Black Cloud

Standing on the edge of
the Deepwater Horizon, mind
drilled with porous thoughts
while black clouds swirl,
from the depths and keep rising

They said it would riposte,
come back cataclysmically reeling
into the seasons
or perhaps this saltwater
comes foaming at the
tidelines like dogs with rabie-drip
bites, and mouths seething

The Great Plague returns...
in the Gulf of Despair
maybe we only care
when seeing little ducks
black slicked-back hair,
paralyzed by petroleum
wrapped in this oil still
when Mumble gets killed-
that's when we truly feel
Happy Feet don't tap,
no words explain
When ink spills to the page,
I am abstained by splotches
and stains, but nothing wipes
these suffering eyes
from tiny feathers which can't fly
leaving oil-clot tumors
in my brain.

Mismanagement by the Dept.
of Minerals Management Services, an
MMS protection swept under the rug,
seems as if worthless when they can't
admit they hemorrhaged the ocean
floor's surface, not even on purpose
A fail-safe mechanism failing,
can you claim fault for
all the death which you've brung?
Blowout results in thousands
lives lost, yet BP fuel
can't think of anything but
"What's the cost?"

The true color of this substance
not black; but green
a currency paid for with shores
which were once clean, sprung
for profit- actually the colors may
be red, white and blue

Addiction to oil, we consume, consume
consume, consume, consume, consume
these fumes leak, seep through pipes
which we then spew, out into the nature
we once raped to stake a claim
to a 'Land of promise' yet we knew
snapped the treaty between ourselves
and the mother Earth,
for any worth- with an inverse
geyser, gusher, cyclone
of poison; a cancer hurricane
convulsing out of control
so tell me- executives, oil tyrants,
blood pumping gas butchers
what is the going
rate for
your soul?

(c)Paul LaTorre 2010

Elegy for a Fat Kid

To all the extra Value meals
at McD(Which they imply you
to SUPER size)
for large fries,
Kraft M&C from the box,
cans of Cheez Wiz which I'd rock
for the Cooler
Ranch Doritos.
Thank you very much,
but no thanks-
because now I love myself
not just the gluttonous thought
of having you.

All the objects of pre-teen
unbridled hormonal lust
a desire none should
trust, simply 'cause skanks
only cared for the shitfaced
skinny scumbags.
Never paid attention to the
slightly awkward archer of words,
the casanova-hearted
future college grad, who'd do
anything to please her-
said objects always
slept with the dropouts; sloppily
drunk, abusive, no future
borderline date rapish, surefire
soon-to-be deadbeat dads.

Sure, they'd expect a "FUCK YOU!1!" >_<
but quite the opposite,
they contributed to my character,
a desire to never settle for average,
discard any females
who never truly loved,
or realize what they could have if just-
respect(for self) was present
in any of 'she', which should be key...
may never get it from me,
but still sincerely grateful
for invaluable love lessons
yes, repugnant skanks,
I thank you.

To all the fiery, unattainable
sexy sirens streaming
down my high school
gym line, but never gave me
the time of mind or day,
while walking 'cross the street
to say "Hey, remember when
we-- like- held hands, like
in fifth grade?"
Cause I got chunky,
meant I no longer exist.
Maybe I owe a penance to
all them chicks, too.

For times ripped on,
picked on, left out or made
to feel like some freak who
shouldn't leave the house, in any setting he
stands out
It's true- because I do,
amazingly unique and
distinct in my own askew view.

But never a mutant, instead
today I know what I was put on
this Earth to do.
Meanwhile in your stagnant filth,
sit and stew...never grow,
never learn or evolve.
Sucks for you, but still
former bullies, fake friends-
here I stand, and I
will bow to them too.

For all the comics I've read,
trading cards I'd collect,
novels I bled for, song lyrics by heart,
lines from films I watched to no end;
play-pause, rewind, laugh, restart
each day on repeat.
The video game reflexes
from mastering execution of King Koopa
on Super Mario World 2,
action figures I'd cling to, conjuring
universes of retreat, in the
recesses of escapism I found
my own distinct narrative truth.
For every 'HADOUKEN!', 'Fatality'
or 'Show me a move!' learning
how to 'Finish Him' comes through
a Killer Instinct in all he'd pursue.
Although withholding physical exertion-
mentally, they bred sermons
of what life's determined worth is
and FUCK-- look, now
comic books are what's cool!

