Tis' the Season

Fuck football.

I can watch men in tight pants having a pissing contest anywhere.

The president-elect is a traitor to the US,

but the racists and rich won't admit it.

Screw Hockey.

I'd rather go to the dentist and get a root canal.

The Russians are getting there puppet in the white house without firing a shot.

But the democratic train keeps chugging as engine room catches fire.

To hell with Christmas.

Haven't you figured out that it's all a terrible lie yet?

The marginally disenfranchised are scared for their lives. 

I wonder when they will show up and burn my books like a Yule log.

Damn 2016.

It took too many good and brought out the worst in the rest.

Syrian children sing for a god that does not exist as hanger doors open.

Boom. 

There isn't enough ink and paper in the world. 

There isn't enough poetry in the world.

There isn't enough common sense in the world.

There isn't enough equality in the world. 

There isn't enough LOVE in the world.

The veil of ignorance is too long. 

To dark.

To far-reaching. 

It covers our purple mountains.

Our amber fields.

And our spacious skies. 

There's too much hate.

There's too much divide.

There's too much fear.

There aren't enough heroes.

They are too distracted by their television sets.

They are too busy wrapping presents for spoiled, fat children.

Everything is ass-backwards.

Was it always this bad?

Someone?

There. 

I've written my poem.

Are they on their way now?

Apologies

Sorry folks... 

Been really busy, but things have been pretty good overall. I'll be posting more when the mood strikes me. The winter seems to be the best time to get some writing and editing done, and I'll be doing more and more as the months drag on. 

If you're still here, thank you.

Be well. 

~Torres

Door, Locked

In the morning

there was still paint

on my fingers

from fixing the door

frame

with super glue.

Last night,

I kicked it open

when you locked me out of the bedroom.

I only wanted to talk.

I still don't know what the fight was about.

And I'm too flawed to understand.

I think it's the fear

of being locked out.

Locked out of parent arguments.

Locked out of The Perini brothers' tree fort.

Locked out of feeling my own torrent emotions

for fear of having my masculinity questioned.

Locked out of too many bedrooms before.

I won't let it happen in my house. 

I won't let it happen in my bedroom.

I know that this won't open a door of conversation.

But in my mammalian brain,

it's a start.

One. Less. Locked. Door.

Strong women shout "No more glass ceilings."

The traumatized man sobs "No more locked doors."

So my foot rang the bell.

In one swift--albeit impressive--kick. 

I fixed the door lock

while you took a shower

and shed silent Irish tears.

This morning,

I cried in the bathroom. 

Last night I cried with a scotch in hand

in the kitchen after it happened.

I got to work

and cried in the cafeteria

while the children walked to class.

I didn't hit you.

But I scared you.

And that scared me.

I can't picture 

a world without you.

But I will gladly kick open a thousand doors.

Just to see your autumn eyes,

and your autumn hair,

and feel my autumn darkness

spill from my soul

and engulf our house.

Sometimes, I think it's the world that's haunted.

And not us.

And we're victims of the horror.

The horror of too much work.

The horror of too little money.

The horror of not having immortality 

to the point that death seems like a release.

That night,

I waited for you to fall asleep

and held your hand.

I learned my lesson,

and spent the next day

picking paint from my fingernails.

Searching for a Former Clarity

I'm getting to that age where people talk about their "Good Old Days", and then someone will immediately say "Man, if I could go back..." 

Personally, I've never had the urge. And I know why.

I look at my life in stages. Like a grand play that I was lucky enough to survive (up until this point, of course). But the struggle and hardships that came out of those periods--some of which don't hold a candle to what most experience--are things that I would not like to relive. 

First and foremost--despite any embarrassing moments, missed opportunities, and the countless hours of depression that seemed to seep out of ever pore-- I would hate to relieve the journey I had to take to find my voice. 

As a writer, you have one thing that you can fall back on when you're not letting the things you love kill you every day. You have a voice. One that seems to sync and fuse the brain, heart, and guts together to actively create your works and, ultimately, save you from yourself.

My voice has always been my salvation. Without it, I am nothing. It has always been a noble paladin with a lit torch, locating the demons in the darkness of my imagination, bringing them to light, and then spilling their blood across white pages. 

I am but her humble narrator. And, even now, it's comforting to write about her.

I'm at a low point this morning. I'll snap out of it soon. She'll find me again when she's ready. Then, my muse and I will dance once again. 

Cheers,

~Torres

One Political Poem That Was Birthed From Fact Before Dying Belly Up Like a Turtle in the Sun

You're voting for him.

