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