For those who loved me regardless,
the mother, sister, my family from
each altar who never cared if I was shy
they saw a side, which I hid from plain
sight, at least any in possibly vengeful view.
For the times when I felt like it's not worth it
to step out the crib,
hit the beach shirtless
because you get mocked when you
don't fit into the boxes
which society has so neatly
drawn up for you.

Once upon a time, lived this shelled
chubby,
introverted & quiet,
imaginative,
lonesome
but oh-so-brilliant and vibrant boy-
He died
yet we can't cry a log flume,
for we knew he was destined to fly
as legend, through stinging
depressions, we learn,
picking up pens for each bruise
as he grew(and he did bloom).

Don't lament for a departed,
shelled & guarded young artist
he'd want you to remember-
life's about what we feel,
not view.
You can taste true beauty,
only when you are actually
happy with 'you'

The fat kid inside- he'll never die,
long as there's a piece of me-
survives
his mouth motors, sensitive
heart beats, eyes open
and he sees,wholly breathes
& will always be
somewhere
asleep
within me.






(c) Paul LaTorre 2010

SB1070

"The Grand Canyon State Welcomes You"
...hmm- really, does it now?
Unless- I'm Guatemalan,
from Mexico, Ecuador
El Salvador, my accent's thick
or my skin is brown...


don't you know it's illegal,
to breathe while Latino?


As Montezuma once ruled,
we tricked him- we'll trick you
give you a blanket, filled
with the smallest of pox
Apache, Mohave and Cochise lost
so now you must pay penance
the foolish trust of natives
yet we, the invaders witchhunt
the same plains which were your
own home first


FOX News- tells you everything other
than fact, extract
what's said by their mocking laugh
and what you're left with is an artifact
Confederate lies, 'don't tread on me'
It's time we dump this
putrid tea
in some harbor, just as fore-fathers
back in Boston


Fuck their rhetoric, rehearsed cadence
performance from Sarah Palin
"I think the media's making this more
than it needs to be..."
but split-tongued, slithering
serpent-tailed slut,
aren't we due our civil liberty


don't you know it's illegal,
to breathe while Latino?


Another Dachau or Warsaw
can we call Jan Brewer
some new-form of an Eva Braun
is a fuhrer or
Adolf not much further along...
with no rights, Mein Kampf
gone wrong
"Do you have your papers?"
sounds familiar, huh?


The welcoming, gorgeous green-gold
Sandal-toed woman once did plea:
"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me"
yet this now copper-corroded,
segregating statue, a false decree-
slamming shut a once open-door policy


don't you know it's illegal,
to breathe while Latino?


The story of Cara-Ciela:
'I took Lupo to a park,
that plastique one- just out front
this cowboy-hatted man
he came out,
chased me and barked-
"Hey wetback fence jumper, you better
have papers for your little bean tart..."
Does he even know, I was
born here- and watched this baby
of mine grow, a 'pepe' to him,
yet could his ego even fathom
or face that this land's ingrained in my veins?


'Seek four letters spelling justice-
'V-E-T-O'
Because even in duned heat
a tantra can be planted
in an arid Sahara, just ask Ms. Cara
we can't accept
a shattered system which
won't let our seeds grow


don't you know it's illegal,
to breathe while Latino?


Aliens not welcome
in the Desert Democracy
Welcome to Arizona,

sorry- No Vacancy.

(c) Paul LaTorre 2010

Parking Lot Romance

Perfect Thursday summer night
Shared by she, I, and the sky
exposing our weak ends
without the ruse of subterfuge
diffuse masks, second dates make
minor time for guile or disguise

“There’s something in your eyes…is everything alright?
You look up to the sky, you long for something more…
…darling…”

A cirrus-cloud car island- engine on idle
paths which began a July
gone truthicidal
swap flowing facts
concurrent rivers, with currents
running deep as the Nile.

She, a Cleopatra- may that make me Caesar?
He, merely a passing lover
Will my pure passion sieze, then breed her
a Caesarion Son- or fashion me blood,
like that of Ptolemy the XIV- once husband
but born her younger brother

Octavian or Ptolemy XIII- two sworn enemies
Exiled her upon sight…no, she’s a true
Bastetian entity…a feline of divine right
Up there with Isis, Horus, Ra- all Gods
Alike; perhaps I’m the exception,
Meant to be her one Mark Antony?