Even though he makes comments about women and their looks

and insults them if they don't meet his definition of beauty.

You're voting for him.

He mocks the disability

of a journalist 

who won the New York Times

a Pulitzer Prize.

But you're gonna punch his ticket.

He jokes about the Purple Heart,

and defines his own war heroes,

even though he's never served.

But his name is still on the ballot.

He tells African Americans

that they've never had it worse

(ignoring Jim Crow and slavery).

And tells Mexicans 

and Muslims 

that they are unwanted. 

That they are terrorists

and criminals.

But you're gonna give him your vote.

He has no plans.

But he wants to wall off the free world.

And he has no policies,

except for climbing into Putin's back pocket.

But you're going to have him represent us in front 

of the UN and NATO.

His catchphrase is "You're fired."

So you're going to hand him nuclear weapons

and access to the Pentagon.

He's bankrupt.

And the only things he's managed to run

were marriages 

and businesses

and poor lives

into the ground 

for his own gain.

He's lived spoiled

and oblivious

for 70 years.

And got his start from daddy's

gift of millions.

But you're going to give him the keys

to the mint 

while you struggle to make rent

and keep your kids fed.

He is a fascist. 

He's what Woody Guthrie sang against

and the artist has painted

and written against

in order to--peacefully--

scream in the face of the public 

in an attempt to wake them up.

Let. Reason. In. 

Turn off Fox news.

Read the news reports from other countries.

Think critically.

Ask questions. 

Demand evidence.

There is a reason

why scientists,

teachers,

philanthropists,

and activists

do not embrace him.

There is a reason

why people who keep us moving forward

do not side with him.

Do not help him hold us back.

Do not let him win.

He is our tangerine Hitler.
Our orange Stalin.
He is a failure in wolf's clothing
and red power tie.

He is the GOP's
Frankenstein's monster.

And we are about
to be
the windmill.

Joe's Laugh

I asked him

if he wanted to see

a "ghost caught on tape."

And he smiled-- 

Ear to ear--

and said "yes."

So, we went into my classroom 

and I pointed to the spot on door 

where I had taped

a picture

of a cartoon ghost

wrapped in scotch tape

and hung it from the wall.

A joke.

I thought he was going to wet his pants.

He:

special education,

sensory processing problems,

bone problems,

and ADHD,

was now able to understand puns.

Joe's laughter

when he understood the joke

was different than when he didn't.

I was used to him laughing 

just so that he could fit in.

and his classmates--

who had some of the same problems that he did--

would not question him.

Would not make him feel

uncomfortable.

He laughter 

was robust.

He sounded like his father 

when he got the joke.

He became an opened window

of what normal life would look like 

for this 20-something,

who was a galaxy

of kind words

and helpful actions.

If genetics was kind.

If birth was easy.

If seeds and eggs were always as perfect as untouched snow.

If god would have existed for a split second.

If I could have gotten to him sooner.

Joe's laughter followed me home that night.

I was tired,

but the dog needed walking,

and the wife needed to get out of the house. 

 

So we got into the car,

and even though the day was grey

and cold,

I counted dandelions

and stopped to observe the blue heron by the creek.

I ate dinner slowly.

I closed my eyes and listened to the bonfire crackle.

My favorite drink

became second-rate

when I finally stopped to taste it.

The debt,

and the poor pay,

and the long work hours,

and the frustrations of this absurd life

gathered like pools of wax

at the base of my life's flame.

And I laughed too.

Shout-out

I would like to give a shout-out.
An instance of praise.
And a moment of restlessness
for the following things.

Let us smile.

I would like to thank,
first and foremost,
to all the songs I have loved
and wished I could have written.

I would like to give thanks
for all the wine I took from readings
where I was not the feature.

To whiskey dick
and awkward laughter during sex.

To naps right after work.

To stopping whatever I'm doing
to write poetry.

And how grateful I am to every boss
who understood how important that was.

To never let my job
get in the way of my work.

To long walks through dew kissed fields.
And to how cliche that sounded.

To open-mindedness.
To Euphoria after yoga,
and when the poem is finished.

To women in yoga pants.

To the chase being better than the catch.

For a lifetime of finding what I love
and letting it kill me.

And for burrowing quotes
from wiser men.

--

I don't know. Sometimes you write shit and just post it because you haven't updated in a while. Enjoy.

Or don't.

~Torres

Breaking Silence

Yes... It's been a while.

