Keyboard Rapper Vol. 7

I’m so complete, I flip things around and make the drums march to the sound of my own beat,

Never discreet, I bring heat to the mind, my thoughts are alive
as they flow out from my crown and vibrate toward the sky.
It’s science, guys! Like hot air, my rhymes rise – the literary paintings I craft
are the kinda masterpieces that canvas can’t grasp.
I’m a key-er, not a rapper, I just type in my writin’s
that take y’all’s minds on wild rides, like psilocybin – pardon me, I’m vibing.
Lyrical bread, thrown out to the masses,
like emboldened Romans from times, olden,

I’m the Emperor of this whole-thing, I roll in with the royal guard chanting my slogans
and rain these brain-baguettes on the people, just knowing
that they’ll be back next week for the word circus, and more bread,

“My coliseum bars will shine throughout time, long after I’m dead,” – The Emporer said. – RSM

Chicago Weather – Without Using the Word ‘Cold’

Coffee cools a little quicker in the Windy City –
petty arctic air for-ces people indoors, it’s,
my park-ing spot I-called-dibs-it’s-not-yours, since,
I-dug-the-whole-thing-out early this morn-ing,
I coulda sworn only the poles would have these snows,
Sub-zero ice collects on my windows
as double-digit temps in the negative show
on the local weather reports, I’m mad out-of-sorts,
I’m daydreaming of the times I hung out in sunny-weathered resorts
and when people ask me “How bad is the weather out there?”
I kinda wish I had a more-better retort.
Icicles on my eyelashes, double-sweatered, for sure,
but you’ll still see at least one white guy jogging around in little blue shorts.
But apart from that one, brave soul, defiant of the day’s low,
everyone’s glad to shelter in place, and just stay home. -RSM

The S On My Chest

Something so soldered, spraypainted so sharply,
Spiraling, snaking, set squarely, centered near my heartbeat,
It’s a hot brand, scarred so deep,
a neverending feeling that I’m somehow letting someone down, even in my sleep.
Be it me, or the world, or the people in between, that one unchecked box on my to-do list locks me in.
Perfection is a religion with no salvation, and an infinite way to feel guilt and commit sins.
It’s a lose-lose when the bar is so high
that I inexplicably expect to take off and fly
to reach goals so lofty, grandiosely ambitious,
and when I fall short I blame my lack of wings
instead of realizing I may be taking on too many things.
We praise hard work and precision
to a point where a day without ‘being productive’ is regarded as a bad decision,
A lazy waste of time that lacks drive and vision.
So on my chest shines the red ‘S’ that the ubermensch-turned-comic book hero has long worn,
adorned, on my skin,
indoctrinated since childhood
to overachieve or die trying, either master the universe or regret being born.
The only kryptonite I have is my own scorn. -RSM

Visions, Vol. 2

Lava lamp liquid levitates between the two orbs
of a prism-colored galaxy, floating through the void.
A rainbow-metallic satellite shakes with heavy bass, like a pastel, neon equalizer, coasting through outerspace.

It’s a space brother dance party, the best club on Orion’s belt,
The Pleiades’ #1 DJ making their impression felt,
the oxygenless sky is filled with good vibes,
acrobatic pop-and-lockers battle with their minds-

headspinning on the ceiling,
telekenetic routines give the crowds good feelings,
Mute-spitters send punchlines through telepathic double meanings,
Party goers smell the music, get caught in a daze,
The drums make the floor shake, shots of flavored gases put a gloss on the third eyes’ gaze.

Funky humanoids floating ’round the dance-mosphere,
Shapes shifters do their best ‘human,’ end on a b-boy pose, ‘Word to Earth!’ becomes the telepathic anthem to cheer,

It’s a welcome-back shindig for the travelers who risked it all in hopes to win big,
Hitting up the best parties on the grooviest planets,
and come back to tell their folk about the natives’ good times, and bad habits.

Adidas-clad humanoids glide down from the ships,
Throwing Earthentic gold ropes to the most telekenetic chicks,
Boomboxes on shoulders drop jaws, open third eyes wide,
The Pleaides’ Mindset Crew stretch their ‘new’ 3 striped track pants after several light years of a ride. – RSM

Under 2020’s Last Moon.

Under the last full moon of a sad tune
I look over the cold night amongst the bland sand dunes
and wish things were different, but hope for a happy spring, instead of another sad June.

It’s been a collective transformation, any soul from a year ago
Couldn’t even begin
to guess what this year has been.
The vaccine *should* help, but won’t repair all the loss
of jobs, money, housing, loved ones – people hurting, all across.

It was a bootcamp year, but we’ll be so much stronger after,
A disaster as the aftermath fades into the past,
we’ll figure out how to pick ourselves up along the path,
I’ve been feeling sad, but glad for what I have.

Bad times start and stop, but they never really finish,
2021 is what we make it, don’t fall for the gimmick,
it could get better or worse, or could be similar,
hopeful but doubtful is the yin / yang I’m feeling, but,

it’s all left up to us, with the hand we were dealt
to have the best health, and to try and be our best selves,

History does not repeat repeat, but it rhymes;
and when the ball drops tonight, I’ll be trying my best to smile. – RSM

Chaotic Alignment(s)

Thick, dry ropes, with strong flames, burning,
running parallel, at different speeds, converging,
The flames race on, hiss and move along, swerving,
so much uncurling to do, it’s unnerving –

A full, blue moon hovers over big changes,
that shape and carry on the flames to their next stages,
The coming days, weeks, years, you’ll feel the full force
of where these winds of change blow the flames’ embers to-wárds.