Words springboarding off
the tip of two tongues- safely
divulged by my lungs
where I’ve nestled nectar
to pollenate and make their way
to her deserving eardrums.

Those lobes, house jewels
like clear chandeliers
hanging off the most ornately
designed elemental earrings
oak carved bracelets
which soak nature up like flames

“Give me your right hand, I think I understand…
Follow me and you will never have to wish again…”

I scoot close, passenger seat rush
Shotgun-crush never spelled lust like this
as shells dissolve into the sky-lite
atmosphere, canvas-brushed
Fireworks erupt, illustrating glowing fluorescence
No one’s fallen in ‘like’, like us

suffering, in the subtle sense
may be some couple’s source
of sustenance, we find strength
in stories told of smashed hope
misplaced affection, all our lives
beaten hearts by their lies

Sticks and stones may splinter bones
yet word-wounds never heal completely
so she & I compare our marks
her scar tissue completes me.

Completely deconstructed,
but trust- I find immaculate
beauty in the break-down
treated always as toy,
I assured her
heart would never be
my playground
long as she stays around

REAL- yes, I meant it
a passion surreal, and soft
to the touch as velvet
these collagen petals which
simple minds would define
as two-lips

“Tell me how you feel, and if I'm getting near
I'll tell you where to steer; You tell me where to steer…
Darling…”

We left Barnes, of the Noble
with Tazo teas, teasing our tastebuds
Internal hymns sing in my head-
I hope my fragrance to be the
only one she ever seeks

So this buzzing bee
says to me- "I had a really greattime tonight..."
yet I form no reply,
can't speak when my mind’s
adrift in the tides of her eyes

The creases of her smile,
her knees which never kneel
yet my attention, venus fly-trapped
by a pair of lips
I only imagine must feel,
like winds
abrush Phoenix-fire wings

“I will leave you satisfied, forever past time…
You don't have to hide- you're free to fly…”

like the first slumber
that follows sunburn
search for the cooling calm
which only your sheets offer
palm trees to bear shade
to our aloe-draped dreams

On one leg, we hop about
thumping to pounce out
all our aqueous fears,
stuck in our head
like swimmer's ear

we emerge from the deep end
and leak our sins to a pool

Flashes forward- I see a long, winding
road where we provide our kids with
a future their own,
views unskewed by
limits or roles,
religious or critically capped
in this altruistic,
artisan castle of ours
kaleidoscope of colors
and craft

“You don't have to look up at the stars no-no-no-no
I know by the end of tonight we're looking down upon them from heaven…”

With hesitation evaporating
no time for internal debate
song playing-
"There's something in your eyes..."

closing mine, deep breath taken-
tiptoe the edge, with puckered
lips, hands nervously shaking
moment's mine to embrace
prepared to dive
into one final
first kiss.




(c)Paul LaTorre 2010

Friendship Hashshashin

"How the FUCK

can you NOT love Jazz, Julio?"

said while pulling a drag

in walked this sucia rubia beauty

though the type never

letting sentence frac-

to interrupt in midst of statement

makes me forget what

was worth framing[argument]

'stead now arranging,

in lamens terms

she had this fragrant

scent- I believe vanilla

and oh, jasmine

hints of probably lavender.

A Colorado claro,

Parejo Montecristo passed

between us both, ash befalling

the tip leaves smoke

she sips Amaretto,

rivets dagger-stares

through our throats.

"DIBS" utters him

"Fuck..."

under my tongue

Code says 'back off',

yet I insist.

"Play you a hand for her...

Spades, 5-stud or blackwater?"

He chooses my least palpable: Whist

(It's just a simple form of Bridge)

somehow I luck out,

although I win-

she falcons

fixed stares

in the direction of him.

She was the perfect

murderer

left ill-fitting glove at the

blood scene

I'm preparing verdict

as she resurfaces

conducting words,

she approaches us-

flesh tower of Babel

the tip of Bermudan Triangle

preparing to stifle

she intersects this path

of tobacco hash which hangs

between myself

and Julio.

