Eight Poems

Ballad (For Calypso)

After Nate Marshall, MF DOOM, Kendrick Lamar, 

J.I.D., and R.A.P. Ferreira

Spoken word. This is a poetic diss with no stutter count.

Shots fired. Missed me with the Canon shutter count.

My poetry, always be brewing: pour over and dripping

Pull up for a Pulitzer. Clap, clap, and I’m dipping.

Incorrect interpretations are drip fed. Dropped dead.

Shoved schemas into rhymes schemes. You’re dumbfounded.

Haters have been hexing me. My metaphors have no clear direction.

Correction. Mad Hatter. It doesn’t even matter. I can’t fit into anybody’s

                                                                                                                  collection

                                                                                               (except for my own.)

FOR ALL MY POEMS: double up, double-dutch, double the entendre.

Outcast built to outlast: out write, out wit, out-do you in any genre.

Words hidden. Words hitting. Wordsmithing. Wasteland hyacinth.

I lab layers and lessons of language to lavish loops for the labyrinth.

Opulence. Y’all want the opposite. Self-made Sisyphus.

Dissonance. Sinister with the syntax. Synthesis: Antithesis.

Never content with the content. Another ballad for the bolder.

Never content with the content. Another ballad for the boulder.

                                                                                             (Rhetoric on repeat.)

                                            (Let me break it down.)

                     Home was pain, bled out like a fall and a scrape.

               Fled the scene. Moved away when I needed to escape.

              So my friends were the adhesive: the glue and the tape.

           They were all the GOATs who saw me as one of the greats.

So I hate that I’m at odds with my own Odyssey. Pain was the prophecy.

     Poetic anomaly. Family oddity. Lineage fractured and fragmented. 

 Schisms in the schisms. Chipped prisms. Sum it all up. The family is a 

                                                   long division.

Only praised with low light provisions, but I’m opening up my aperture.

                                                  (Line break.)

I need to reframe my perspective. Poetic precision.                                                       

Map out my route. Clear my doubts. A new decision.                                                       

  Bridge the division. Set sail. It’s a poetic revision.                                                       

                                                    

This is my backspace. I relinquish my ego to let me grow.                                                       

This ballad is for the poets. This ballad is for Calypso.                                                       

           This is for tunnel lights that still glow as I go                                                       

home. Slow ink and calligraphy with every single letter.                                                       

Circle back for the flaws. Taking risks like a trend setter.                                                       

The effort is the goal and I just want to be better.                                                       

Art is my artery. You don’t need to understand.                                                       

These poems are part of me. Signed off by hand.                                                       

Ode to the school built up with the sand.                                                       

(Peace.)                                                       

                                                   

Like Poem

This / Is not a love poem

This is more like a / “Like poem” / The kind of poem like playing mind 

games / Skipping / On mine fields / Tip-toeing around my feels / Kind of 

poem

The kind of poem like / An overcast sky where the sun is / Too shy / To 

say hello / Kind of poem

The kind of poem like / A baby bird bobbing / High up on tree branches

wanting to fly / But it's afraid of falling in love / Without someone to hold 

onto / Kind of poem

                    The kind of poem like / I want you to / Hold me / Kind of poem

But I don’t know what to think of you

You’re like / The puppeteer to my heartstrings / Marionette merry-go-round 

my head / Thoughts of you / And me / And us / Slow motion / Waltzing into 

/ When / I first saw you / Freeze frame fraction of / My heart fracturing for 

the / Last time / Because my heart like glass / Breaks as I fall for you / And 

I thought

                                                                                                 You were pretty cute

But not the / Love at first sight / Kind of cute

But the cute enough cute where I look for you / Everywhere I go kind of 

cute / The kind of cute where / I want to  / Pirate your smile / So I could 

treasure it / Every time I close my eyes / Torrent it into the torrential riptide 

