Living Memorials| Spoken Word Poetry Video

Music and all beautiful sound stuff by Moses Clyde Caliboso Inspired from a conversation with my friend Scottford Price after a good friend of mine passed on.

— It is as holy as hardening to have a part of your identity bred out of the memory of someone else. We are all living memorials of people who affected us then moved on without us. —-


Thank you so much for the support and I hope everyone is feeling a little bit more ready and a little less alone with the holidays out of the way.

Love Letter to all the people I will never know || Spoken Word

New poem and video. Can’t seem to get enough of all the people who I will never know 
Please listen and enjoy. Been thinking a lot about all the stories I will never hear, and all the people I will never meet aside from a brief glance on the sidewalk.

In Regards to the White Supremacist Posters around the UBC Campus

UBC has posters slapped on it
In three parentheses it says (((Those)))
Who will not replace us
Under it, a picture of Jews.

UBC removes the poster
But the anti-semitic sentiment stays stuck in my stomach

I think to the
The WWW dot
The who would have thought
The Worldwide War that has brought
Out and brought in
Our thoughts translated back to us in a way to reconfirm what we already see
The WWW dot is not
Different from this very reality.
White Supremacy is not a one day event we see on a paper.

White Supremacy moves on from this one poster, and for all papers, this ones that read a lot like Oh Kay, KK.
Like maybe, like neutral, like it is and just is, and we all read it, and justice is slipping down the drain, like Oh Kay, KK

Did you read the paper?
Seems like it is written in white paint, leaving a big fat print.
And we smile when asked to show our teeth, smiling until peace
Calls back but instead all I hear is the sound of being printed
Between triple parentheses.
Did you read the paper?
It seems like it is kind of silencing to me.
Did you read the paper?
It is and is, the same, the why comes after the who. It speaks in one voice.
Did you read the gossip from our gospel?
Oh I saw it in the news. There isn’t a choice.

Read the paper
Just don’t lose your soul.
Read the paper
Just don’t read it and say Oh, Kay, KK
Because it might tell you this is the end of the war.
And there is nothing left to fight for.
But between the clicks, and the columns and everybody getting bored of everybody else’s struggle
Everybody else being complicit in the WWW dot org
The paper becomes distilled in its dictionary, where peace is code for all-encompassing and neutral

But peace is not all-encompassing and neutral
Peace is not a one day event.
Did you read the paper?
It was black and white in the print, it looked like it was about equalization

Did you read the paper?
It reads nuclear as neutral
Did you read the paper?
It reads 14-88 for 2017
Did you read the paper?
It reads all men are created equal, as if men is code for all, then it is as if all is code for men

Did you read the paper properly?
Who is it speaking of when it says we? Who is it speaking of when it says we? And who are they? And are they in triple parentheses too?

The World Wide War feeds our ideas back to us like a parrot
This global sound a single voice with a megaphone on a gravestone of our old holy.
The voice is as holy as the holes they were dug into
The voice speaks as one and claims it speaks for all
But like the colour white, the codex and sounds disappear into one dominant wavelength

And we listen in, we say Oh, KKK and shrug our shoulders for the
Or the democracy of the internet has spoken
In the ideology of the webbed way we think, different stories are just a token
Like I’m 16 and M16 is subtext for the stem-cell democracy of Facebook
A rebirthed white and sleek machine that even teenagers know how to use!
A corporal aura borealis- a body, power, explosion painting a blank canvas
until the stars shrink themselves into a blank water blanket.

But there is no such thing as a neutral network.
Every, institution has a colour, every idea has a colour
When things are neutral, it is code for white.
Because when things are white you do not see the colour of the blood under it.

Did you read the paper?
Perhaps dip your hands in the ink and push on to the page, leave a truly read stain.
Reading the death into the author.
Refuse to put the O in front of the triple K.
Leave your handprint on the paper in red because it was the only press you could get
Use your pen, your harpoon (same thing) and write it
It will have to be read
It will have to be bloody

Otherwise peace will read like a pacifier in the mouth of a pianist.
She will press keys non-threateningly, absent of colour and feeling
So when you leave this read stain.
Read the ones that others have read too.
Being oppressed and targeted does not make you a saint
Stay compassionate to those that are hurting differently than you


Tear off the seals between our lips and ears, resilient and unashamed
Deep love on our colophon- The emblem of our title page
Has a name that cannot be written in neutral paint.
But humanity is an orchestra of different kinds of beauty
And if we write ourselves into the narrative
We can be louder than the sounds of
White noise.
White noise.
White noise.
White noise.

