"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

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

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.
_________________________________

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.

 __________________________________

Yup...

~Torres 

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

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

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.

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

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.
__________________________________

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 8^th 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.

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 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