Toronto

Toronto

Even a cleaner city
Is nothing without its grime.
Toronto
Neighbor to the north.
I see your pain.
I see what happens when hipster
Meets heroine.
I smell your lack of modesty.

It's only the first day.
But I found your French quarter
Of Philadelphia.
I found your roses
Dying on the concrete.

Do you see me?

A poet new in town and
Fresh off the bus
Carries a certain decor with him.
A judge,
And an artist
Who has no need for these self-employed gods.

No need...
During your Islamic prostests.
No need...
In your melting put of colorful language.
No need...
As the sirens wail two blocks
Down
And the schizophrenic covers his ears.

Ticks...

And screams back
"Hurry up!
Go save 'em already.
You're giving me a migraine!
Save them!

Save me!"

Do you see me Toronto?
I'm defending your city now.
Looking down from uneven rooftops.

This machine kills common dominance.

Do you see me?

Now you don't.


------------------


This post is late.

And, yes, I know that the punctuation is bad in the poem. It's not my usual style. I don't feel like editing today.

I arrived in Toronto a couple days ago, and the city is nothing short of beautiful. The only problems that I had (besides the fact that customs thought that the place where I am staying [Victoria University] didn't exist) was that I forgot about things like the metric system.

I really dig the monopoly money. And the city is really clean compared to Philly. People are pretty friendly too. I distinctly remember being awestruck while I was driving across the border because I was anticipating the adventure. I was ready to start my class. But, more importantly, I was ready to get my certificate for the Arrowsmith Program and get back home.


I wrote the poem after my first full day. This city has poetry crawling up its skyscrapers, and down its subway lines.

It's funny how nobody notices.

We'll see what I notice as the next two weeks go by.

I love you, Katie.

~Torres

Conversations with Ghosts

I used to hear stories
from the next room
about who
was visiting who.

I used to hear stories
about people
who weren't there at all
But they were
dashing
from room to room.

In a hurry
to get nowhere,
for the rest of forever.

And she only told me about them
after we moved.

She told me about the men
in the corner of the bedroom.

And how they would watch her sleep.
And how they would watch her fold laundry.

She would tell me this,
as my goosebumps
fed on my flesh
in a house,
that was safe
from Chestnut Street.

She told me about the little girl
in the pretty dress,
who had the ribbons in her hair.

She told me how that little girl
would run from room to room
slamming doors.

She lied.
And told me that she had been doing it
for almost a decade,
and not the girl.

It wasn't until
I was a preteen
that I was able
to point out something
strange
that I had experienced.

Something that had kept me up all night,
and sent me screaming from the master bedroom.

That was when she told me.

"It looks like they love you too."

I've been having conversations with ghosts
ever since.
--

~Torres

28

I don't know why my birthday always bothers me every single year. I'm beginning to think that it's because life is such a trip, and you shouldn't be putting a timeline on it.

I think back to what the past year has brought me. Yes, brought me. Not given me. You don't want to get anything for granted. What it have placed in my lap is news of newborns, a children's book being considered by an editor, a new hobby, a handful of new and amazing friendships, a shiny medal, and engagement to a real good woman, and a day in which I got to paint a porch with my grandfather while my grandmother cooked us lunch.

I felt like a kid again when I was 27. 

I have tried new foods, drinks, and went to the emergency room three times.

I'm writing this silly little post because I love bringing you, the reader, on this crazy journey with me. I hope you consider letting me experience some of your own journey some day.

Everyone knows that I love a good story.

My life is being a grand movie. One that has so many interesting characters and interwoven story lines. I want to put everyone I know in a short story. Publish it. And show everyone whom I do not know how interesting my loved ones are.

Even as I sit here, enjoying birthday scotch and writing this, I think of you. I want you to be well. Don't smirk, it's true. Even though my constant scowl may tell you a different tale. Don't mind it. I scowl for a completely different reason.

I scowl because I love life so much that it pisses me off.

Yours,

~Torres

The Drinkable Clock

It's a shame
that so much of our lives
is spent waiting.

Waiting for this.
For that.
Hoping that we are around for the next great
something
to happen.

I remember
when
Childhood never ended.
Where summer vacation was eternal.
When we would look at the clock
as something that was
made of plastic
and metal
and gears.

And none of it mattered.

We didn't understand time.
Because we had too much of it.

Now,
I spend days
busy.

But never too busy.

I have to cram it in now.
All of it.

Because
nothing gold can stay.
And nothing lasts forever.

This is the only shot that we have.

We have to take it.

Those who think anything different
are diluting themselves.

You
      want
              every
                      single
                               second.

Go ahead and take it.

Tell them I sent you.

Elisa

I remember you well 

from the Cecil Hotel.

You were acting really strange

to all of us.

Did you know that you looked possessed 

on the security footage?

The last time that we would ever see you 

would be in the elevator. 

But you would leave a lasting impression

on the folks that stayed there

forever. 

Does the water taste funny to you?