But, then again, I don't know if anyone is reading this thing or not.

I'l been busy with trying to to keep my head above water. Not just financially, but philosophically. My mind has been interfering with my writing, as well as other aspects of my life. I spend so much time thinking about what to write while shaking off an occasional existential crisis that I tend to forget that the only practical response is to... (drum roll, please)... get some damn writing done.

So that's what I'm  attempting to do again. Get some blogs posted, and spend a little more time just writing at the typer. Even if it's bad writing (most of it has been).

Meanwhile, money has been tight, and the rejection letters keep flowing in.

When I used to get stuck and find myself unable to produce a single predicate, I tended to write about writing. I have since stopped doing that. I have too much awesome and useless knowledge swimming around in my brain that I have since begun focusing on a topic and writing about that. Last night, I did exactly that and was happy with the results. I wrote about Bridget Bishop, who was the first woman hanged during the infamous Salem Witch Trials. She's a heroine of mine who shrugged off social norms and ended up being murdered by savages who thought they were doing god's work (funny, I thought religion was supposed to be peaceful; and god was supposed to be loving).

I posted the poem below.

Writing these couple of paragraphs and publishing it without taking the time to edit felt good. Now, I need coffee and to walk the dog.

Thanks for reading.

~Torres
______________________________________
Bridget Bishop Was Born Innocent 

Your last memory

was being pulled by your hair

to Gallow’s Hill

on a beautiful June day

for the crime of making a man

out of your womanhood.

They screamed Exodus in your face

as you waved a silent flag

of heretic pride.

As the noose,

as tight as a promise

was thrown over

a gnarled tree.

I went to see your town

on my honeymoon.

I made love down the street

from your place of worship.

My dear,

this is what you get when no man

can tame you.

Do you know how sexy

that would make you look

today?

How much ankle did you show

back in 1692?

I ate dinner in your house.

And sent you an invite

you never RSVP’d to.

How about a Ménage a trois

the night after my wedding?

I could see you

in the heavy air of Salem.

Swinging in the breeze

like strange fruit,

and weeping.

They screamed Exodus in your face.

Because they feared strong women.

Their god feared women.

They praised misogynistic fables

of oppression

and called it mercy.

I fear you out of love.

I have a weakness for redheads,

and a predilection 

for unavailable women.

I cannot suffer a witch to die.

The State of Wisdom and Advice

Last night, after I read my first poem to the New Hope Writer's Group, I went to the fridge to grab another beer. When I turned around, J, a septuagenarian--and a hell of a painter--got 6 inches from my face and gave me a bit of advice.

He told me that he had a feeling that I would, someday, get somewhere with this writing that I do every day. But, most importantly, to not lose what I "gave" everyone there a minute ago.

He then told me about his own life and how, at 70, his art still made him feel the same way it did when he was 9. the "hard-on" for life and the ability to create.

I long for that happiness. And, with luck, that age.

J could have been bigger than Andy Warhol. He came close several times, but focused less on fame and more on creating art. He wanted to leave a valuable footprint in his own eyes, not in anyone else's.

"Fuck those people," he said. "If they start interfering with the kind of stuff you just read to us, you leave 'em in the dust. I can't believe you're only 29. I don't think I was painting anything that I thought was good until I was in my 40's."

I had had my birthday a week prior and everyone in the group seemed kind of awestruck. I guess they thought I was a lot older (I do look pretty rough).

I still want to quit my job and write full-time until the money runs out. Just like I said in the poem I read to them last night. I'm just waiting for a sign at this point. One that says "fuck it. Go for it. You need to."

Thank you, J.

--  (The poem is below) --

When a restless soul ignites a lust for life which then dies in the arms of bad poetry

Every so often

and for lack of a  better phrase.

My soul lets loose.

And I feel a flare of spontaneity

rise.

I don't mean "soul" in a mythological sense 

Rising to heaven 

or sinking to hell.

I mean a true soul.

When the chemicals I share with all of you

and the memories 

and conversations

open the flood gates.

Right before poetry--

no matter how bad--

is born 

and slithers proud 

and well sculpted in the afterbirth.

That is when

I want to dance.

Outside and in.

I want to star in the one-man-show

of my life.

See all the women I worship as works of art topless

and jumping rope.

Gain the desire to shave myself bare

and dress in drag.

To break down all norms. 

To drink wine first thing in the morning 

and mow my lawn,

and chop firewood

in Vans sneakers

and black gym shorts.

To not care what people think

about me for once.

