the those very same cups, as well as the pitcher that goes with them, and other things that deserve to stay in the family for another generation. What happened yesterday is what I like to call the lifespan of a memory. It had a just close. Something bittersweet that you can appreciate. I will carry these simple things with me for as long as fate sees fit. All the while knowing that they could break in an instant. I will keep in mind that they are just things, but the beauty of the memory will resonate within me, and now you, for the rest of our lives. One small boy's dream for superpowers. One grown man's appreciation for his grandmother's prized possessions.
It's often funny, the things we remember. Now, pass the Juicy Juice.
Okay, I gave you some of my own nostalgia. Now, let me share with you a poem about one of my father's worst memories. And, once again, a bit of appreciation.
__________________________________
I remember how my grandmother would yell (just enough) to get me away from that cupboard when I reached for the cabinets doors in an attempt to put Juicy Juice in one of the Indiana harvest carnival glass cups because I was convinced that one drink of sugar water from one of those cups would give me super powers. They would make me invincible, or grant me the ability to fly. But, alas, those childhood dreams would be forever rejected, and forced back into the ooze of nostalgia when the harsh words came running forth from the mouth of one Pennsylvania Dutch woman.
My grandparents are moving. They are downsizing because time and taxes have caught up with them. Now, I own the those very same cups, as well as the pitcher that goes with them, and other things that deserve to stay in the family for another generation. What happened yesterday is what I like to call the lifespan of a memory. It had a just close. Something bittersweet that you can appreciate. I will carry these simple things with me for as long as fate sees fit. All the while knowing that they could break in an instant. I will keep in mind that they are just things, but the beauty of the memory will resonate within me, and now you, for the rest of our lives. One small boy's dream for superpowers. One grown man's appreciation for his grandmother's prized possessions.
It's often funny, the things we remember. Now, pass the Juicy Juice.
Okay, I gave you some of my own nostalgia. Now, let me share with you a poem about one of my father's worst memories. And, once again, a bit of appreciation.
__________________________________
The Italian
You strapped the Italian
to the back
of your Yamaha
motorcycle
and made your way to work.
I can feel your stomach hurting.
your curly,
Puerto Rican locks
tucked into your helmet
like steel wool
against foam
and hard plastic.
You had hunger pains.
Not from missing breakfast.
But from missing breakfast
for the second day in a row.
The motor roared.
Your stomach growled.
As you drove to one
Of the three jobs
You had back then.
It was because you had a newborn
who was lactose intolerant.
And the formula was unreasonably expensive
For 1987.
You checked the Italian
At the 8th street light.
You check the Italian
On Lehman street.
You got comfortable.
And you kept moving through downtown Lebanon,
back when the city was still hopeful.
I can see you
Parking.
Turning the bike off.
Dismounting.
And the look of shock in your face
when you realize that the Italian
was gone.
Your last five dollars
bought the foot-long sub,
a Coke,
and a bag of chips,
which you would never know the taste of.
It would be a victory
that you would never experience.
It would be a lunch hour
spent staring at the clock,
and thinking about your son
who never stopped crying
because he could never drink
from his own mother.
I’m sorry.
For everything,
and for nothing.
and for nothing.
Yesterday,
I won $50
On a scratch-off ticket
And I thought of you
At 18.
I wished I had a time machine.
I would have bought us both one,
I would have broke my vegetarianism.
I would have sat in the lunchroom.
Two blue chairs.
One gray table.
I would have eaten with you
in beautiful silence.
I promise that I have never taken a meal
for granted.
I eat every bite.
I eat every bite.
I have no son.
But I am one.
And
I have you
to thank
for
nourishment.
_____________________________________
Pay it forward. Give back. Keep your head up. Boogey down.
~Torres
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
It's Not Hard, Not Far to Reach
I was, and still am struggling with this post. I think it's because I've been working on other things. That, and because I'm on vacation in the Outer Banks.
Typically, a vacation, for me, is a time to do nothing but catch up on reading books (I brought 20 because I didn't exactly know which ones I wanted to read), and writing my next-great-anything (to me at least. You can think that it sucks if you like).
For those that care, and I'm assuming that you might since you're reading these electronic brain farts of mine, I have begun writing a new play. I will not tell you what it is about. All I can say is that the last time I wrote one, it won a contest and I was able to see my mentor and friend act out the role that I had originally molded and wrote for him. It was one of the highlights of my writing career (NOTE: a career of mostly rejection letters and sprinkles of self loathing).
In other news....
