Category: Poetry

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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

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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

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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

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Keyboard Rapper, Vol. 11

Critics claim I’m ‘creatively bankrupt,’ but I got mad mental guap under my Uncle Tony’s mattress

I dig a few bills out, write what’s on my mind, and pray that my prey still thinks I don’t have shit,

I got multiple mind-cores from the ceiling to the floor, third eye disguised, I let you think I’m a halfwit

but I’m emptying banana clips into this rough draft, I’m tuff with the craft, which –

I’ve been proactively practicing since-I-was-a-damn-kid;

I’m on chapter eleven but my credit is untouchable

I ruffle feathers like windy weather while my words go out and hunt for you,

my writtens got you smitten, these scales are always tipping

with my heavyweight phrasiesz,

I’ll put you in a daze for several days until you’re pushing daises, I’m

ur flow wolf, Ru; reverse-unorthodox, my words give birth to pregnant ladies –

In my world: all the shoes wear socks, workers know their worth, and creatives aren’t written off as ‘crazy,’

The best people are bonkers, bro, I’ll bet mad hats on it,

my rhymes’ll black swan your whole dance hall and grind you all the way down

while scoring 100 easy on your most difficult scantron –

my creative currency is off the books, just crypto-palabras

put your mind on a rollercoaster, drain your brain like a hungry chupacabra;

Volume’s on Eleven, even Jane Hopper couldn’t help you,

I’ll let your mind catch up, before my words melt you. – RSM

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PLUR x Hydration <3

We’re all friends, and have a collective jump that shakes the tarmac beneath us,

girls on shoulders, kandi traded along sweaty wrists

as the bass permeates our skin, we feel it in our bones –

a wave of loud cheers erupts from stage to stage,

dozens of countries’ flags on display,

makeshift kandi masks donned as hundreds of shufflers scrape the floor with their sneakers,

a pounding of sound calls you from every direction.

Wavy, euphoric vibes, and dilated eyes all around

About 10 giant bananas are running around together

But the most beautiful thing are the water bottles being passed around.

Smiles, glistening bodies of all shapes, sizes, genders, colors, 100,000 faces

And when one falls, there are 10 to catch them,

We check in with our crew and pass the water bottles around –

We all vibe out, some like to smoke, and some won’t,

Some like to jump and scream, and some roll, and some don’t,

but everyone passes the water bottles around.

Some shuffle, some head bang at the front, some crowd surf,

some just sit back and kick back toward the back,

some throw up the peace sign and the duck face,

some are on the ‘gram, while their favorite DJ goes HAM,

taking snaps and videos and selfies with selfie sticks-

Some even start passionately kissing, or give sweaty, glitter-filled hugs

and rave hands, glow sticks, LED gloves dancing in the air,

some make new friends, and some stick to their tribe,

some are wearing next to nothing, some are dressed like batman;

and some are so lost in the music that they’re in their own zone…

and they’re all passing the water bottles around. – RSM

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Conveyor Belt Woes

Run, walk, move, the conveyor belt keeps you going,

the travelator pushes us along until we’re pushing daisies;

to conform and put yourself last is to “be strong”

as we trudge along around the black an yellow tarred lines

while looking at our rectangular mind magnets, our attention – occupied,

worrying too much about these crazy times instead of the curvature of our spines.

Factory errors are laughed at, pointed out by the products

because to not be ‘in line’ is to be ‘out of order,’

how free are we if we still have to be like the bees

of a hive that work until our wings no longer flutter?

The puppet masters at the top reference a utopian time and place

that seems long gone, but never actually existed,

and the average Joe from yesteryear

would probably be more appalled than proud of how much

the oligarchs have chipped away from the working class –

basic needs are a privilege, our principles have been twisted.

People locked out of basic shelter are dying,

spikes installed to keep them off polished windows and away from old money limestone walls,

Instead of humans helping humans we have a space race exploding off the blocks,

top 10 money hoarders trying to be like “I’ma head out,” hopping from penthouse to cockpit,

Union-busting tech barons don’t mind leaving the earth sweltering, melted, and barren.

Jump off the conveyor belt – life is more than just numbers and industry –

we’re not just the products, we’re the power that electrifies this grand machine.

Look around, look toward the future, and don’t forget to remember suppressed history. – RSM

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Plane-ing through Hindsight

Each moment we find ourselves at another crux – a six-way lane change that cluster bombs out into an infinite range –


Perpetual potential possibilities present powerful plans, possessing mis pensamientos,


Gathering speed while moving forward is the most logical direction, but this multi-dimensional intersection has me sometimes traveling through space-time, second-guessing;


With every new open door is the draft that slams the last one,
Shutting out the doubts and tribulations from yesteryear’s thick fog, and dark clouds.