To not care that my hair is falling out,

or if I smell bad because I don't wear deodorant.

I should quit my job

and write every day until the money runs out.

I want to take that risk when I feel like this.

I wish I felt this sexy

this handsome

this creative

this loving

this passionate

this satisfied

this unsatisfied

this devilish.

This immortal.

This...happy.

All the time. 

Do you get that feeling?

Like taking the bite out of a large, heavy Gala apple.

A really fucking loud bite

and catching some of your own lip.

and, with a wince,

Letting the juice run down your face 

and the mist splash against your nostrils.

To attack something so simple

with all the senses.

 

To feel with everything with every part of your being.

That's poetry

sitting on the face of life. 

and reaching down.

and grabbing him by the balls. 

She has no interest in getting the shaft.

And, right now, 

neither do I. 

Post-Interview with a Phony

An "artist"

can own a home

without selling out.

An "artist"

can work two jobs

and still make time for the typer,

and the lover,

and the dog companion,

simply because he has the drive,

has embraced his definition,

and gave rise to his voice.

An artist doesn't write about his hair falling out

if his hair isn't falling out.

An "artist"

or a "poet"

doesn't get nationally interviewed

and have to remind everyone that he is an "artist"

and a "poet."

That's what public masturbators do.

Lastly,

"poets" do not write grocery lists

and call them poems.

That's what a cliche does.

A real "artist"

will remind you

of these things often.

Especially when you have forgotten.

And, yes,

they are here,
and will be here,

should you need

to find one.

Earned

I wish I could tell you

that I pulled it all from nothing

but that would be 

the furthest 

from the truth

I have wept,

lost friends,

drank bottles until the corks

turned to dust,

and bled alone

and afraid

in the dark,

and in the wild.

I wish I could tell you 

that I wrote it all from imagination

But I didn't. 

I earned it.

I'm Alone in the Dark and There's a Strange Noise Behind Me

Most of my time has been spent writing horror rather than poetry. The good kind of horror. Not the kind that the kids go for nowadays, with the blood and guts everywhere. When everything has a zombie in it, or some bastardization of a vampire. No. True horror at its finest.

Please note that I'm not referring to my own fiction as good. Just what elements I think go into making good horror.

I like to focus on the more "human" aspect of horror. Humanity is what we are all reduced to in the end, so I like a nice psychological twist of the mortal coil. As a child, I was afraid of damn near everything. Now, as an adult, I'm afraid of damn near everything else. The more unknown something is, the scarier it is. We have Lovecraft to thank for that bit of wisdom.

Death should always come as a well-appointed guest in good horror. By the time that the character is done going through their worst nightmare, death should be greeted like an old friend. Just picture him, sitting there, all blacked cloaked and legs crossed in your favorite arm chair. Reading the New York Times and laughing at the obituaries. Then, he looks up from the folded corner of the paper and asks "Are you ready to go?"

The fear is in the chase. Or it is in the tortured mind. The fear for the reader comes from how real you make the character feel. I feel like when the focus is directly on the monster and character relationship (however brief it may be), the reader is the outside spectator; rooting for one side or the other. However, when the writer brings in elements that link the reader to the victim... or the monster, then there is a plethora of horror to unveil.

Readers should be able to step back and say "Hey, I do that too." Or, "Something similar happened to me once..." Or, "I feel that way some times..." before the bad stuff happens. The more they can relate to the fictional characters, the better.

I also like to tie in some folklore to make the horror at least somewhat educational; but that's a post for another time.

Writing horror is fun. For me, it's also refreshing because the possibilities are endless.

Happy haunting.

~Torres

Dormiveglia

On stream of consciousness post to shake off this Monday morning somber, and rush in a Monday night slumber as quickly as possible.

Sure...why not.

I posted only a couple of times since moving into a big creepy house with a newly acquired wife and newly acquired dog. After a long depressing winter, I bought some touch LED lights. I put them both in my office. One over the computer keyboard, and the other over the typewriter. They've been getting a lot of work lately. I haven't been blogging, but I am still writing. I just haven't been sharing. I want to build a strong defense before I unleash it into the void of the Internet. Where it can mix with everyone else's egos and drift down a circuit board stream.

It almost sounds refreshing. Like a generic soda. It's not supposed to.

Dormiveglia is an Italian term for those who are half-awake and half-asleep. I feel it's the perfect term for how I'm feeling today. I hope you don't feel the same.

There will be poetry coming soon. But for now... patience.

Later on.

~Torres