Some of the ropes run a straight, narrow line,

keeping their flames the same – a slow, steady grind,
others slither-and-wind, flames wither-and-die,
Ultimately they all spiral together and combine.

This fire is all we have – the present is the blaze,

The past are the charred ropes, smoke rising in a haze
and future are the ropes ahead, yet to be burned – unfazed
by the warmth of the moment that we feel day to day.

So many of the burning strings entangle at angles
that show a grim picture – the near future looks mangled,

the present feels pretty unpleasant, we’re not fine;
headed toward uncertainty, as crooked timelines intertwine.- RSM

Through the Abnormal

As I wake up to grey skies shrouding the muted, orange sun,
I react with a subtle shrug; things have changed.

“What’s normal anymore, anyway?” Something I think to myself – an open-ended question with no answer coming soon.
We only have left a handful of hope, hanging onto ‘the usual,’ the baseline we all knew.

This year has been ripe with things that make me cringe,
On the fringe of science fiction, dystopia, and humanity paying for it’s environmental sins.

Common sense has followers, but nonsense has #believers;
disciples of convenience – masks, they can’t wear it, swearing they don’t need it.

The virus spreads on, even though we all know what’s best,
And fires rage out west – a bad combo for your chest –

2020’s been a bad year for the lungs, the eyes, the heart, the mind; life has shifted.
We carry on with heavy burdens, hoping the weight will be lifted,

we’re all tired souls, but love has persisted.

We fight for the ones we love through it all, we claw forward if we have to, so our little ones can crawl.
We still find ways to laugh, to make light of our collective plight,

we hold our friends and family tight, we mourn deaths and celebrate life.

Whatever ‘normal’ might mean next year, we’ll see,
But in 2020 – ‘normal’ is vulnerability.
Confusion is normal, fatigue, sadness,
numbness, exhaustion, hysteria, anguish,

new hobbies, revisited talents,
Zoom calls with your technology-inept parents,
Career changes, new dangers, politics vs. science –
And love is present in all of the above, and through the abnormal, love will guide us.– RSM

It’s a Catch 1920×1080

Right now, as I write this, my

Eyes get narrow, and focus in – with a

Tightness. A fight-or-flight response, my

Irises and pupils embattlled in a day-til-

Night war, they spar with bluelights

And UV and bright screens, galore..

Deadass, I’m stuck between

A nine-to-five and a lifestyle that

Makes it hard to look away from

A series of bright rectangles each day.My

Glasses are shielded, but my

Eyes still feel it …just another long-term health thing to deal with.-RSM

Optimism Assistance Application

Thanks for applying for optimism assistance.

Your results will depend entirely on you, because how you see the world is really your own business.

Please carefully read the questions below. If you have any questions about the questions, simply #readitagain :

1. How broken, now, is your concept of stability?

a. Did anything change since COVID-19, or had it been cracked or shattered previously? Did it happen all-of-a-sudden, or was it broken down gradually, with civility?

b. What hopes did you have (if applicable) that were just grabbed, test-tubed vacuum sealed, and sent to a lab,

only to be returned with the worst of news – that all of your dreams are terminal – did this give you the blues?

2. On a scale of 0 to 1, have you yet to find out

that the real ‘invisible enemy’ is our own society, specializing in human grindout?

 

Please provide your answer(s) in the box below. Be advised, emojis are not allowed.

Please adhere to the conventions of standard written English, and also remember to say it with your chest.

Applicant Response:

1. a. Each leap year is more depressing than the last,

these microcycles of tension, division, seem to outwit and outlast,

it reminds of me seeing the wheels turning on conveyor belts of tanks from wars’ past –

flattening the earth, conforming the dirt to gridiron tracks, filling the clear skies with brown gas –

the biggest war MachinE is the one that leans

into our emotions, our Deep fears, shootIng grAppling hooks onto our heart strings –

it’s hard to ignore when life as you know it is a live production, a chaotic stage

where fuel is poured on fires, but you get thrown out of the theater for burning sage.

1. b. I can’t wait for peace to be the norm, justice to be served, and harmony to be the culture. Prejudice? Done, buried!

Later on I want to look back how hatred took on love, but love won, and hate was over with, outmatched, overrun,

but I’m not excited, nor naive –

I say “I can’t wait…” cuz that’s never how it’s gonna be.

2. ‘1.’ Yes, I know.

– RSM.

News Break

So is it JUST ME or does the news get to be A LOT,
I’m so tired of all the chaos, people ignoring science, and Breonna Taylor was sleeping when she was shot –

never thought all the dystopian roads would cross
to be a real life episode of Black Mirror, or Lost,
But never say never I guess, nevertheless,
We dust off the hardship our shoulders, slow the angst in our chests,

and figure things out anyway we hope we can,
between the next news of a second wave, or another unjust death of another black man.

I turn down my screen’s brightness when I notice the tightness and strain my eyes feel,
And remind myself to take a real break from the next overwhelming breaking news reel. – RSM