#priorities

Today in the news:

100 dead from a gas attack in Syria.

And one of my students

cried,
and complained,
and called me the devil, 

because I wouldn't let him

chew gum

in class.

----


Honestly, some days I just want to take a break from this world...

~Torres

Birthright

I often wonder--

after all these years--

if the blood has dried up

yet.

San Juan,

You will never meet martyrdom.

The Rich Port,

is still owned.

The country that rules you

will not pay for you.

Nor will they accept you.

Nor will they cut the

umbilical cord.

Were they there when the hurricanes 

touched down?

No.

Did they see when the storm brought water

and winds

and wrecked crops

and shook concrete houses?

No. 

Did they see Carmen's 

childhood home

torn away?

The stone foundation

weeping 

in the mud.

No. 

They didn't. 

Nor were they there to rebuild 

anything.

But they took, 

and took,

and took,

and gave 

nothing but grief.

Falling cane,

and raising cane.

And they poured sugar

in their coffee.

They poured sugar

on their corn flakes.

They poured sugar 

in their tea.

They poured sugar

into their cake mix.

And the sugar cubes 

fell like Domino's.

Sugar 

makes blood

look pink.

So pink 

that the rich

mistake it 

for Himalayan 

salt.

But the calloused hands 

know the truth.

The worried mothers

and the children 

without shoes

know the truth.

The sugar

is anything 

but sweet.

Harness

Just harness it.

Yes,

the job sucks. 

Yes,

you are broke.

Yes,

the bills are piling up.

Yes,

the car needs work.

Yes,

the house needs work.

Yes, 

the rent is due.

Yes, 

the fights have gotten worse.

Yes,

the panic attacks are getting worse.

Yes,

each morning starts with anxiety.

Yes,

you forget to even the simplest of tasks.

Yes,

it's the third day that you've had this headache.

But...

You're so close...

Keep pushing.

Harness the bullshit.

Your dreams are slowly becoming a reality.

They--

           Your heroes--

Said that it would be like this.

Listen to them.

You won't be happy doing anything else.

Ride this wave to shore.

Harness this, dammit.

It's way too late to stop.

Pap Just Is

I was on the other side of the porch

as my grandfather,

                         Pap...

was painting the railing 

a deep cherry 

stain.

His brush strokes 

following a gentle

up

and 

down

like a septuagenarian 

Karate Kid. 

Then,

he pauses

and moves down

a few rails.

Leaving two

unpainted.

I moved in closer

and inspected.

Sitting in between the two rails

was a grasshopper.

                              Young grasshopper...

Sitting and watching.

"Hey there fella,"

Pap said.

The grasshopper said nothing.

It just sat 

and watched.

When Pap reached the end of the railing,

he stood in front of unpainted portion

and waited

in silence.

The wind picked up

and the air felt good.

It was spring

and 72 degrees

on the outskirts of Lebanon, Pennsylvania. 

When the wind died down,

the grasshoppers jumped, 

and fluttered back into the field.

Then Pap picked up his brush,

and finished painting.

"He was awful curious,"

said Pap.

"Can't blame a fella for wanting to know

what the old timer is up to."

As I looked out at the waving blades of grass

in the field,

I saw no trace 

of the curious guest.

And,

a few minutes later,

the rails all looked the same.

The Block

The mental block. Wow. What a killer.

I've been editing a lot for my latest project, but even though I've been hard at work there is still this sharp grinding of the rusty cogs of my mental state.

I haven't been creating. The one thing that makes me... me.

When I can't write, I can't function. I just feel like I'm fucking melting.

I had to generate this blog post today. I had to do something to shake off this existential dread. It is in no way, shape, or form a cry for help. Think of it more as an emotional dumping site. A place where I can turn my head upside-down and get this out.

I chose to just "write words" for this one. I don't want to get into politics, or introduce any topics that typically shake things up. I'm breathing now.

It is humorous how crippling this is. I can't handle my day job whilst coping. I can't talk to my wife. I can't talk to my friends. I ignore the dog and I don't want to go anywhere. I also don't drink alcohol or eat a lot when I'm all blocked up.

I don't celebrate or sing of myself.

I just stare at a blank page.

The way I ease back in is through light exercise, I step outside for fresh air, and a mental dump (this).

See. It didn't take that long and already I'm starting to feel better. Writers are a funny sort of lot, aren't they?

Yep.

~Torres



P.S. I'm not editing this shit today. Human nature is doused in error.

We, Outside the Gates

Emperors have placed their fortitude 

in walls before

without realizing that strength was always in numbers

and voices

that chant

the same battle cry

in solidarity.

And when the crowd you want with you

becomes the crowd that shows up to oppose you--

it's time.

Time to rethink the next vital moments. 

Time to retreat. 

Time to apologize.

Time to leave 

what is not broken

alone.

Because

when we, outside the gates,

become informed,

begin to think critically,

begin to ask questions,

begin to demand answers

                                        together

we won't need to knock

with our fists

anymore.

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?