Shame Is A Hoax

As I pass my high school on ye olde bus route

I feel a redemptive chill run down my spine,

Striking a chord that no song could touch upon

Nor any words could make me think about.

I was a good boy, following all the rules

To get into a good college.

Now my life is all about ‘been there, done that,

Appointment this, appointment that’

And yet I feel a regretless sense of satisfaction

To know Im making better decisions sooner than later.

I’m doing what I must to show who I trust

That I’m a swimmer, not a sinker.

A former party boy nowadays

With no intention of going back to his old ways.

I never asked anyone to ‘Put the money in the bag’

Because good times on my mind was all I ever had.

Let this be a lesson learned to myself:

There are other ways to heaven,

Dont put yourself through hell.

Music is My Antidote

An infinite shame hath been cast on my imagination


and that is where it will stay.


Curiosity made the cat ask ‘What’s that’?


but as I now embark on a quest to


Take Back Sunday with fortified Sleep Armor


I find myself the Master of my Domain;


a musically learned Kobra with no need for


a crafty snake charmer.

I have the venom in my veins that could sting so hard


the moon and stars have to shield their word processors


for the intellect about this repaired little canoe is so TRUUU


you’ll wonder, if you’ve done me wrong why I’ve spared you.

A meditative Chinese Snake I am,


forming figure 8s as I shed my old skin,


all the while old memories of being the life of the party


makes my muscles clench like a high flying Hardy


boyyyy you have no idea where I’ve been, how many


blocks I’ve been around, how many towns across the


Atlantic I’ve unleashed my party animal for a swim,


I still didn’t drown.

How playfully ironic Life can be


when you can poke fun at you, yourself and me.


Admitting faults is the name of the game


when you’re rebuilding confidence and keeping yourself sane.

The End never comes until you’ve lost the will


so I’ll sit back, relax and chill


as these words escape my mind at my discretion,


regardless of their affiliation or impression


I forgive trespasses with the expectation of vice versa,


Typing these lightning bolts or writing in cursive,


hitting high notes and being subversive,


Tone is the difference between speaking to los Reyes


and letting the Devil come out, then you’re the ‘True Playa.’

Don’t play the game unless you’ll be a good sport


If you lose, don’t be a sore one at that.


Black, White, Pink, Purple, we’re all from the jungle

so be respectful to all the Cool Cats. – RSM

Writer’s Street Corner

When it hits it throws me into a fit.

I don’t call it a block, what a misnomer that would be.

when I can’t make a new line, a new sentence, paragraph,

I feel like I need to giraffe my neck over the clouds

and take a horizon-style gander at what I could write

or type down after the previous clause.


I don’t call it writer’s block because when I feel

that no new writing is harvesting on my mental farm

I feel trapped, suffocated; clause-trophobia sets in as

my life begins to implode.


What a silent freak out it always is.

My mind’s gears turn and turn

and churn out no result of the sort that

I feel that I was born to do, no due date needed

when my word mill’s gone a-dry.

No muse do I call but my own mirror, however, when

my and mice’s plans to write hath gone awry.


“Take it easy, take a break. No rush, it’s all great!”

Yet I feel stifled when I’m in such a state

where the national policy is cutting off the creative juices on tap

to those who depend on such an ale for all potential ailments.

Whether strong or frail as a Pensman or Penswoman,

Don’t let a simple situation like an idea drought

lead to your train of thought’s derailment.


Push through the block and get to the writer’s street corner.

You’ll find much surroundings to paint in your notebook,

or laptop or wherever you speak,


Like Jimi Hendrix playing from a hoopde down the street

and lots of beef down the block, in the butcher’s shop

cause the butcher just got arrested by the cops

for serving expired slop,


that time on that 90 degree angle

between Avenue X and Boulevard Y

when a mischievous child let water balloons fly.

Unsuspecting groceries got a bag full of wet

and the lady who owned them wanted his head.


On this writer’s street corner the positive reigns supreme

for a ‘block’ of such implies a stoppage;

Word to Goose Gossage, just write something random

and the writer’s apex-complex offers no more animosity.

Olly Oxymoron, oui, just let the words flow through you.

Take a walk outside when blocked, my fellow writers,

and remember how the streets once knew you. – RSM


An Insomniac With A Cause

What a strange world I see.

Even in the waking day

most are half asleep;

At the very least incognizant

of what’s beyond the surface,

sometimes even while walking the streets.

As my waking rate in the last 3 days

sits high on 88 in terms of percentage,

I feel as if reality is bittersweetly blemished

with the notion that I’m dreaming, but I’m not at the moment.

The lines get blurred when my bed stays dormant.

It was with good intention that I lacked getting rest

but even the best karma has its tests.

This unintentional experiment was  so clandescently downplayed

as much as the not so finely printed danger warning states:

To live well, one must be asleep and awake in a moderate, rhythmic and balanced way.

Of course, no plan is foolproof with variables roaming like a gang of free radicals,

so every now and then a late night reflection drags on,

My eyes hurt, my mind’s worse,

and headphones further impair my senses along

with cheap sunglasses aiding in bright light’s deflection.

On top of some things and well behind others

is the current location on my life’s navigation,

yet despite my trip-ulations,

for lack of a better term

I’m happy right now to eat the apple

and not taste the worm.

I always try to do the right thing when I see someone in need.

So tonight ill Stuy in Bed,

and as my head rests in The Bronx

I’ll think of my future Southeast.