In case you didn't know, Tommy Ramone died a few days ago. He was the last living--original--member of the fathers of punk music. I remember getting into the Ramones after Dee Dee Ramone died of a heroin overdose in 2002. Joey died the year before. Then before graduating high school, at the height of what the girl who sat behind me in homeroom called Mr. Ramones Rocker, all into the grunge scene, we lost Johnny Ramone; The drill sergeant of the group.
I wore a leather jacket and ripped jeans. My friends and I would listen to the Ramones religiously, and mourn for the revolutionaries that we would never see in concert. Tommy Ramone's death re-hatched a bit of sadness that I haven' felt since Joe Strummer died.
Here ya go, kids. The Ramones covering Tom Waits. Nothing better. And, nothing ever will be.
Also, because I'm feeling generous, here's a poem.
_________________________________________
_________________________________
Rock on.
~Torres
Typically, a vacation, for me, is a time to do nothing but catch up on reading books (I brought 20 because I didn't exactly know which ones I wanted to read), and writing my next-great-anything (to me at least. You can think that it sucks if you like).
For those that care, and I'm assuming that you might since you're reading these electronic brain farts of mine, I have begun writing a new play. I will not tell you what it is about. All I can say is that the last time I wrote one, it won a contest and I was able to see my mentor and friend act out the role that I had originally molded and wrote for him. It was one of the highlights of my writing career (NOTE: a career of mostly rejection letters and sprinkles of self loathing).
In other news....
In case you didn't know, Tommy Ramone died a few days ago. He was the last living--original--member of the fathers of punk music. I remember getting into the Ramones after Dee Dee Ramone died of a heroin overdose in 2002. Joey died the year before. Then before graduating high school, at the height of what the girl who sat behind me in homeroom called Mr. Ramones Rocker, all into the grunge scene, we lost Johnny Ramone; The drill sergeant of the group.
I wore a leather jacket and ripped jeans. My friends and I would listen to the Ramones religiously, and mourn for the revolutionaries that we would never see in concert. Tommy Ramone's death re-hatched a bit of sadness that I haven' felt since Joe Strummer died.
Here ya go, kids. The Ramones covering Tom Waits. Nothing better. And, nothing ever will be.
Also, because I'm feeling generous, here's a poem.
_________________________________________
Genesis
There
was a simpler time,
but it didn’t last that long.
I didn’t choose to write poetry.
I could have been a carpenter.
I could have had a business.
I could have had money.
I didn’t choose to write poetry.
He awoke me one day
from a glorious sleep
with a violent shake
when I was much younger
and said,
“Hey man. I need to crash here for a while.”
I haven’t slept well since.
I’m always tired.
He keeps waking me up
in the middle of the night
with wild ideas,
and demands that I write them down
for him.
He likes the blues,
and cheap wine.
Walking outside during rainy night.
And stealing the lives of strangers
but it didn’t last that long.
I didn’t choose to write poetry.
I could have been a carpenter.
I could have had a business.
I could have had money.
I didn’t choose to write poetry.
He awoke me one day
from a glorious sleep
with a violent shake
when I was much younger
and said,
“Hey man. I need to crash here for a while.”
I haven’t slept well since.
I’m always tired.
He keeps waking me up
in the middle of the night
with wild ideas,
and demands that I write them down
for him.
He likes the blues,
and cheap wine.
Walking outside during rainy night.
And stealing the lives of strangers
to
turn into his next-great-anything.
I’m the only one who pays rent.
Even though he swears he'll be good for it
one day.
He never eats my food.
Even though he's always starving.
On his best days,
he devours typewriter ribbon
and downs Indian ink
first thing in the morning.
There was a time
that he took a vacation,
and disappeared,
for months.
So, I waited for him to come back.
I had almost given up hope
and settled for the typical
and mundane,
but then I saw him
rise from the dust on the bookshelves,
sit at the typewriter,
and begin again.
And he's still here,
for now.
We're taking bets
on who will die first.
Because it's the only thing
we don't know about each other.
I’m the only one who pays rent.
Even though he swears he'll be good for it
one day.
He never eats my food.
Even though he's always starving.
On his best days,
he devours typewriter ribbon
and downs Indian ink
first thing in the morning.
There was a time
that he took a vacation,
and disappeared,
for months.
So, I waited for him to come back.
I had almost given up hope
and settled for the typical
and mundane,
but then I saw him
rise from the dust on the bookshelves,
sit at the typewriter,
and begin again.
And he's still here,
for now.
We're taking bets
on who will die first.
Because it's the only thing
we don't know about each other.