Surrendering claim

I dispell chatell slavery

not to disrupt harmony

I'd let him lay her,

he never got much

back in the day, you see-

high school was the land

milk and honey for some

I enough- but him

never one trip

to the muff.

So here, in this paisley

black/grey tie.

I stand, restless circulation of thoughts

there he lies

rosary in hand...

Little did we know, Rubia carried

a Three-Letter secret

much deeper

than either J or I could see.

He unpeeled protection, she

wreckless ingestion

and noone saw

the HIV hatchet

until it meticulously hacked

him to scraps,

he took the sundering stab

and to think-

'PHEW'

because that

could have been

Me.

(c)Paul LaTorre 2010

Wonder Woman

"Don't you ever hit our children!"

is what she
commanded him-
the final straw
that paralyzed
the camel
once he struck us,
this brash act
was too much for Keim.



Tears cascade
off each cheek
to melt our floor
like wax
which cries
from the candle.



She reached a breaking point
arguments never seethed to this peak
before she, met matrimony
then birthed and nurtured his seeds
He showed no signposts
of violence or instability.



Wrapping me in her arms
My sister, clasping her leg
started 4-door Ford contour
"We're getting faraway from Daddy..."
that's all she said.


Latching my brother's hand
he was 8 years my senior
still neither he nor
my 4-year old little big sis
could comprehend why
we were leaving.



Suppose black-blue backs
busted lips, scraped
kneecaps could justify
an escape hatch- but just as
she asked "Please, let go of Paul’s cape
honey, he didn't mean that"




Because he would raise
hand if ever we disobeyed
or dream to back-speak
though I was too young
two was an age he said
"You better learn to respect me"


Reprimanding, he saw
these acts as love-
“Oh, it won’t hurt to spank
It toughens up…”
but real men know to be firm
without doing damage.



Our auburn-haired protector,
secretly snatched keepsakes
in this Christian Prison
from which, silently, we’d break
waiting for the day when
he'd leave, we could sneak away


Four-foot 9 guardian
uprooting 3 hearts from the Garden
state Parkway North
to this safe haven
named 'Newark'
where we could sprout
no miracle grow now, 'least
nobody here to harm them.



"I'll slit your throat, you ever
think of leaving home" something
he'd haplessly joke
Now she'd elope with the kids
and hope he'd never
lash out as proposed.


She shoulders the load
raising three on her own
help from Aunt Jo- lots of
love and assists from
Grandma Anna, yet in my
eyes it was tough task,
to learn to be a man as only
women surround you.


See, I idolized heroes
Superman, Batman, Flash-
anything but reality
to make up for a father I lacked
This rationality
gave me something to mold myself
after, some figure
I could craft as my guardian-
flying in, to save the day
keeping me safe.




Mom bites the bullet,
extracting the wounds
for her brood, not too soon
I see she up and left before
we could ever become
irreparably bruised

A family tree, I never knew
as one piece...
Split down its core,
was always natural to me
A fissure since my memory
formed- the day I hit three
the very same age we’d up,
divorce, and suddenly flee.


She'd teach me to be a man,
by example- you never stand
for abusive or baneful ways
rather castrate myself
than bash my woman’s brains…
Told my sister to know her ownworth
never let a man control her,
own her or hostage-hold her


To my entire life, I owe her

though my children will never know her
my first wedding song- can’t dance or hold her
yet still, I feel her own words-
“Remain faithful, be true.
Treat your wife how you want
her to treat you…and remember
don’t let your demons control you”




Mom, I’ll never stray
from a path you paved
'cause although I rarely pray
in your own way
due to what you stood for,
you always were
and remain this day
my sole true superhero-
flying on high



You, my guardian,
Angel.