An Ode to ‘Your Hand In Mine’ by Explosions in the Sky

An old song that’s fairly recent plays via random algorithm sequence

dictated by 1’s and 0’s as far as we know, although this frequency prompts

insightful inquiries into the former me; one in the same

but another day comes and I am born yet again.


I always play this song when something’s on my mind

but not in the literal sense, hence if such were the case

I’d put it on loop and play it all the time.

Thoughts always pacing, walking, sometimes racing

within the confines of the infinite lines of the figure 8 track

of the super highway that is consciousness;


I promise this: whenever I look back and listen to this melody

the weight will fall off my shoulders and give way to serenity.

The vibes strive to make me feel alive as I feel the kind and all too familiar syncopation

adjust my mood to its sonic stipulations.


In a world where war comes in many forms

any moment of peaceful trancsendence is to be remembered and cherished;

it could be laying in the grass on a sunny day,

a hot dog in the city with mustard and relish,

a walk down the street or through memory lane,

a random street fair you find around the corner,

a cold glass of water on a summer afternoon,

a nap on a plane or a car or a train,

a clear night sky with a shining moon,

or anything that takes you to another plain.


Ironically enough I find the most peace with a song

from a band called ‘Explosions in the Sky’.

The name is the same as my favorite thing to do

with a lover. It’s called “Your Hand In Mine.” -RSM


Great Romances of the 21st Century

A rock and a hard place is where I most often find myself.

Such is the case at least in terms of the window I’m looking out of,

Do I stay, go, is this even a thing?

Currently located in a dreamy place in life where I can be all and everything I’ve always wanted.

Yet I still look for happiness outside of myself.

I’ve been called a ‘social butterfly’ so I guess it makes sense

but I have a habit of stabbing the air and grabbing where there’s nowhere and no one

to find nothing in hope of unearthing the one thing I’ve always wanted and sometimes thought I’ve had.


She’s nice. Really sweet. Never bitter, not to me at least.

It’s cool to see her when I do, but sometimes climbing up the walls she puts up is an insurmountable task.

This is foreign territory although the battle repeats itself.

A weird little romance that is kind of there but kind of non-existent

In my mind’s eye I see what could be

but past memories of my strikeouts, failures and foul balls off sidewinders

remind me not to jump the gun; have patience.


She’s amazing in a few dozen different ways.

I would go into detail but it would give it away,

for I don’t want my sappy-go-lucky,

angst ridden ballad to become the cause of my own hopes, foiled.


Her smile is as natural as the soil that grows a beautiful garden that is her life;

Birds and bees tend to her flowers

and the showers from rainclouds and heavy storms past

provide a canopy of shade where her head rests at dusk.

Bright and early the sun rises and the moon leaves,

taking her along with it.


What a shame.

I would love to love her,

but I can’t with this heart scarring nimbus hanging silently above her.

I know more of the story is untold and whatever unfolds is whatever unfolds

but I can’t help but feel like a Crystal Baller without a clue.

perhaps love really is a battlefield; if so, may the God of War

look favorably upon me, a heart-bruised Athenian

who just wants that goddess that he’s cool with to let him in.




Streetlights – A Sonnet

You can’t see too many stars in the city sky,

the stratosphere shrouded by clouds and pollution.

I looked down at the black tar ridden Earth, and sighed

at the grid that graphs life like some mathematical solution.

As my disappointment grew across my industrial surroundings

I had an epiphany, about the streetlights below.

They were just like the stars, their bright light now browning

into soft, dark amber that only city dwellers know.

They dot the black tar like stars do the universe

and are spackled across the urban horizon

the way loose change scatters across a purse

or the way the studs shine on the belt of Orion.

Streetlights are like stars on the surface of our world,

on a planet forever spinning in a galaxy that twirls.

Friendship, Romance and Rhyme

I take this walk as I often do, did, and will.

Albeit with different shoes

I’m still the same ‘valiant grandson who lives on a hill’.

times change as well as circumstances

as do with friendships and romances,

life although the greatest mystery

weilds the nostalgic sword of my history.

Not too old, yet not too recent

I take this walk, a bit more cognizant

as the last few days allow

my conscious mind to perceive.

Nine years beyond the grand trifecta’s end,

and with a wealth of knowledge up my sleeve

I still kind of miss the good old days

when we were young and in a daze

of our teenage ways and imperfections

our happiness was all the world’s protection

that any of us needed at the time.

It seems as if the bonds have broke

but we three will always be connected

through none but memories of friendship,

romance and rhyme.

Christmas Eve is like a Christmas Tease

T’was a bright sunny eve of the birth of the Christ,

And Puerto Rican moms are making pasteles

A bit chilly out but so far no ice,

unlike Megyn Kelly’s Santa, Christmas Eve is not white.

If the snow doth fall in the morrow, rejoice!

‘Til the morning commute comes the day to follow,

the season is here to shop ’til you drop, faster

than the prices that you’re chasing after.

Nevertheless enjoy the Christ-mess

of things that come to be.

No matter how much your family annoys you,

have a Merry Christmas Eve. – RSM


A mind’s quiet place amongst the everyday hustle

of the gritty billboard ridden city,

I pity the ones who lack a fortress of solitude.

Be it ever so humble,

there is nothing like a long morning after a wild night,

listening to jazz and drinking raspberry tea

while admiring the sun and other random objects that shine over me.

It seems as if silence is a treasure

observed only by those who have heard the ambience

of their A to B commute for a bit too long

and strive to prolong the routinely inevitable.

Meditation of a sort, a sect of tranquility; a table for one.


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