/ Laying my corpse onto Lethe River bedside / So even when / I wake up 

with amnesia / Your memory would be / The only thing / I kept in my chest 

/ And maybe / Maybe I would’ve tattooed your name / On my left leg / As a 

reminder /

That I once stood for                                                       

Someone worth more                                                       

Than myself                                                        

                                                    

But I don’t know

What to think of you

Liking you

Is like trying to understand

Calculus where there

Are like 4 variables deriving my truths

Integrating factors I can’t seem to solve

                                                                        Like what if she’s taken
                                                                        Like what if she doesn’t feel the 

                                                                        same way

                                                                        Like what if she sees my scars
                                                                        Like what if she leaves me

Because love takes up half of a life

But could last like a half-life

The gradual decay of elements / Once radiated atoms / Building blocks of 

beauty / Changing into something else / Breaking our embrace like 

covalent bonds / Until being with you will feel like isotopic isolation / 

Because our hearts / Became neutral / Unable to attract and the feelings / 

Would be mutual

And I still

Don’t know

What to think of you

But I know

The next time I see you

I’ll say something like

Hey                                                       

I wanna know you                                                       

Like really know you                                                       

Albedo

After Mary Oliver

I have always been the cloud

          Victim to the wind

Unable to hold back the rain

          Splitting the air unwillingly

                                                       Too often

At times I want to be the light

             Resilient

But I’ve learned that I want to be

            The sun and watch

                                                   Planets orbit

                                                        Around

                                                           Me

Heirlooms

After Tyree Daye

                                                   When I was my

Grandfather’s father

            I painted love with

                        A fist of razors

                                   Brewed silence

                                              In between

                                                         Gravestones tongues

                                                                                We inherited

                                                                                           Cracked mirrors

                                                                                                      For portraits

My father

            Speaks with

                        A bruised palette

                                    My mother

                                                Holds me with

                                                            Barbed wire

                                                                       I am made from

                                                                                   Paper scraps

                                                                                               Soaked in gasoline

Excavation

My days

Pebbles kissing the space

Between ground and shoe

Are nothing more

Than granite taken for granted

                                                       Play things

                                                             Like

                                       Skipping stones for concrete
                                           That crumble into dust

                                                 For an hourglass

                                              I refuse to turn over

                                                          While I

                                                   Have no one to

                                                          Turn to

My mind is a labyrinth                                                       

Fog slips into the corners                                                       

And hugs my thoughts                                                       

Quiet and slow                                                       

I stare at my message screen like                                                       

A worn                                                       

Down                                                       

Lighthouse                                                       

                                                       

                                                            But I turn away

                                              Afraid of becoming a nuisance

                                                      In a new sense of pity

So instead I waver

Frequent the trough of cold waves

With watered down pastimes

Drown myself in anything

To forget what depression tastes like

Kiss the light goodnight

And comfort the dark

Become a match

Flickering in the rain

Looking for something to smile about

                                            I’ve started to realize that

                                            I’ve become a closed fist

Zippered mouth                                                       

Iron casted ears                                                       

A walking thunderstorm                                                       

           With brewing jealousy                                                       

                                       