(c)Paul LaTorre 2010

Character

Through your eyes

channeling

rapids I've never

paddled through

At times I feel like Buffalo Bill

the way I scavenger

stitch together suits of skin

and inhabit you

Bastard you

de-virginize

blacken orbital bone

& bleed out the truth

Cracking shells

aplenty

souffles rise

flat ones so depressing

Identity of sole

entity

they breathe empathy

from a canvas once empty

To breed deep they

drown

like Woolf or Natalie Wood

with coats heavy

Keep grounded,

surround with

challenges

antagonistic balances

Develop

decompose

evoke ethos

speak if spoken to(never silence them)

evolve

kill off

reincarnate

just to bring dystopia

flaw them

dissolve them

fill arc chock full

of problems they can't solve then

worship

don't deify

or idealize

we're all flawed

gay them

rearrange

structure

to be a maze then

make them the cancer

patients

make them villain

don't abstain

maybe insane them

make them the carriers

sly speaking words from the lips

of animals

caught in webs

not meant to escape

Attica

Never can

they die

immortalized

on the page and tongue

Complex

minor, heroic

foil or main

Narrator

doesn't matter

so long as they're

dynamic

fiction becomes real

when you build

Character.

(c) Paul LaTorre 2010

Ubi Sunt Qui(Where Are Those)?

Where have all the Delilahs gone?
The June Carter to Johnny Cash,
black sun pastured
strumming that half past twelve
knocked back Dewar's shot
glasses
Which tell the real story behind
why we can't bury our dead.

Where have the male Shakespeares gone?
The ones who inked tears for calligraphy
filling wombs with chivalry
fountains shouting directions
but coddling the heads of
infants- premature gestation
mother's breast sucked 'til Cicero's sure
he can churn cream of his own.

How have all the Plaths
gotten stoned brilliantly off
the toxicity of these fumes
we call empirical truth?
Gathering anarchy from laboratories
she followed her raincloud
to electroconvulsive dreams
where lotus plants flood landfills.

Where is every Dizzy Gillespie
Marvin Gaye or Chuck Berry
Father finds notes, to dishonorably
discharge every ebony key
into ivory44 and 3-6-4,
we implore you to nurture
gunshots erase
same thing gave birth to
the only sane thing to do-
hum a tune...


How Sweet it is(to be Loved by You).

(c)Paul LaTorre 2010

Come Hither

A useful tip for you, fingertips:
always pierce gloves
You may never feel warmth,
if you’ve never brushed love

Rubbing up
against the soft
slippery apricot pits,
taste the juice
keeps
ripening,
rhining
over summer-soft fruit.

Dripping from the very
core of every tree,
never a lonely key
you ctrl, alt- delete…
you lather, rinse repeat
you knead
I need you
to sign a language unseen.

You- greatest conquest,
conjure up combinations
pointing to assign
blame for violation.

The very first- you,
Pioneer to feel the lips,
trace the warm iris
moistened island
moaning siren
too hard, climbing past
dry climates.

Flesh-wrought precision
Cross the border of Cali-
fornia cation
No cadence, I trace
the nape which sings
to depths never so tame,
yet taste same as when I
Came in.

Travel to heights
of climax, with steel
wrists tightening grip...
dizzying fragrance
nosebleed from anticipated
Vertigo
we glide,
no trip.

Listen, don’t give me
quips and qualms
not palms, nor knuckles
never knees
so weak
they buck in the tremble
these tips,
calm and supple.

You scraped plates
of the tastiest,
Most decadent dish
Always assured to
pull alarm at the sign
of smoke,
to build delicious
semi-sweet molten convictions.

Index slips,
curls so softly
alluring,
reeling me in
demands I come, she asks
tour guideof divine atlas.

Tells me spots
to find
sensations to hit;
Why yes, finger tips,
I will do as you wish.













(c) Paul LaTorre 2010

Syndication

I sit, calm…

Entrenched in leather love-seat

Remotely controlling

Episodic remnants

Of seasons past, rerunning

Clips rolling:

Dual sides, youth split;

mirrored glass beaming

Yellow, Red, Blue light particles

Bounce off screen and-

Unsure origin, visceral screaming…

Slapped ass, cut cord, emerge from the ER

Boy Meets World, fresh eyes

Never see far- but blank bracelets

Speak volumes of burden.

Three’s a Crowd- not Company,

Accidentally on Purpose.

Family Ties cut precise-

Deliberate slice,

by hand of a surgeon.

No Silver Spoon in mouth,

Dumped by Foster in Full House-

A Different World; half-hell

Never led to 7th Heaven.

Realizing there’s no rope from DYFS

Won’t be Saved by the Bell- I guess,

Grounded for Life,

I'll plot escape through

the deep ditch which I'd dig

as a grave.

