Category: Life

Unedited – Another Poem in Progress

Posted on by Derrick Engoy in Art, Life, Spoken Word

I print stuff for a living.
Well…I do more than that,
but the gist of what I do is…
I print stuff for a living.
I am a production manager for a local print shop and, unlike most of America, I truly love my job.

I get to screen print quirky paraphrases on t-shirts and open people’s eyes to a world of possibilities in CMYK.
I get to collate scattered dreams into a nicely packaged booklet so that it makes sense to everyone who reads it.
I get to spiral bind ideologies into reality.
And I get to lower the opacity of disillusioned emotions, but only if it’s necessary.

I get to design identities on 16 point matte business cards, or gloss if that’s your preference,
and I get to to raise the bar of quality of life to 1200 dots per inch.

But I…

I especially get to photocopy people’s ideas and have the joy of calling them on plagiarism when need be.
I get to perforate my customer’s theories,
so they can tear them apart when things don’t add up.
I have a blade that can slice up to 500 sheets of hatred
and a trashcan where I can dump those hostile personalities into.
I have an oversized printer that can expose the phonies for who they are and hammer grommets at each corner so they can be hung where everyone can see them.

See…

We’d rather take our Photoshop Magic Wands and delete the blemishes of what makes us human.
Use our Healing Tools to merge the doctored layers with who we really are, so we can save maximum quality jpegs and mount those on stretched canvases.
Frame them nicely snugged and present those for all to see.
We order carbon copies of these images in hopes to make a name for ourselves.
We leave no room for the imagination because we’ve Command Z’d all of our insecurities, pasted on someone else’s identity, and rasterized multiple objects to become whoever we want to be at the click of a mouse.

See…I print stuff for a living.

But you…

You make stuff up.
Afraid of being alone for the rest of your life.
Afraid of not being pretty enough.
Afraid of not being wanted.
Afraid of the truth.

See…I print stuff for a living.

And, quite honestly, I liked you when you first came in.
Dust all underneath your left index finger.
Hair not quite parted right.
Your crooked smile exposing the cilantro between you’re teeth, telling me you had a burrito for lunch.

Listen…

You were fearfully and wonderfully made.
You are just as you’re supposed to be.
You’re better than you think you are.
You’re worth Jesus’ life.
You’re perfect.

See…I print stuff for a living and we’re no different you and me.
Created in my image and likeness, yeah, I knew what I was doing.
So redo the undo and be…

You.

Breathe – New Poem in Progress

Posted on by Derrick Engoy in Art, Life, Spirituality, Spoken Word

I love that you can stare at me all day long.
I love that you can make rights out of my every wrong.
And I’m left using both hands to gesture my excitement
When I talk about the day my heart began to syncopate for the very first time.

That day.
Oh that day.

It was quiet.
Quiet like those moments seven seconds after putting the third kid to sleep and you’ve found just enough time in the evening to hear that drumbeat in your heart hit quarter notes…you’re so excited…because you know it’s going to get noisy again in the morning.
It was peaceful that day.
Peaceful like a ballon escaping from its bunch and finding solace in the open skies above Disneyland.
But you’re careful because you know Tinker Belle is six seconds away from commanding the sleeping giants to wake up from their slumber and ignite the horizon.

Ok…maybe not so peaceful, but just for a moment…that day.

The day you harmonized with the glee club of birds causing swells in the ocean so big that land began to matter.
The day the stars twinkled for the first time, which I’m beginning to think was the day your eyes bashfully lit up when you looked at me for the first time, slowly nodding your head with approval.

Yeah I’m that guy.

That guy.

The guy who stood in awe as you articulated the heavenlys into endless haikus and you masterfully juggled the night into day and cross faded them once again, juggling the night into day on the vinyls of eternity.
I’m that guy who drools at the mere thought of you causing the sun to slip into a circadian rhythm that rapidly moves my eyes back and forth in bewilderment because of your majestic beauty.
I’m that guy who freezes up with nervousness when I mesmerizingly gaze at your reflection dancing underneath the spotlight of the moon.
And soon the sun wakes up again and you breathe that much more heavier.

You.

You love me unconditionally and you joyfully serenade me even when I’m not paying attention.
Your peace can patiently rope me back in when I’m not listening.
Your kindness is better than charity and your goodness is humbling.
But it’s your faithfulness that gently reminds me of your self-control to love me no matter what.

Your spirit is so fruitful that I can sink my teeth into them and juices would gush out just as they originally did in the Garden.
And even though time has gone on, I remember it like it was yesterday.

With dirt in your hands, you whispered sweet everythings into the cool of day and the syncopations of my heartbeats pulsates a little more fancier, so much so that break dancers left holes in the middle of their linoleums.
You…you looked at the vast of your creation and knew Michaelangelo would even be jealous.
Leonardo couldn’t even code this.
And Banksy’s epigrams lose their satirical whim next to your magnificence.
You spray mists of excellence onto the ally walls of eternity and flare sparkle effects on the eyes of Jupiter.
Your compliments sweeten the Milky Way.
And your humor causes chuckles so energetic that astroids collide into each other there so distracted.

You look down once more as grains slip through your hands and you gather back as much as you can…and blow.

And, as you soak in the splendor of your masterpiece, all you could say is, “It is very good.”