                                                      I find myself                                                       

                       Shuffling my way through cards of people since

                            Small talk is a game with no real winners

                                            The pendulum of egos

                                      Carefully brushing each other

I offer a laugh

The kind that hangs in the air

Enough for you to feel the withdrawal

Spit gravel dirt

Until my tongue bruises rubies

Fold myself into pretty

Find ways to bend myself

Into what you’re looking for

                                                                And I

                                              Still walk with a wind that

                                      Hisses a shiver when I feel alone

And I feel most alone                                                       

When blue fades gray                                                       

And my heart is an empty slate                                                       

But I still find the color pretty                                                       

So I write damn pretty                                                       

To turn my pain                                                       

Into beautiful                                                       

A sonata saturated with half truths                                                       

A cocktail of metaphors                                                       

To make poison                                                       

Seem tolerable                                                       

                                                       So I end up here

                                           Standing before a microphone

                                         See masses turn into masochists

                                          Whenever I end up doing this so

Let me levitate

Let me alleviate

Let me allocate all my self-hate

And serve it to you on a paper plate

Let me elaborate

Let me condense my voice into vapor

Until it feels condescending

And I end up shivering

Because spotlight

                                 Doesn’t warm me like real people do

So scrape                                                       

The poetry                                                       

Underneath                                                       

The caves                                                       

Of my skin                                                       

And tell me                                                       

You found                                                       

Something                                                       

Worth                                                       

Reading                                                       

There                                                       

Jpeg Skies

Today has been a palindrome for everyday                                                       

I've compromised sunrise for closed curtains                                                       

Reaching for the shine of your skin                                                       

That wasn't there in the first place                                                       

Traced magenta through low light                                                       

Where decay is so small                                                       

You can't quite taste the dust                                                       

Where “I love you”                                                       

Has long since bled out to rust                                                       

So I'm here again                                                       

Trying to scar a poem into drywall                                                       

Your name                                                       

Cascades through my mind                                                       

While I serenade our memories                                                       

Gracing that 4 AM walkway before                                                       

We blurred like a bouquet of raindrops                                                       

Martyred underneath lampposts                                                       

And cross signals                                                       

And all the other street signs that said                                                       

“Goodbye”                                                       

Goodbye has been                                                       

The contrast of                                                       

Asphalt and overcast                                                       

Stagnant reverie                                                       

Callused bloom                                                       

Grayscale numb                                                       

                                      I’m a leaf on concrete barely scraping by

                                               I’m a glutton for self-sabotage

                                              I’m at the threshold between

                                           Gravity and worn out floorboards

                                     I know that moving on has no due date

                                    I know that moving on has no landmark

                                   But at least I know what it means to love

Love was laughter before a thunderstorm

Bike pedals

Slow cuddle and pinky swings

Love was blushing red stovetops

Orange juice tang

Horchata sip sweet

                                       I know what it means to love

                                                     I want patina

                                                  I want resilience

                                                   I want catharsis

                                                      I want love

                                                      I want love

                                  I want love when I least deserve it

                                                      Thank you

                                          For giving me the chance

              For making me feel more than a singular shade of a man

                                              I hope you find love

                                          Tucked in the margins of

                                                 A wrinkled page

                                                        Tender

                                                          Safe

                                                        Happy

But for now                                                       

I’ll be here again                                                       

Bleeding ballads for the asphalt                                                       

While the sky turns chalk dust                                                       

Allegory of The Automaton

I

“It's often said                                                       

that if you                                                       

really                                                       

want to understand                                                       

something,                                                       

then what you should do                                                       

is build it.”                                                       

The boy was built to write pretty.

                                          To be built is to be desired.

                                      To be desired is to be needed.

                                  To be needed is to be demanded.

II

Am I the page or the canvas?

(I am hardbound. Bound for a hard life.)                                                      

(I am a silent Sibyl. Bound for self-suffering.)                                                      

(I am textbook. I am standardized cliché.)                                                      

Am I the tool or the product?

(I am the dust of what you want me to be.)                                                      

(I am holo.)                                                      

(I am hollow.)                                                      

What is my purpose?

(...)                                                      

Who do I write for?

(...)                                                      

                                                                                                                                            

III

A boy

Born from silence

Built to be a poet

Writes pretty / Calligraphy / Lets ink bleed / Pretty                                                      

A boy

Born from silence

Built to be perfect

Writes pretty / Loops on loops on loops / Predetermined / Uniform                                                      

A boy

Born from silence

Built to be human

(All I wanted) / (Was to be) / (More than what) / (I was built for)                                                      

A boy

Born from envy

Built to learn

The weight of words only equals the amount of paper you can carry                                                      

and the amount of words others are willing to hold.                                                     

                                                   

                                                                                                                                             

IV

I wrote this sequence in anaphora to isolate the word “I”.

I wrote this poem over countless years and it is still not perfect.

I stopped writing poetry because I couldn’t find the right word and 

sequence.