Weeellll, this is no story, all about how my

Suite Life got flip, turned upside down…

And I’d like to take a minute just sit right there

I’ll tell you how to find purpose,

In these eyes you hold dear.

Locking eyes in Studio 9,

Saturday Night Live, she swallowed me.

Rocked my Third Rock from the Sun

With no apology, Sex in the City

Adrift in her Stargate…

Constellations of flesh, galaxies swept

Spin City 8 days straight.

Gilligan’s Island of delight

To ride comets, emit light,

Meteorites which ignite Days of Our Lives.

Our Odd Couple collides,

Each Honeymooner may find

Real World’s lies, but in

Paradise we inked wet Love Connection.

Knees met in a seascape…Finding Jeannie-

no mistake, but was it fate?

Better to smile, then fret over question.

Hung over from this ingestion,

Drunk from a Shot at Love

Now Jeopardy’s caught up with us,

No Nip/Tuck

to nip it in the bud.

Simply put, we’re just two kids-

FUCKED.

Another unplanned life

Jeannie later than ever,

no aborting

Ditched town, hitchhike solo

Two flat Wheels of Fortune.

True Blood coagulates without Big Love

yet we remained very distant,

estranged Perfect Strangers(for what it was)

Swore I was sentenced to existence

Just the same I came in-

A Lone Ranger.

Suddenly awake in Sunnydale-

24 hour coma, still sleeping

Try to erase the mental tape,

Yet today I Dream of Jeannie.

In this vision she sits bare naked on a glacier.

In own blood dripping, undead screams-

Pumps her last breath right through Lu’s streams

A final push brings pilot for our Golden Girl.

Family Matters, now that I have one

Growing Pains, always have them-

But Wonder Years will be met

With Will & Grace, and aim for Happy Days.

Though not Married, With Children…

I love Lucy- even on newborn nights,

Young and Restless

We share these Good Times, you and I.

You teach me Facts of Life,

Through you I became a Family Guy.

True Life paved through one fabled mistake.

I feel blessed as Step by Step,

My seed Blossoms, taking shape.

Shades of Jeannie’s eyes,

And Lucy, only within you

I see my true Home Improvement.

(c)Paul LaTorre 2010

Sailing Without Gravity

abre los ojos-
to thousands of micro molecules,
Millions of miles.

Memories of friendship
we download, stored conveniently
into MS-Word files.

Nostalgia, footprints of conquest-
twins of humor,
middle school jerks
yet your entire worth
Centers on 'me first'.
The only heart you ever possessed
was sketched on a T-Shirt.

Friends?
No.
Maybe yes,
used to be best- now formal at best, former.

Family never again, only a boarder and a dormer.
Lie dormant with your morals
That lack of standards you possess- keep it close to your chest
May have to use it as protective vest
someday-so put it to rest.
Keep bullets apart from vertebrae,
only support given in the fray
Was moral, now with no regard for importance of reality's sway.

Not an ally,
can't be rival
I see you only as child
Ripe with denial.
Find the horizon, time expiring
note the line on the Sun dial.

Climb to the sky, yet you've been blind for too long.
The swan song of once a sunburst
Has found you awash in the shores, calm.

The corpse of a friend- bones of a brother...
To cut off what's been holding me down- we needn't recover.
Anchor severed from this 'friend'ship-
his only aim was to drag me under.







(c)Paul LaTorre 2009

Seizing Change

Au gust of wind takes me to the 31st time you and I shared conversation.
Under the tarp of a cherry skyline, canvas of lime-hued stars glistening; Christmas time
with no yuletide jubilation.

Ju lied to me often, but I delight in deception...
the smallest spins of fact that would make my spinecracking pressures lessen.

A Fib you're wary to tell, just as well gave me power of perception...
Stealing breath; intercepting air like wildfires that swept in.

Ex-Sept embers never burned this close to cornfields...a maze of maize that paints a picture of what's concealed.
Embrace & devour separating space, engulf me in flames...Give me a garden of pain, to etch ashes in my brain.

May all your Junipers sprout, with no seeds of doubt in place. We walked sober through new endeavors, these deep ventures...
October won't be gone til November, give me thanks through December...
Then a new genesis, aging- you worry when thoughts brew. Each new year's frontier- don't falter and March through.
The architect of a fresh step...Only to never find coal from undermining me...
Press me close to your chest- feel warmth in the irony. Quietly we admire leaves, fall in Fall, and Spring in heat.

