And I Ran . . .

What a relief as I take off into the cool breeze,

I’m feeling the air, hearing my footsteps as I sweat it out,

I zoom into the void of my path ahead.

My mind drops into silence from its usual chatter, ever-loud;

distractions disappear like a leftover fog from a cloudy day.

Peace sits between my ears as a flock of seagulls sets a course ahead to explore. – RSM

The Scarlet Diagnosis

It’s not a letter imprinted on my forehead,

but a permanent brand, nevertheless.

A reason to be ‘written off,’ no matter my patience,

nor my life’s redemptive arc, or stellar record of maintenance,

my clearest, most quiet days are drowned out by the noise

and the fog of others’ uncertainty, no matter my poise.

Difficult – it’s been that. Optimistic – I’m still that.

But just like the label on the back of your clothes –

you’re judged by it, put in a box, and I’ve been trapped.

I don’t mind, though, the territory it comes with;

Exiled to roam this land’s steep peaks, low valleys, and unpredictable weather,

I’ve learned to snowboard and rock climb, and I keep getting better. – RSM

Visions, Vol. 3: My’nd’imensional Jumps

All the time, so it goes,

a quick shift lifts my consciousness out the nearest window,

a random round-robin of rare realities rage,

ranging from what’s reasonable to the completely unfeasible,

my mind is a flip phone with T9, sometime in 2002, after 9 –

unlimited. It talks all it wants.

A gust of wind blows me back in,

a nano-second long journey takes me across the universe and snaps me back to my reality.

Then,

through the entropy of imagination, the cosmic jungle of all possibilities seen through my own unique lens,

I’m. Once. Again. pinballing through existence, leaning into this mysterious experience, with no resistance –

And here I am, back in an instant – sliding right into my third eye’s home plate, where it always begins, this,

Infinite, unpredictable winding pathway of pathways, it sounds overh’whelming in writing, but I find it lovely,

My thoughts are on shuffle, my mind jumps into the Google text box, but never hits ‘Search’ cuz I’m always ‘Feeling Lucky,’

My ego’s like Jasmine on the balcony: playing hard to get.

But just like Aladdin my imagination is stationed on his magic carpet,

hand outstretched with a smile, asking her, “Do you trust me?” – RSM

Blank

I’m on a journey where things just tend to get stranger,

I have a stoic face on, from a chemical brain changer.

my emotional range has been strictly maintained

so I stare down bliss the same way I look at danger.

I’m a feather, slowly floating along through sweater weather,

whether the winds are weak or strong, I’m just gone

and the song in my mind is on a short loop, perpetual,

It’s the same time of the day, no matter when I look at the schedu-al,

Third eye’s view is laser precise, cuz all the colors of emotions are void,

I can only see in a sharp black and white, I can hear a loud silence, I can feel the noise;

each moment is vivid, from the inside out

But I’m on Saitama’s vibes all day, without a doubt. – RSM

h’woooosh

My mind is always spinning.

I’m a fuckin’ whirlwind.

The curved air rolls with the force and speed of the images produced within my consciousness,

Third eye, dizzy –

Hitting all corners at least twice before realizing I’ve been spinning.

A grand, rotating revolution, spinning is the problem – and spinning is the solution!

Just endless spirals, lights of the night go round and round,

Images, viral, reaching right into my retinas as I recall the square frames

as I endlessly scroll down –

S

P

I

N

N

I

N

G

!

A regurgitation of recent memory, trains of thought criss-cross-crashing, flying off the rails,

airplanes flying, shooting my thoughts up high while spilling out white streaks of racing-thought chemtrails

SPINNING around, my point of view’s on ballerina style, just a Whirling Dervish,

morphing, contorting – an 18th century French poem, written in cursive – a lightly used, Hello Kitty themed furnace,

a concerned Greek chorus, singing, trying to warn us – a rebellious sect of spaghetti, bobbing and weaving away from a fork –

it’s, a natural force of the mind, subliminal– it keeps [spinning] it goes so fast, unpredictable,

Mind’s eye like a set of 24-inch Sprewell rims from 2003

a wheel within a wheel, a Mayan calendar of an experience

sPiNnNiNg I change channels in my head

From Tik-Tok clips to Cher’s greatest hits to random scenes from Eddie Murphy’s ‘Delirious’

I’m serious, just kaleido-scope into my third eye view, and see whatever comes to;

Mind you, at times its not intentional, the way it aligns, but,

nevertheless, I’m usually just a happy, little mess;

Rotating revolutions, all mixed with randomness,

Self-entertaining, that’s what my mind’s eye be like, fam;

If you catch me laughing to myself, no te apures I’m doing just fine!

I just paused on something funny I saw on my internal screens, and just had to hit re-wind. . .

Because, you see, my mind is always spinning.

I’m a fuckin’ whirlwind. – RSM

A Note for The Gardener

Know that you did your best, and it showed.


The love by your side is what grounds you, she is your earth;


how else could you rediscover these roots and water the tallest trees while planting new seeds?


El jardinero – you did your part, and more.

Think of yourself less as the bridge – a hard, flat, steel, man made vessel that gets run over in both directions.


Think more of yourself as the garden and the gardener, cultivating your growth, and the growth of those around you, just the same.

– RSM

Bad Bitch, Part 2 (About Damn Time!)

It’s Bad Bitch, Part 2, she’s thick, curvy…

our first year’s on lock, wheels still turning…

another week away down on South Beach,

flashy, classy, sassy, she’s a damn Queen,

wearing all her hubbies’ sunglassies,

looking hotter, than the sunset now..