Reboiling Hope

Hope, Hope, Hope, Hope, I’ve said it too many times. It just sounds like a word that slip, slip, slapped out of my vocabulary.

The same way I stutter and twisty my way through the language of my identity
The way I think my words have melted me to build this
Night back up.
To reboil, Hope.

From scrambled, to soaring:

To catch the word at the bottom of the slope it fell from and have it re-sound again
Attach it on a hot air balloon, four letters on four corners and some hot glue,  to put steam back into the air and supernovas to count on again.
When the balloon runs cold, the pentameters and prologues in these four letters will take plight again, this time ten-fold into the star-crossed, eyes-wide and bleeding night, for the poets
The broken dominoes, the out of tune clocks, the off-key metronomes, the often solo and hopeless

These poets, keep rearranging H-O-P-E in different ways
So we can build this whole night time
Camp, cosmos, the micro godlessness on this stage
A pedestal of all the ways we sense out the flux of fuckery

Here we are, H-O-P-E ing
But sometimes this word, hops, repeats in my ear like a cockroach cassette, my friends, hoping, convincing me and themselves, that they are OK,
It plays like ambition looped with melted memories I’d rather forget
Because whenever I need to hold on to hope, it’s because I have little else and their poems on breaking are a music shelf.
Where I open up my hopes to the tune of my past regrets
Snare drums of doubt and threats
when I used to have aim, I now just have guilt,
and blame in the place of resilience

But, yet, there is something magical about spreading
The ounce of belief lit up in your chest,
Our fingers want to share our tiny atlas’ hope balls
So we write our own tiny worlds on a flash cards
And trade them
These are the stanzas to our secrets.
These metaphors we write at our weakest,
Ring like revenge, making art from our lonely lyric

But we all stay with the same thesis, rearranging H-O-P-E, spelling it differently so every ear can hear it in the sound they need it most. We write like ghosts in full spirit. Spreading our sonnets to the sky in our hot air.

When we write when we are defeated, that means we have not truly been.
Rewriting ‘Hope’ like the magician that shook off all the gold off of my tongue but I kept finding a new way to speak.
Maybe, my mouth is valueless, it stills stays like osmosis for promise.

When the moon comes out to howl at me
And the blue machete under under my eyelids starts to scream
And the voices around me grow loud like a wonder monsoon
I write like you all will hear me.
I listen back like I will thank you all.

my metaphors like a moon jungle
as wild as a glass animal
my urban religion and
my aspirations
get cliff-dived machete stomped
still leaving a salt tang of Hope, my nucleus
the hike, left in me, dead, end, hungry but still believing

I write
Like even if I can’t
Somebody will hear this future I describe like a disease, and they can follow it, like a robotic prayer in the distance
And as they hear me, and they move, and together as I speak and they sway we will find it in our bodies to take one step closer to an imaginary place that we move to
I keep looking at fireflies that have forgotten my fires
And tricycle tires that sometimes spin out of sync

Because I want to reboil this and get every last drop, telling you that when I bleed and you listen it saves me. When I stare off hunting for a day dream and you root for me, it saves me. When I tell you I keep hunting despite the bones on the ground and the meat under my feet that stays uneaten it saves me. Some see a poem, I see the only way to be. Some see a poem, I see the lonely innate beauty. Some see a poem, I see Jesus with robot teeth.

This is me telling you that the moon has scarcely bloomed for me this year
And it sounds like the all too familiar empty howl of hopelessness
But when you hear me, it’s like I can hear you calling back
Hope like a revenge. Hope like that revenge is your religion.
So I will write a poem an uproar
A revolution
I write my struggles like rebellion
A force to be reckoned with
I hang my poems for your starry starry whisper at night time and send them off in the hot
For you to tell me come daylight
Then for us to reboil for hope
One after another
Distilling our dictionaries to their core and answering the prayers
In each other’s soliloquies, speak, listen, step off the stage, repeat, repeat, repeat

Until resilience, then repeat, repeat, repeat, it sounds like a new language to learn from again