Dear Minutes Before Six
By Mark Torres
It’s one second before six-thirty. That is bright and early every morning, whisper God, please forgive me. With dirt under my nails from 1993. Sitting at tables with two hundred years, when it’s just me and you. Listening to stories when I know how it ends. It’s the one element we all have in common. We all got caught. It’s the reckless talk why the Bureau closed cases with that Ghost Dope. I only write letters of poetry. A poet’s heart, so tell me where I went wrong. When I first bent a rule. How can you blame me? Shaking hands with the principal, what an honor to be placed on Honor Roll, to founding think I am. Solving every problem but my own, like gluing sandpaper on the floor where there’s braille on walls, so the blind man can enter rooms. Texture. Your shift ends 15 on the hour in Downtown Los Angeles in an effort to relieve the flow of traffic. Or if you’re running from the CHP, all red lights at the intersection along with a Red Hand in order to keep everyone safe in the community including the police. This means no car accidents at the intersections. It takes a village, The New Oakland. But my world fell apart when my parents divorced. I walked around with a chip on my shoulders. I felt the weight of the world. I went from a Sunday School boy to a prisoner.
I was in the SHU (shoe, the hole), when Tony Ducks lucked those shots. He reminds me of Cleveland as I hear about his first hundred hours. I was in line to taste food off his plate. What an honor to serve. With a mind like this, I was talking extraction options. At the first hole, putting with Gold balls. He told me next time you get up, sound off. I fell so many times I can taste the earth. Look like I’m working out doing push-ups. If I sound off, I’ll give a Hundred to Space Force Guardians, Michael watching over us. As Air Force serves its purpose. Oval Forces are pens, the power in a poet’s hand. Sitting in my unit as the ink dries. Crying like a man when I take a shower after reading letters from my mother. Love is blind. Eating soups and I’m dying. As the Ace of Hearts under his sleeve. H, why? Why does the Double U matter to you and you say you can’t read. Because the U looks like a Double V (W). Because there’s a Double U in YHWH. That’s why. H, why from right to left it’s the Hebrew that it’s written. Then tell me what so great about him, when he paid homage and walked around us. That’s why we turned into us, to all the beautiful daughters of Zion. It’s time to wipe those eyes. Do you notice the sign of the times? Now a days I’m on my best behavior. For the next 48 months I’m away from home. When penmanship matters. Did you notice the stamp? She said I do and I wasn’t him. Now a days I pray for rain for those California fires. A Saint of O.
Casino
By Mark Torres
You can’t spell “casino” without the CIA, NSA, and the AI, #facts. What are the odds of that? Well, the first three odds in Cardinal Order are 1,3,5. That’s Ace. ACE are the first, third, and fifth letters in alphabetical order. 45+45+45=135. What are the odds of that? Ace of Hearts.
That’s when Baseball fields look like Diamonds. Those were my yesterdays. Ace of Diamonds was when I wore Red all week. Anything to see you smile. That’s when I kept promises. Do you want every Diamond, then I’ll execute. I’ll move Earth. Then look what I did. Here’s cold bulbs because you’re scared of the dark. You like the sound of waves. This light won’t affect the temperature. Then that collects the energy from the pounding waves along the coast. God bless Casino. Those Gulf lessons and Ocean Farming when seaweed is a commodity. Like Crumbs, I’m a Little One, a mini county club. Who’s the Queen of Clubs, the Queen of Diamonds. Just like Earth Diamond. I’m from the dirt. Dirt from 1993, we have history. All my problems, I can’t solve them. As without an NDA. No contracts. A Son of George Washington South of Whittier. When numbers are everywhere. Life is not a gamble. I’ll never drop dice again when I found out they cast lots for his garments. As I whisper forgive me. When blood and water hit the ground. Life is a mist so I guess we are vapors. As clouds take shape.
Social Media
By Mark Torres
You can’t spell “Social” without the CIA, and you can’t spell “Media” without the AI. 193 pounds, full measure. As she starts at the top. Raise your hand if you have a question, please.
You may now begin. A life of allegiance. Did the Red win, was there a Red Wave? How wouldn’t be complete without the White and Blue.
A showless life, all my support from the point of light. Since you’re going to shine there so bright. Tenet. The company’s customer. Yelp should have required a receipt. To all my Ones and Zeroes, love from the Tin Man. In it. When you’re my herd as I get strong. Only in America. I think I inspired Don. Love and Blessings to Mike Tyson. 10:10 in the morning, allow six minutes of silence. I us and say less. As clouds shape shift, as my mind finds rest. I’m here, it’s second to second. In here pay your debts. In here I’m missed. As we enjoy the technology era. I sit and study. I write the book about the Unforgiven, to those sentenced to death live their life on Death Row, until their date they exist on Earth. God heard your prayer even if you only whisper. It’s never too late to turn it all around. When words can influence and a prayer can heal a nation. As the LORD brings wars to an end and soften the heart of kings. What do you think hail saved for. Open your eyes. You say there is no truth, well, I ask you is that what you just said a true statement? I pray God heals all the wounds of your heart. From me to we to us. Love and Blessings. Heal our Nation. Peace.
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