Rubén Sebastián Muñiz | ∞

I sit in a chair suited for a poor king.

Jacket open, wind swirling about

as I light a cigarette and put it to my mouth.

Inhaling what’s no good for me, I ponder

why the pigeons change directions so abruptly

as they follow the wind currents, flying

unpredictably as the the air’s force coerces them.

A feeling of peace enters my nervous system

as I exhale into the sun. Free. Serene. Euphoric.

I look down at the streets below me and think of

how many tiny humans exist from here to Long Island.

How different and similar it would be to live somewhere else.

This little moment of clarity reminds me

that we all take smoke breaks here and there

and there’s no shame in it, even if you don’t smoke.

This overwhelming peaceful feeling

that invades my body like nature’s hippie bacteria

is nothing short of a miracle;

I let my body hang over the chair

and soak in the sun.

Certain songs leave me paralyzed.

It’s not easy to relive childhood memories

when growing up is all that’s on your mind.

Singing along to Marc Anthony

was my reality across this living room

twenty years ago.

It’s on VHS tapes

that will never see the light of day

except for family gatherings

of rarity and importance.

I exist as I always have, yet

so much has happened since

I was in diapers.

My life has seen many a happening.

throughout this experience I’ve danced,

sang, laughed and lived too many times

to not say it all brings me back to my origins:

Salsa music, the living room

where I’ve always lived

now a beautiful collection of framed pictures

each recanting memories of sonrisas y bailar

and trips to places I never thought I would go.

I don’t know how to fail because

all is never lost if I can smile

through all the personal tragedy.

I was born to laugh

and trained to work hard;

a combination that left other

dancers in the dust.

Be it plaques on the wall

or lighting up the eyes of others,

I live to be happy.

Of all the hard times, accomplishments and

memories for better or worse

the smiles resonate so radiantly

and I am proud of who I am. – RSM

As I watch other poets

retell their fake lives

on this nightmarish eve that falls

a strange sense of jealousy comes over me.

Am I living mine or giving mine to them?

As Ms. Roberts goes on her own journey.

Good gone bad gone bored gone to be mystified

by the hypnosis machine of old.

How awkward things have gotten in the realm of Ms. Roberts.

I love it. Tres adventurous. She just puked. – RSM

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.

As my crooked jaw line clicks into place

I hear the ambient sounds of the air propelled

from my netbook into my eardrums.

I press and switch away on the keyboard

to combat boredom hand-to-hand.

A serenity-ridden, guilt-stripped night

where I have thus far achieved my ultimate goal.

Rewinding time is as impossible as it sounds,

even memories get distorted.

Late is better than not at all to right wrongs

and improve on self-perceived imperfections.

Xes not on my mind for once, seY I’m a mirror

Of what I’m used to being lately; calm, cool,

collected my thoughts and placed them in order.

Does that make me the same? Different?

Was I ever addicted to anything but love, really?

It does make the world go round, ya know.

Aristotle was onto something when

he equated the rotation this oblate spheroid

having it’s power come from laughter and joy

Yet everyman wants to be more, not less,

It’s always No, not Yes.

As the music pumps peace through my veins

I smile at these words, not even caring that

life will never be the same.

It will be better. – RSM

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,

or

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

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.