We don’t look back that much, that’s why the rearview mirror is so small,
But at times we do look back again and see things a little differently, a perspective updated,

With these previous moments’ emotions expired – examining experiences end up expedited, prorated.


Taking off back to the now, elevation is the growth, and the speed is the effort, we’re the pilots of our own narratives –


Journée-ing toward a new day, and as our lives fly upward, forward, we can’t help but check our six
to see the airspace behind and below us where we used to be.


Forward is still the way to go, the brave steps we put our feet towards, even when we feel at a loss for words, we can’t let past what-ifs or regrets have us hesitate to smile with love upon the open skies ahead.


Hindsight is a weeping angel, a stampede that gets closer every time you look back at it, hoping to touch your mind and send you down your own pasts’ never-ending rabbit holes.


The pedestrians on each crux of your life’s choices can overrun your mind if you don’t use your right of way, right away;


Let each quantum intersection be part of the breeze you feel as you fly forward – let hindsight be a record of lessons learned, a pilot’s manual to guide you to a higher plane as you fly on. – RSM

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Brother Zachariah’s Journey

Walking off the ship that brought him along,


the sun is strong, he hasn’t had water in a long –


Time as the clock slows down while it ticks forward,


Another headache, lower back’s screaming from yet another heavy sleep’s bed ache;


Tasked with the duties that God gave him,
Brother Zachariah put on his old robe and prayed again


to his favorite patron saint, Anthony, to pray for him;

Along the S.S. Italopram it’s been a rough trip,


Sea sickness so severe, the young friar wanted to jump ship,


but he’s come a long way since his days in the monastery,


retaining the teachings, and now refraining from reaching


for the devil’s hand as his bare feet presses on the wooded plank beneath him;

Coming off of the vessel he had traveled on for months, he’s on a different island, and,
learning a different dialect,


The friars of his new mission welcome the well-traveled monk, they exchange rosaries and call him “Bro-Zach” for short,


“Lord, I’m trying to do right thing, and play the long game,” is the prayer he recites when he feels out of sorts. – RSM

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Mary Jane Was Always There For Me.

Coming back home from the adolescent psych ward
my heart and mind were heavy, not to mention how hard it was to resurface,
back to school, bigger uniform pants and shirts to re-purchase.
Questions in good faith from friends, I left unanswered or just let out a lame lie
to salvage a little privacy.

I felt defeated, and tired of my life being broadcast to the masses of the teenage hallways;
alas, my inner circle showed up for me, always.

I used to say “Nah I’m good,” turn the other way and cough when my stoner crew lit the ganja, but when Fall of ’06 hit,
My life felt like it was burning anyway, so I lit
up with my True Family, Love is what they showed me,
and Mary Jane gave me back the smiles and the laughter that I felt like the universe still owed me.

Along my young adulthood I had a new bestie that tagged along and spent long afternoons
with me and my close ones, inner circles turned to ciphers and ‘pon the left we passed time
with the power of the magic plant uplifting our spirits – no matter the weather, the sun still shined.

“Closer to God” sounds about right.
I’m far from being a Rastaman but my BFF Mary Jane makes me feel so nice.
Through the reddest eyes I would inhale nature and breathe out love, the air above
and around me felt enchanted,
and boy, did I grow! Over these years I didn’t stay planted.

I brought along my bestie Mary Jane along my journey, she was there for me when I didn’t want to be anywhere.
It’s been a while since we’ve caught up, but I greet her with a smile every time she comes through,

I meet her halfway on a higher realm,
She asks me how I’ve been doing, I just laugh like old times, and tell her “I’m doing okay, I just feel like myself.” – RSM

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Keyboard Rapper Vol. 9

I get migraines in the mind-brain

when I think of all the time drains

and rabbit holes I went down trying to rhyme-splain;

my words elevate your thoughts like summadat high grade

as I vibrate this verbal tirade along the internet super skyway;

All the way to the clouds, there’s No Doubt – I don’t speak, I just do it my way,

Sinatra-level classy, but like Mute Spitter from the Rap Battle

I have you wrapped around now without saying a single word out loud;

True story, my vocabulary’s so varied that

Friday reads my shit and gets the Sunday
Scaries,

No cap like MLB salaries, I unlimit my memory and RAM these words through until T-Mobile uncarries me,

I’ll crash your mind’s prom with my mentality, like Carrie, see-

I’m a keyer, not a rapper, my demeanor’s undefeated,

I got your head a universe away, but your body’s still seated,

Melt into your chair when your mind’s done reading

cuz I’m a black belt rhymer, just gave your whole dojo a beating. – RSM


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