Always knowing these bare branches replenish in time, at least...New beginnings imminent, remembering no period brings a final sentence; it takes an absence of leave to relieve...
The true measure lives in your remembrance.

Don't fear the change- sieze it.
Death's temporary, and comes with reason
Find something to believe in
Reincarnated hope,
and we'll return- eternal
like the seasons.









(c)Paul LaTorre 2009

To Play God as a Teen

Tightrope walk-
This truth or dare, a conundrum
in this marathon-she may swim 'til her lungs flood
First sign of trouble
Sees a plus held up
by a loved one

On this cold tile floor- three hearts beat
Voice exclaiming
'Hold it up, give me your pee'
Cousin's eyes widen in excitement
What's to be expected, but to panic
Loose lips sink ships
Fate may feign this the Titanic

Crawling fear, like parasites
Porcelain plays the part of a canvas.

Two hearts beat- unprepared,
who isn't there?
One heart never speaks- but always listens,
truth or dare.

What would you do?
Cold sweats
appointment surveyed and set
Two days past yesterday
Yet her final lament,
still not placed in cement

Visit the clinic?
Or even better- leave it to rest...
Preacher man say- 'Hang your head,
you should feel shame...Stand up for what you did
Reap the reprecussions
Shoulder the blame- wear the mark on your frame.
Carry it with you 36 plus weeks
Don't speak of redemption until you sew all wounds
From which you've reaped.'

Judgement- not his to make
Hold opinions, but they're yours to keep
Life changed, one way or another-
Listening to two hearts beat.

Should HE have any say-
Or does solely SHE hold key?
Not simple as 'them or me'
The killswitch within her reach.

Choosing whether it grows, or flies tomorrow...
permanence seems hollow,
but for now- maternal
lullabies baby to sleep
thumping to the beat-
Two hearts beating in sync.









(c) Paul LaTorre 2009

Why DO I Write? (an essay)

I write, because I do not know how not to. I cannot have experiences in my life, compelling to the emotional and auditory- and NOT record them. I see a perfectly adorable pair of chipmunks, running about a baseball diamond- sharing an acorn and basking in their untouchable, bushy tailed, blissful, scampering, worry-free chipmunk love. I want to write a children’s story(Munky Business). I share a passionate night with a beautiful woman- whether she is the love of my life, or some chance encounter which I’ll only touch once…I want to write a sonnet- perhaps a love poem or an ode. Something in the news catches my attention- as utterly irresponsible and politically profane…I have to write an Op-Ed piece, an essay, or a long-winded pissed off rant on a web forum. It has always just been in my nature to express my thoughts through writing; I love the sound of words- and can almost stitch together musical hymns, in the rhythm of a well-written work.

“How am I suppose’to pretend…I never want to see you again…”

Such little clever lines in pop songs, flip a switch in my brain that automatically triggers this long chain reaction, and causes me to go off and write a short story about a lost love-- where the 19-year old casanova must rescue his 24-year old damsel in distress from the evils of her parents wanting her to marry some loathsome future lawyer. Where I see myself constantly as the superheroes I read about in comic books- therefore I must concoct my own grand-scale tales of heroism- of good triumphing over evil, and where bad science experiments somehow always result in funky Superpowers- rather than mangled body parts and horror stories of limbs blown apart. I see beauty in the world. I have to catalogue it.
Since the age of ten, maybe eleven- I’ve written poetry. It all started off in a ‘Young Author’s competition’, where everyone in my fifth grade class was given the same writing assignment for our English class. The prompt went something like- ‘Line 1- Name…Line 2- 3 descriptive characteristics…Line 3- What do you wish for?..Line 4- What are your fears? Line 5- Three more defining characteristics’. This seems far too constricting to my poetic algorithms nowadays- but in that age, you’re really more interested in watching cartoons, eating cereal and playing with action figures than you are being a young thespian. Winning the top prize for ‘best poem’, getting it published in a ‘Young Poets of NJ’ composition, and being told I have ‘a way with words’ by just about everyone I’ve known since Kindergarten- always gave me that drive to continue dabbling in the scribe’s world. Some of it fueled purely by my own ego- no doubt, I have always enjoyed the feeling of people telling me ‘you write wonderfully’ or that something I created could touch them enough to make them laugh, impact them enough to memorize it in full, or would be powerful enough to bring them to tears. The power of words, to me, has always been an awe-inspiring thing. I’ve read Mark Twain novels all throughout my adolescence, been moved by the poetry of Pablo Neruda and Walt Whitman. In my more recent years, the philosophy of Descarte, the modern writers- Junot Diaz and Saul Williams...yet I've always felt that if somehow I could leave my own personal legacy on this Earth- to put out works important enough to be published, bought, stored and cherished for all of time, then I myself could never really die.

