Trololoneironaut / Keyboard Rapper Vol. 5

I learned lucid dreaming with hard moonlight beaming-

‘Freddie Krueger inceptions in 2019’ing.

I’ll run through your worst nightmares, shirtless-

Throwing priceless doves at you, rendering them worthless,

and just when you think that you’re safe

I jump fences like hurdles, each foot on big snapper turtles,

Using amphibious transport to travel

and torment your brain with a lyrical shower.

You speak just one tongue, but hun, call me Babbel,

I’ll word my thoughts round-right until you taste gravel-

don’t leave ya subconscious ’round me, or what have you,

I’m not one to judge, but I do have this gavel,

and until you arise I’ll be popping up behind you,

Poltergeisting hard, couldn’t sleep if you tried to. – RSM

Controlled Chaos OR Hysterical Laughter is My Love Language

A taste for thrill seeking, generally freaky,

a space for the heart rate to race and always raising the stakes,

a 6 cylinder, YOLO-powered engine, skydiving in my head, since I was like, 10,

wondering Why So many Serious moments I’ve found hilarious,

and tried REAL HARD to not bust out laughing in these Moments, Precarious.

Nothing wrong with a little anarchy contained between one’s ears,

or sprinkling a little ‘confetti di crázy’ upwards into our fine stratosphere-

Some controlled chaos to brighten up your life’s days (daze), and years.

There are mad synonyms, yo, for what I mean:

‘having fun,’ ‘just playin’/messin’/dickin’/fuckin’ around,’

‘good times,’ ‘tomfoolery,’ ‘wildin’ out,’ ‘actin’ a fool, ‘being a ‘clown.”

True disorder is what’s really frightening- like a slight miss from getting hit by lightning,

or getting stopped by the cops with contraband in your socks.

A little microdose daily of something ridiculous is what gets me through;

so that stupid smile I have on next time we meet, just might mean I’m in my own head, already making fun of YOU. – RSM

When Anxiety Strikes

Maybe it’s a little too much coffee,

Maybe it’s just that I have to pee
and have been holding it in,

until my work here is done on this particular thing.

Maybe it’s this ‘what if’ that I’m going out of my way to neutralize,

or the way that I’ve always found it so hard to be supervised,

And from here I’m 100 feet deep now,

in the rabbit hole, at least ten levels from the street down

and for all these things that didn’t quite happen, and I went out of my way just in case to prevent them, but

I-FORGOT-THAT-ONE-THING-OH-SHIT-HURRY-UP

MAKE SURE IT GETS FIXED ASAP, MAN WHAT THE FUCK-

and eventually I breathe;

and climb back up to solid ground and sunlight.

Work-personal-love-family-friends-passions-hobbies-vacation plans-

and it copies itself like a virus,

slithers into my thoughts, paralyzes my hands.

Resetting myself sounds harder than what it takes,

riding the wind of my deep breaths

to make the hostile air swirling below slowly dissipate. – RSM

Morning Metra Meditation

To think, and act with love in every instance of my existence is the goal I have in mind.

Cultivating a peace from within is the first step;

the second, third, and fourth is to spread love outward, back onto the beings I spend this life with.

The highest vibrations are the ones I hope to be happily humming along to

as I find yet another musical journey to take while I wait

for this train’s trip to end with the start of another work day.

With steady breathing and affirmations on repeat, I remind myself to see the good and be the good in the day ahead.

-RSM

From Home to Home and Back

The last time I had a take-off from my hometown, I couldn’t even bare to take a look outside.

I’m glad I had the seat on the aisle,

cuz when I saw the city below

it was the hardest I had cried in a while.

 

I thought that it was more bitter than sweet

as I blinked and stared at the mini LCD TV in front of me.

I brought along with me a few extra pieces of emotional baggage that spun around the baggage-claim carousel carriage-

but when I picked them up after landing, I felt a lot less damaged.

 

I sorted through the feels,

and coiled up my memories running in my head on old school projector reels.

The second time back I felt settled, more whole, more ‘human’

To know I missed the place on Earth with my most loved humans.

This time around was a soul more sound residing in my physical frame when we touched down.

 

On the take-off back, with catharsis in mind,

I realized I was leaving home again, but going home too.

I looked out the window, and couldn’t find a reason to do anything, but smile. -RSM

Poetry is Thought-Dancing.

It’s a freeform T-storm,

popping verbal thunder, and

locking limerick’d lightning bolts,

making the mind’s eye open wide,

sending provocative prose from the sky in multi-lettered jolts –

an ensemble effort, each word has electricity,

a hundred thousand volts in each syllable’s ability

to hit your brain’s mainframe precisely, with agility,

 

So much motion in poetry, especially considering-

-how words are really spells and can take you somewhere else,

to a time and space where you wouldn’t quite think;

these words are a transport to a leopard-print Jansport,

or skating fast around an empty hockey rink.

 

Poetry, to me, is ‘thought-dancing.’

Whether its a headspin, or ballerinas prancing.

A romantic word-tango,

a circus of high flying verses that make us nervous;

A ground-shaking, spoken-word haka,

or a line dance, chanted in unison.

 

It’s a movement class for the mind,

as we use our ideas to decorate space and time.

“May I have this thought-dance?” I ask in rhyme

to imagine with my words, and your thoughts, intertwined. -RSM

Classism, Apparent

(Written October 2016)

I see it everywhere. No, really, like, everywhere.

Just like heat evaporates hot water, a heated discussion between any two strangers always comes down to money.

The bigger the bag you carry to work, the lower of a class you belong to.

The way you get to work, the way you’re dressed, puts the haves and have nots on display

We’re all a part of it, this ugly, pyramidal structure that we see every working day.

I’m so desensitized to homeless people wasting away, little by little, right in front of me, but what do I do? Keep my gaze forward, and keep moving, ’cause ‘I got work to do.’

We all have a place to be, to show up by a certain time, and drive the money up for someone else, higher up;

Profits trickle down, sure, but by the time the fresh bounty of ‘profits’ travel to the lowest level,

the paupers have to hang on tight to their earnings while the white-suited man a top the watch tower sips on his gin and mutters under his breath ‘those degenerates need to get it together.’

This is a capitalist’s world, where money is god, and the more ‘god’ you have, the more of a god you are. – RSM