Is the water pressure lower than usual?

Why is it black-- 

instead of crystal clear?

How did you get past the locked door 

that led to the roof?

Did the alarm not sound?

In the lift

you pushed all the buttons,

but the door wouldn't shut.

You stepped out.

Looked left.

Looked right.

And began talking out loud

to no one.

The toxicology report came back negative.

You ran your fingers through your hair.

Waved your arms around.

kicked against the apparition.

But to no avail. 

Exit stage left.

Then the door finally closed.

Then reopened on the next floor.

Then closed again. 

Then reopened on the next floor. 

Then closed.

And the footage ended.

Did you know that Richard Ramirez

stayed at the hotel.

Retiring there

after paying 14 dollars

for 14 nights

on the 14th floor 

and killing 14 people?

So did Jack Unterweger,

and the Black Dahlia 

with the Glasgow smile

The other guests...

They tasted you.

Bathed in you.

drank you down

and complained about you

to the management.

Before they knew that it was you--

whose body would be found 

floating in the water tank

on the roof.

Naked.

A mystery to this day.

Twisted Metal

This is a true story.

My preteen/teen years were spent on a farm that my family built on the outskirts of my hometown. My parents still live there.

This story, however, isn't about the house. It's about the road. But, more importantly, it's about a sharp curve in the road and the death of two high school kids. 

I was 19, and was home from college to visit my folks (and--probably--to bum some money). I couldn't remember what my parents and I were talking about that night, but I remember being on the staircase when I heard the sound. It was a piercing screech, followed by a boisterous and unforgettable thud that came from outside. 

"Did anyone hear that?" I said. 

Then there was a slow-moving silence that crept over the living room area as the three of us waited for something to happen.

Then there was a frantic knock at the door.

I hurried back down the stairs and crossed the foyer to the large front door. I then unlocked it and centered my footing, physically preparing myself before opening the door (I've seen too many movies).

Who was standing on the porch was a teenager with a familiar face. I knew I had seen him in my high school. He was a few years younger than I was, and must have been a senior at this point. I still can't recall his name, but I'll never forget the look on his face.

Sweating, crying, and gasping for breath, he had parked his car crooked in our driveway. When I asked him what was wrong, it took him a moment to compose himself enough for words to form.

"There's been an accident," he said. "Could you please call an ambulance?"

I can't remember which one of my parents called 911, but I do remember the walk along the side of the road, all the way to the end of the cornfield. I was with my father. And, together, we saw the absolute definition of aftermath.

What disturbed our sense was a ball of twisted metal that had once been a car with three teenagers contained safely inside. But, because sometimes the oats that we sow are a rotten crop, they had a need for speed that could not be satisfied before the collision. What now remained was a reminder of future possibilities cut short, and unbeknownst parents tucked safely away in houses somewhere in that darkness. Parents who will eventually receive a visitor that will change their lives forever.

The ambulance arrived, and we watched the bodies as they were cut from a metal womb and covered with long white sheets that soaked the blood like bread and wine.

There was one who had not been covered, though, but placed in one of the two ambulances and driven away like a bat out of hell. The jaws of life had freed her from the back seat.

The police office said that they must have been doing 85 down the dark country road, and only slowed to about 60 by the time they realized that there was a sharp curve.

The walk back home with dad was a silent one. And, when we got inside, the shaken kid was gone. I went upstairs to my room and turned on my electric typewriter.

The next day it was as if nothing had happened. The road was clear. The wreckage was gone. There was no blood or antifreeze pooling in the road. It was a return to normalcy.

I went to my best friend's house that night and watched some horror movies. I then got in my car and headed home around 11:30 p.m.

It was before midnight when I came to the curve in the road that claimed the lives of the teens just 24 hours prior. It was there that I could have sworn that I saw, running from the cornfield to the yard of the old farmhouse where it happened, the misty silhouettes of two teenaged guys. I thought that they were playing a morbid game of tag around the oak tree that was now stripped of bark on one side.

I could have sworn that's what I saw. A ghostly warning to slow down, and rebel within reason.

Sometimes, in darkest of nights, I still hear that sound of the collision, and shudder at the thought of the aftermath. 

~Torres

Yeah... Kinda Like That.

Like tap dancing during an earthquake.
Like drinking fire.
Like trying to fly.
Like sitting on the third rail with a wet ass.
Like wondering what that noise was in the darkness while you're trying to sleep.
Like driving with your sense of taste.
Like eating your favorite record.
Like playing Russian Roulette with an AK-47.

Like lowering your fucking guard for two seconds
in order to let someone
who may be just a bit more enlightened
than you
teach you something about life
because you can't fucking fathom
that we may all just be one soul,
and that we should just lay down our verbal
and physical weaponry
and usher in a kindness and peace of mind
that just lasts
for the rest of humanity's reign
because making art
and being good to each other
 just. Makes. Sense.

Like accepting fate.

You chose to write poetry.

And I thank you for it.