_________________________________
Rock on.
~Torres
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Made By This Human
There's nothing quite like waiting five months for one poem to be published. I'm not being a smartass... I think it's great. It gives you time to forget about the fact that you were published in the first place. So, as you begin to drown in rejection letters, you suddenly get a pleasant notification that tells you "Hello. Remember us? Your poem is online now for all the world to see if they would like to take the minute to read it." Then, sometimes, they invite you to read at an open mic that they are hosting. And, maybe if you're not leaving for Canada during that time for something work related, you would go and read something different to a crowd full of fresh faces.
Let the cards fall. And be grateful that they chose something of yours in the first place.
Here is the link:
http://apiarymagazine.com/leonardo-never-dreams-ryan-j-torres/
There is another publication that will be placing another one of my poems on their website sometime during this month. I'll post it when they send me the notification.
Also, Beat Night is tomorrow. Come to the New Hope Art Center at 7 p.m. and bring a friend, a poem, and some wine. Or, your could just bring your body, plant it in a chair, and listen to all the beauty and insanity that we can muster.
I look forward to seeing you there.
Let the cards fall. And be grateful that they chose something of yours in the first place.
Here is the link:
http://apiarymagazine.com/leonardo-never-dreams-ryan-j-torres/
There is another publication that will be placing another one of my poems on their website sometime during this month. I'll post it when they send me the notification.
Also, Beat Night is tomorrow. Come to the New Hope Art Center at 7 p.m. and bring a friend, a poem, and some wine. Or, your could just bring your body, plant it in a chair, and listen to all the beauty and insanity that we can muster.
I look forward to seeing you there.
Monday, July 7, 2014
Dangling in the Tournefortia
The past two weeks have been a struggle. I wish I could figure out how to get a novel off of the ground and run with it, but something keeps holding me back. I don't think it's time yet...
In case you were wondering, the feature I had last Thursday went well. Although the town got dumped on with buckets upon buckets of rain, the turnout was decent. The people were great (thank you to those who came out to support).
I've come to the conclusion a while ago that relaxation and writing don't mix well with my personality. I've always been more productive when I've given myself deadlines. Maybe that's what I'll have to do about the next chapbook in order to get things moving along. There's only one problem... the goddamn typewriter doesn't write this shit for me.
Is Mercury out of retrograde yet?
Enough astrology... Poetry time (it's an old one that I found in a stack of papers in my filing cabinet).
___________________________
The Way He Drank
It wasn't about how well
he could could get it all out of him,
and put the demons on the page
before they consumed him.
It was the way he drank
that I found the most poetic.
I saw a picture
in which
she--
smiling--
wrapped her arms around his
bulging waste,
as he
lifted that bottle to his lips,
threw back his head
as far as it would go
until it became a shelf
for afternoon sunlight.
He must have been drinking
to drown one special demon
that he had noticed
creeping down from his heart
to the pit of his stomach--
and taking a break to rest--
before crawling down to his colon
and yanking that wild hair
he had up his ass.
No matter how much you drink,
You
will
always
drown
first.
The picture depicted what was most important
to him.
And she
just thought the world of that man.
Cheers.
________________________________________
Yours,
~Torres
In case you were wondering, the feature I had last Thursday went well. Although the town got dumped on with buckets upon buckets of rain, the turnout was decent. The people were great (thank you to those who came out to support).
I've come to the conclusion a while ago that relaxation and writing don't mix well with my personality. I've always been more productive when I've given myself deadlines. Maybe that's what I'll have to do about the next chapbook in order to get things moving along. There's only one problem... the goddamn typewriter doesn't write this shit for me.
Is Mercury out of retrograde yet?
Enough astrology... Poetry time (it's an old one that I found in a stack of papers in my filing cabinet).
___________________________
The Way He Drank
It wasn't about how well
he could could get it all out of him,
and put the demons on the page
before they consumed him.
It was the way he drank
that I found the most poetic.
I saw a picture
in which
she--
smiling--
wrapped her arms around his
bulging waste,
as he
lifted that bottle to his lips,
threw back his head
as far as it would go
until it became a shelf
for afternoon sunlight.
He must have been drinking
to drown one special demon
that he had noticed
creeping down from his heart
to the pit of his stomach--
and taking a break to rest--
before crawling down to his colon
and yanking that wild hair
he had up his ass.
No matter how much you drink,
You
will
always
drown
first.
The picture depicted what was most important
to him.
And she
just thought the world of that man.
Cheers.
________________________________________
Yours,
~Torres
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)