Ball

I’ll continue to write ballads, until I see ballerinas,

ballerinos, play together under my story’s umbrella.

Even then, I won’t stop after ballet, continue to see

my name on the ballot, keep the crowd on the balls

of their feet, stabilizing their ecstasy like a ship’s ballast.

The ball’s projected to be ballistic, rocking the ballroom

with the gravity of the written fallen out of God’s graces,

onto the blank page, turned verbal, faces pasted.

So let it be written. So let it be done.

As long as this ballpoint stays connected to this page, your pages,

I’ll stay out of the pen, stay balling, no basketball, straight to your

veins, an oddball intent on rising selling you speedballs.

Eyeing eyeballs following this movement, surrounding,

trying to circle, this circle of influence I created, degrading

the work I bring you that I brought up from the ground up,

stepping on the snowballs I get you hooked on, on the daily.

Calling Blue Magic, Red, not understanding the brand’s reputation,

lowballing packaged product, playing hardball with this hustle.

But any fastballs or curveballs coming my way will

be batted out the ballpark, changeup on one and all,

dap them up with palmballs, be put on commission.

A cabal could never colour me silent.

To be blackballed into remaining verbally blueballed,

would be the first sign of my death.