I stopped writing poetry because words became numb to me. All of them.

I am the product of my own burnout. (Tired / Tire / Drift / Driftwood / Stray / 

Thoughts)

I am the subject of my own self-destruction.

I am my own script of calligraphy. (All words are the same words, just 

written differently.)

I write to be recognized. (No.)

I write to be better. (No.)

I write to be marketable. (No.)

I write to make myself feel better. (No.)

I write to represent others and give them a platform. (No.)

I write to reflect. (...Yes.)

I write for me. (Yes.)

I write to reclaim what I had lost. Language. (Yes.)

I write to realize everything is a draft. That’s okay. (Yes.)

I write because it is fun, sometimes. Yes. The way it makes me laugh. The 

way I can show and read it to others. The way I can simply write a word 

and build bridges to another word. Words create maps and infinite 

destinations and ever changing definitions. Words are so beautiful and 

ugly and it all depends on the sequence. Calligraphy: Loops and flourishes 

connecting with intent and with some room for mistakes. I demanded 

myself to be perfect…

                                                                                                                                      

V

The love and name are the same.

Whenever I write a letter to a friend, I ask for

their favorite color. I ink up one of my (excessive)

fountain pens, and write out their name.

I just add more flair. (I’m extra.) A human touch.

Sure, I could type out and preserve the letter

for future reference, but there is something beautiful

about a handwritten letter. I love the way

when the writing becomes slightly crooked or

when any single letter looks odder than the other.

Fossilized love that can be held and decayed.

Words and love that can be smeared and then washed off.

The surprise of remembering and forgetting of

sentiments, only to unearth and decipher it again,

renews me. It is the reincarnation of love.

Love is transient, universal, proprietary.

I used to obsess about nailing the consistency of

my calligraphy. Scraps on scraps on scraps of

ornate mistakes. Regardless, I carved my time

and ink for those I loved. A letter dedicated

them as beautiful as I could present it.

Will you hold onto my letters after you read them?

Will the ink smudge your fingers?

Will my vibrancy one day be washed away?

Every poem and letter I write is a ballad.

Every poem and letter I write is a capsule

of time, fossilized through the medium of

understanding writing, reading, comprehending,

and love. I have forgotten how to write once.

Becoming friends is one of the most beautiful

poems I have ever witnessed. Friendship, poetry.

The love and name are the same.

Past / Passed

After Ignacio Vargas Ruiz Jr.

1

to be a National Book Award Winning Collection / only / to be / labeled / 

FOR / DISCARD / stuck and stickered / onto / a page / The Westminster 

Public Library, CO / stamped / or / stampeded / branded / red / resold / to 

be / a used / Amazon listing / only to be bought / and / read / and / 

dissected / by / me

to be a poet / only / to be / dissed / dissected / mislabeled / misunderstood 

/ forever / forgotten

                                                                                                                                       

2

I may never be high art

I may never be remembered

I may never be the privilege of disposal

            bound and staple pressed

                        bound for irrelevance

I may never be considered canon

I may never be admired by the future or past

I may never be held and passed on by others

           in any medium

                      in any genre

I may never be passed my past

I may never be freed from the cycle

I may never be cured from toxin

           potential / potent / postponed

                       vial / vile / villainy

                                                                                                                                       

3

                                                   pick and comb

                                             the tomb of my brain

                                              only to misinterpret

                                             and misunderstand

                                               the ongoing draft

                                                      of my life

                                                                                                                                       

4

the brain:

                       /   the growth / the wrinkle / the 

                                 tumor / the extraction
                      / the double-vision / the lost / 

                            the found / the radiation
                     / the chemo / the tunnel-vision

                             / the relapse / the redo

                      / the re-laps / the growth / the 

                         relapse / the redo / the re-

                      laps   / the relapse / the redo / 

                           the re-laps / the growth /

the will to:

                      / revert /

                      / reverse /

                      / re-examine /

                                        / reflect /

                                                 / re-evaluate /

                                                   / relinquish /

                                                / recompose /