To me, to write is to forever document your voice. To feel that deep within you, some fucked-up falcon, or Jaguar; both high off lyric-laced catnip, with hunters feverishly trying to maim their young, lay lurking- waiting to lunge upward from the cage you keep deep inside your cerebral cortex. I write because it soothes whatever beast that is…because to not keep in touch with that activity which satisfies me like the perfect meal, which stimulates me like the brush of warm flesh, and connects me to others without ever having met. When writing, that is the only time I am allowed to be someone else, yet retain pieces of myself. To be God; to be demonic; to be artist, musician, female; Greek philosopher, wind, machine, and ocean’s tide all in one. I write because I can’t NOT.

Hey Shine

Hey Shine,
Don’t light that
wick
They’ll hear smells coming whiff shit
This, so swift
ripping glocks through
Auschwitz
floorboards
Bread built the bridge
Gun powder
strips
bodies of memory and
taste, now we scurry to the silver
that old familiar
trap as
rats do
Little branded
mouse- let’s hope they never
catch you.










(c)Paul LaTorre 2010

Mia

A prikki Tikkkey tikkey.
Mommy can you put on Dor-ah?
Ahhh, luhv yeeew!
Ah, no Yissa DO!!!
Mommy, can I go to school with Pauyee? Pleeeease?
No?! Fine- you ugly. Teehee.
Mmmm, Pollo and French fwy!
I so excitee...
Nonnie, why you no wake up?

Mommy, I have coffee?
“Let’s put a smile on that faaace!”
No, you- ah no you…NO I WANT NONNIE DOOOO!
I shake Nonnie, but she won' wake up!!

“Booyah!”, a *finger wiggle*
Pauyee, watch Batman witmee.
Ooh, pretty neck-yace, Mommy- what’s Heaven?
Nonnie, why is it you no waking up?

Wear new dress- ooh, I pretty! Yook at me!
Come in cold room, see my whole family
Nonnie’s sleeping, they sitty watching.
But mommy, why she won’t wake up?







(c)Paul LaTorre 2010

(Inspired by real events, dedicated to my gorgeous niece, Mia Joelle- in memory of Keim Silva)

Crucial Fiction

Mary Magdalene sits, sin-soaked hands
Squeezing tears, juicing the pulp of a stone.
Mortalized by mortar slabs, while shearing
Black strands of baptized hair, blessed so long ago.
Each lock, eagerly cut off- she knows it was never her own.

Pontius Pilate, you do so make Tiberius proud. - Judas Iscariot lies in a field, counting thirty Caesar Augustus trusts your judgment, such a -- Pieces of silver. One of Twelve, yet only one
Decision only the righteous of hands can hand - who swelled with the cold kiss of ‘the killer’. Down. What’s the truth, O what IS truth- you - He whose heart beat was of jealous deceit,
Who sits ‘side his throne. Telling lies, but not --- Hang head in defeat, hung high for all to see One line in this pious final sentence your own. ------ Was this betrayal, or fulfilling prophecy?

Nazareth Sun; a star sent, shines down no longer.
Bethlehem’s virginal born- now withering, worn.
Flogged, mocked, stoned, beaten- with a crown
They beseech him, thorns adorn for royalty scorn.
Blood, water- flow separate, both palms ripped
by nails and stakes dripping rubies in atonement.
E′li, E′li, la′ma sa‧bach‧tha′ni? (My God, My God-
Why have you forsaken me?) We thirst for answer
With not a shepherd to lead his little lambs home.
Three more days minus grace, lifeless lying in wait
Until that time, all he can cry is- “It is finished!”

(c) Paul LaTorre 2010