A moment of Silence

Octavia Butler died this Friday, February 24th. She was one of the most profound writers of our time and one of the few African American Women to be given respect in the world of Science Fiction.

If you haven't read "Parable of the Sower," nows a good time.

She will be missed.

MS 391

Black and brown tiled floors
Decorated in candy wrappers

Wet newspapers
Rusty nails

Musk of sweat ambles through hallways
Where soda stains coagulate into accidental frescos

Engraved spider web of cracks in windows
Held together with shrouds of cheap electrical tape

Incorrigible cavities in asbestos pipes
Exposed like chocolate covered cancers

Flicker of fluorescent lights dialing an S.O.S.
Hover above a bulletin board

Where a torn sign is stapled to the edges
Displaying the message

ANCIENT CIVILIZATIONS
UNIT STUDY

EGYPTIAN GODS AND
PHARAOHS

Coup

Orchestra of orphans
We are
Curbed at the foot of the bay
Beach ourselves before the horizon
Our thumbs held high
Along with our chins
Cavalry of catalyst
We are
Hoping to hitch a boat ride to a lesser plane
Only war machines and
Merchants ships
Pass us
The U.S.S.
Brutus and Cassius
No cash us
Got holes in our pockets
Our toes calloused from infinitely
Walking the plank
Off federal buildings into
3rd World states of mind
We seek a rewind on the tape
Back to when our
Dreams had yet to be cryogenically frozen by
Global Markets and
Promises from the IMF
Now processed into Popsicle sticks
For sale in local corner stores
But where were we
On the cusp of eternity
The lingering smell of jailors
Key ring to our cells twirled sardonically
Around their nightsticks
The sky was beneath us
Myths of ex-patriots were stuffed in our wallets
The ocean refused to part for us
We would have to stand our grand ground
We stormed the coasts like Antarctic seals
Stripped ourselves in unison
Kissed the wind
Took snapshots of aspiring ruins
We passed out No. 2 pencils
To every platoon of heartbroken stargazers
Proceeded to execute a
Two front attack on the capital
Erasing all the streets
The banks
Police precincts
We erased the penthouses
The projects
The cars
The trains
The courthouse
The lampposts
The trash
The traffic
The hotels
The exclusive nightclubs
We erased every door
And all locks
All the clocks
And all penitentiaries posing as
Elementary schools
With our sticks of lead
We lead
Drawing up a new landscape
We built open fires
Thawed out our dreams
Roasted our overseers
Over the flames
Cooked enough Sancocho
For the whole world to eat
Plucked guitar strings
Played beach volleyball
But kept no score
Toasted to our new metropolis where
The only skyscrapers were trees and mountains
At sunset we all fell asleep
Under the shelter of starlight
Eager for the sun to return to us
As an empty canvas on an easel
Ready to be painted into
A new triptych of
Impossible possibilities

Turntablification

Cracks Pops Hisses
My cyclical cerebellum feels
Steel seduce me with one arm arched
Kisses pressed vinyl with a
Crack Crack Pop
Tickles Malleus Stapes Incus
Summoning cries of lost Incas
The point of the point points south
To the 99 names of god
Fingers finger through wax canyons
Like lovers aroused by
A Groan A Hum A Hiss A Squeal
Mimic vibrating sensations from
Caresses of horns over strings
Maelstrom in rhythm
Descends inward
Into ellipsis of time
An auditory eclipse
Two lips twisted
Into dead and buried body sutras
Frozen into grooves
Moves out at 33 1/3 revelations per
Kkkkk… Kkkkk… Prrrrr…
Hum Hiss Scratch Pop
Black sun revolving around revolver
Dissolving into my daughter fathered
From two amps blazing
Surround sounding me like my brothers
On the corner with
High fives and peace outs
Pieced out to the needy with a
Wikka Wikka Whack Scratch
Myths onto quasars while Siva
Performs pirouettes to the beat
Of neighbors complaining
Families celebrating new birth
Whirling like mechanical dervishes
Praying time does not skip
And repeat skip and repeat skip and repeat
Sacred all suspended into a colloid of
Boom Kerrr Bomm Bomm!
In the eye of my needle
As a revelation in revolution at 98 beats per Minute
Rotating Gyrating Twisting Orbiting and dancing to the sound of

We were too Busy

Welcome to Metaphors and Manifestos, a poet’s personal online journal. The idea is to present writing from my journal as it is being developed. This will include poetic fragments, works-in-progress, notes, rants, and informal essays, and finished drafts of pieces. Occasionally you might find a posting for a gig or event (my own or a friend’s), or poems of favorite authors. What you won’t find is mindless scribbles about how I spent my Friday night, like thousands of the blogs filling up space on the internet. The hope is to produce some meaningful and/or entertaining work before a (virtual) live audience. And feedback of any kind is strongly encouraged!

My other hope for this journal is to serve as a way of connecting with friends, family, colleagues, and acquaintances. In the age of globalization and hypermedia, a person can finds that the people in their life are scattered all over the Earth and it can be difficult to keep up with everyone that means something to you. This is a way for me to speak to all of you, and for you to drop a line and say something to me whenever you feel the urge.

It is my belief that poetry makes the world go round. On that note, I leave you with my first poetry posting. Please read and enjoy.

Peace, Love, and Metaphors,
Toro

We were too Busy

While you were shopping at the mall
While you were handing out awards
While you were fixing elections
While you were scribing doctrines and dissertations
While you were inventing new technologies
While you were composing symphonies
While you were planning your next war
While you were passing legislation
While you were sending men to the electric chair
While you were starting dot-com companies
While you were sailing the Mediterranean coast
While you were building your resume and your 401K
While you were erecting statues and skyscrapers
While you were preparing another fundraiser
While you were throwing lavish parties in your house in the Hamptons

We were too busy to show
We were too busy looking for food to feed our children
We were too busy digging through your trash for rags to keep warm
We were too busy searching for shelter for the evening
We were too busy searching for shelter from your storm

-Toro 2006