She’s been so down and under pressure

she’s way too fine to be this stressed, yeah

I’m used to her, and now she’s used to me…

So let’s grow together!

Turn up the music…let’s celebrate

It’s been a year now… a lot more on the way

Okay… alright… it’s about damn time!

In a minute, we’ll be chillin’,

tanning, drinking, margaritas, along the coast,

We’ll be grinning, reminiscing, a little kissing,

Beach babe with the matching Coach –

Admiring her nails, laying on the sand,

Gazing at the water with a drink in her hand,

the baddest bitch around, on water, air, land,

got everybody looking at her like ‘oh, damn!’

She’s been so down and under pressure

But she’s a Bad Bitch, there’s no question

She’s looking fine, no glasses needed to see…

It’s about damn time!

Turn up the music…let’s celebrate

You’re very welcome – happy anniversa-ray!

Okay… alright… it’s about damn time! – RSM ❤

Inspired by ‘About Damn Time’ by Lizzo

Hydro-Electric Chemical Mind Maintenance

It’s a chemically engineered substance intended to ‘hold back the dam,’

with these damn chemicals that build up in your body and brain

to prevent other ones building up in your body and brain.

In circles we go, to obtain these little circles that are meant to

quell the rapid cycles that spiral within the mind,

and ’round these parts, you better have some funds flowing

to keep up with the up-keep and keep this dam damn flowing..

Sometimes it feels like a maze that keeps changing.

Make all the right turns, and you’re left back at square one, gazing –

into the void, with an old, folded, yellowed hydro-electrical manual,

and the poor foreman is expected to fix all the innerworkings,

but the methods and materials keep changing, re-arranging

the arrangement made on how to maintain the body and brain.

Trying to read the manual, the foreman gets lost in words that repeat, repeatedly

as these treacherous whirlpools pool words into destructive spirals with infinite curves:

“We have the best tools for hydro-electric concrete retention, pushing back on the water’s natural forces and pressures of the body of water it holds back, to regulate hydro-static pressure…” 

Word soup boils hot while the dam cracks, but doesn’t break,

for the consequences are just too great for it to take; given, say,  another sudden earthquake.

The dam bares it all with repairs to the walls.

As another new expensive method starts at phase one,

and the foreman begins to question whether any of these new materials help at all.

Maybe it’s all just in the foreman’s head? The dam might be holding up fine, instead –

but the thing is, I’m the foreman in the walls, making sure the water goes,

and whenever it feels like walls are closing in or ‘the veil is thin,’

it feels like another referendum on the synthetic circles, these,

things that-are-supposed-to-combat ‘rapid cycling,’ or ‘feelings of worthlessness.’

But what does the foreman know? The dam walls are concrete, but sometimes feel hallow.

Nevertheless, I refer to the dam’s manual to make sure it all-flows. – RSM

An Anti-Racist Rant.

It’s a mystery-the treasure troves of history,

Fistfuls of missing pages blistering with info so interesting,

A road lined with torture and smoking pistols, cover up the real, and lock in the lies

So when something off the main path emerges, our minds ar’lready fried.

We deny what we don’t understand, my third eye has replies to the questions that some citi-zans can’t stand-

question everything, the main narratives are so bland,


Propaganda disguised as historical canon, and it’s all according to the oligarchs’ master planning-

The suffering, erasure of so many cultures in a country that doesn’t look back enough,


You could be in the wrong for your mere existence in the United States if you’re black enough;

The one drop rule, native americans sent to concentration camps rebranded as reservations,

Boarding schools that buried native children- horrific happenings at ‘black sites’ ran by the cops, covertly;

Doing dirty deeds on the down low, human beings ‘disappearing,’

You can’t heal wounds that are still open, untreated,

new cuts emerge while the wealthy recline and dine finely, rolling home with the chauffeur, or joyriding in a new two seater.

‘Lest we forget’ the atrocities, we cannot wipe our memories of the xenophobic cruelness, the collective psychotic ferocity,

nevertheless, as long we remain on this earth, we’re undefeated –

Discúlpame, s’il vous plaît – I just thought about ‘American’ history and got a little heated. – RSM

Brother Zachariah’s Journey, Part 2

Brother Zachariah wakes up in a cold sweat –

the roosters are like sirens, reminding all of the men to get started by rudely breaking the dawn’s silence,

they tighten their robes and grab their farming tools, and toil

along as another early morning’s aches are assuaged by the birds in the trees’ sweet songs.

Life moves around him, but he’s locked in, focused on his tasks, in a circle so tight

that he makes four left turns to make sure he knows which way is still right;

A sight seen on repeat, he works on the land, plowing the same fields

day in, day out, as patient as he can appear while his mind dreads his daily deeds.

Bro-Zac’s workload doubled when the friars added it on, they noticed that his usual load was no longer fitting.

The other men notice that he’s a little less witty, seems a little less willing,

but still prays the loudest, most intensely, knowing he’s not back in the village making a killing,

but trying to do the right thing; doing what he understands as ‘the Lord’s bidding.’

The cold sweat compounds with the heat by midday, and he has to finish counting

all the seeds he’s planted, keeps notes on the crops growing;

the friars tell him to “Add ‘er all up!” when it comes to his work, and until the moon’s glowing

he’s taking his time to harness his troubled mind, making sure he has the right numbers of his seeds planted all in line,

while reminding himself to rest when he has the time.

Under the full moon’s dusk the crops grow – surely, slowly, tall, nourished, and bold;

and with each night that Zachariah sleeps, he doesn’t realize he’s also nourishing his soul. – RSM

%d bloggers like this: