Tag: original

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Theories on Random Tears

At times I feel a teardrop or two well up from inside

for literally no reason at all. I don’t even feel sad,

angry or upset. I don’t feel bad at all, yet my tear ducts

get wet. My emotions are as calm as a still lake during a clear

weather sunrise during Autumn, but at random a tandem of

salt water tear drops drop and tear through my otherwise dry cheeks.

 

It’s not when I yawn, although I tear up then too, and I have better

things to write about then trying to lie or vouch that I never cry out of

emotional distress, like the ‘manly man that I am blah blah blah’,

That happens to me too, although it’s not what I’m referring to.

I reply to an email at work and feel that stuffy feeling like I have one tear

from my left eye surging through, emerging; I catch it before it hatches

all without the tear-appropriate emotions.

 

Maybe I’m in a conversation about how to get to the nearest train station or

something similarly generic and I swear it, I feel a tear or two irrigate into the

outside world, surfing over my pores until I end the unexpected clear streak with a

baby-soft swipe around my eye(s) with Bruce Lee quality quickness to cover it up.

 

I have theories, from simple to downright trippiculous:

One of these is that somewhere in a parallel universe,

my other self is experiencing some kind of sadness,

and through some cosmic mystery I feel my pain from another plane.

 

I also have thought that past lives stay with souls as time goes.

Maybe unbeknownst to me I’ll see a stranger from my old family tree,

or maybe I’m in some kind of place that subconsciously reminds me

of my previous realm of existence, and all but a couple of

 

emotional

 

liquid

 

droplets

 

fall

 

one

 

by

 

one;

the rest is hidden within the past,

my inner being’s sealed memories of a previous life,

trying to claw through to the present.

 

I could just be more tired than i thought, and I know I’m not the only one,

so imagine what kind of deeper meaning and spiritual cleaning these random tears

can have, teeming with multiversal emotional information,

or the life you lived before you lived this life,

telling you “There goes your cousin!” or “Look! he was your wife!”

 

Or maybe it was just a yawn. -RSM

 

 

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The Dance

It goes in a circle.

The steps are the same as yesterday.

 

Next step, then the next step, no time to look back at the last,

engaging the minds, bodies, emotions of the dancers,

very talented, highly trained, always distracted.

Eventually all the dance floors close, and their weary feet

readily head home, trading old media for new to always stay distracted.

 

Easy come, easy go are the dancers’ spots in each ensemble.

Nothing is more important than dancing to them all; the next

dance they do, jazz shoes to buy, routines to learn, auditions to study for.

So for sustenance and survival, our daily shuffle comes back around. – RSM

 

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Tightrope Walking

So close, yet so far once again, he was on the roof of the wrong building. He tried to open the door leading back downstairs; locked.

His back lay on the gravel and grit of the pebbles spread across the roof. Hands behind his head, the grey sky creeped along. Feet crossed, jacket unzipped and jeans ripped, he closed his eyes as the rain fell.

He awoke after what felt like an eternity. His surroundings hadn’t changed except for the sky, a smug grey now a cloudy black, save for the streetlights near and the skyline from afar. He turned his gaze from Manhattan’s lights to a solitary window, directly across from his rooftop sanctuary.

Window closed, lights on, white curtains parted, he began to regain hope. He knew those picture perfect curtains, just as if he had seen them yesterday.

The temperature was dropping. The cool Autumn wind was now a stinging gust, sure to be below freezing. His socks had some holes; his shoes had more. Underdressed, malnourished, and down to his last few cents, his long journey had come to a halt right at the end.

They had made arrangements before he left. Every night at 11:11pm, she would look out of her living room window, onto the street, waiting for him. Before he made the jump. Before he turned all his pesos into dollars, stuffed whatever he could into a tattered backpack and took off.

He said he would be there by September. Before he got beaten and robbed in Alabama. Before he narrowly escaped ICE in North Carolina. Before traveling from house to house, doing odd jobs for next to nothing. Before begging in broken English for 5 weeks in DC. He scraped money together for a Chinatown bus and a few calls to her on payphones.

As the November winds frosted his young face, she prayed and prayed, prayed and prayed again for him to get to her safely. A love she may have lost, but hopes to God she didn’t. She worked at the daycare in the morning and at the hotel in the evening. She said a prayer whenever she could for her love to come, but hadn’t heard from him since his troubled lips whispered “Te quiero tanto” on the phone two weeks ago.

Stuck on the roof, there he was, beginning to shiver from the frigid Northeast winds. He looked across to the white-curtained windows. He knew. He knew it had to be where she lived. He memorized her address, for the most part; he knew she was in apartment 5C. One street off makes a big difference when it’s below 30 degrees and are stuck on a roof.

He saw the roof doorway of the building across slightly ajar, light peaking through the cracks. A solitary cable ran from his roof to hers. He hoped with all his heart and soul it was hers; deep down, he knew.

He approached the barrier surrounding the rooftop. The cable connected the two buildings over their wide, adjacent alleyways, about forty feet apart. Looking down, he saw a 5 storey difference between the roof and the concrete floor.

Slowly, timidly, he placed both hands on the freezing cement ledge, brought both legs over, now sitting on it. He tapped one foot lightly on the cable; a thick cable, no shock, not slippery. He planted his right foot as firmly as he could. He felt his weight depress the cable. Adrenaline and fear consumed him unlike ever before. He knew the cable would bend, but not break under his weight.

He remembered the one time he went to the circus as a child, and cautiously lifted his left arm while holding onto the ledge with his right. As the sky decorated his filthy hair and clothes with light snowflakes, he knew that he had to find shelter. The shivering young man planted his left foot in front of his right, and let go of the ledge.

Before he knew it, one foot had stepped in front of the other; right over left, left over right, right over left, left over right. Small, balanced steps, he took, each leading him closer to the roof ahead. Arms spread, legs moving, he found an unexpected rhythm in his footwork. He focused on the cable ahead, not on the concrete floor below, and recited prayers to himself over and over. Right over left, left over right, right over left, left over right. A gust picked up over the alleyways, but he was not deterred. He had come too far to fail.

He reached the opposite ledge. He climbed over, arms chilled to the bone, and fell onto the opposite roof. He hurried into toward the door, not looking back at the aerial gap he had just conquered.

He ripped the door open to the warm, well-lit building. Down the stairs one flight, his stiff, wet legs descended, and he was on the 5th floor. He slowly approached the door marked ‘5C’, with tears already falling, warming his frozen cheeks. He rang the bell several times and yelled her name, a faint cry at best. He heard frantic footsteps and many locks unlocking.

The door opened. There she was.

They embraced like never before, with more passion then they ever would again. She had a rosary in one hand, cell phone in the other, with the time on the screen reading 11:11pm.

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Thunder on the Beams

Six lines of magnetically charged metal beams shake, bend,

and take impact over and over from a storm for the ages.

Thunder booming, as if nature had rhythm

and dogs go crazy and bark back at the sound

of the violent downpour raging in and around the steel beams.

The sounds of the storm increase, rooms begin to tremble,

the people below close their windows and pray

to have the thunder cease for the day.

An earthquale approaching, it seems,

and as its most unnatural sounds wail and scream,

SNAP! Breaks one of the steel beams,

Weathered by the hurricane to earthquake nightmare.

That’s when I figured I should put my electric guitar down for a while.

I need new strings now, and probably pissed off the neighbors too.

 

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I Started Looking In The Mirror Less

A few years ago I would remain in the eye of my own gaze,

With my ego tugging on my mind, saying “Look again! Just make sure.”

So every vein of opportunity to be so vain

I looked in the mirror, a lot, and complained, and made changes

until my appearance in reality and my mind was the same.

 

Exhaustingly unscrupulous, taking sooo many selfies,

compulsive on my pursuit of perfection, so ruthless,

I was never truly happy and knew this wasn’t healthy.

I pass a window that reflects and have to slow down, stop and check

if my collar looks weird on my neck, or if my pants look tight, or too loose.

Hopefully there’s nothing on my face that shouldn’t be,

so I take quick picture to see something my eyes couldn’t see.

 

Enough was enough, one day I decided to delete my Instagram

and to not hold my looks so high above all else, I took a big step

and I started looking in the mirror less. I didn’t get any uglier,

I let my hair grow and it didn’t look any funnier.

I could tell when I felt bummier and my nose felt runnier.

I didn’t need a constant reflection of my image to reflect on the fact

that narcissism is a good-looking way to constantly self-attack.

 

Perfectionism stems from insecure origins,

like a good catholic who feels like they’re full of sin

or a parent who shuns their child’s success,

and then the child feels like they’ll never win.

The mirror was my best enemy, my fakest friend,

my physical editor which never liked the ideas I pitched.

 

I started looking in the mirror less and less,

until a whole day would pass as I would pass by

windows that reflect, mirrored walls,

and even neglect the looking glass outside of bathroom stalls,

And to my surprise, I didn’t look grotesque or wrong

as I came home singing one of my favorite songs:

 

“Vanity, stands naked at my door…”

I sang as I saw the mirror in my room;

an old friend greets me with a smile.

 

He looks happier than before, I haven’t seen him in a while.

He’s better off, just like me, for leaving vanity outside.

 

 

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Rain Hails And Love Reigns

The rain hails in figurative and literal terms,

a kamikaze attack in the billions, as the streets get cloud bombed

and all the birds take a break from singing their love songs,

Lovers-no-more wonder where they went wrong,

Seeing only through their rear view mirror,

and their most recent turn, instead of the road ahead.

 

As the rain falls, so do the lights,

and lovers find themselves in each other’s arms

while getting lost in each other’s eyes.

The rain only hails to lovers on its way to the stage,

playing a consistent, smooth tone during its performance.

 

No matter how deep, how wondrous, how intense,

the rain gently caresses the ears of listeners,

sending emotion through the air with every drop.

All who hear and see the sky so grey and unclear

perceive the feelings of raindrops as they do:

 

The stillness of peace, a gentle sadness,

a melancholy holiday, ruined by a dark cloud’s madness.

Emotional wifi, these raindrops are.

 

With each seemingly insignificant stream of precipiation,

we are connected to nature, and feel our moods accented

as goosebumps rise on our skin, and a feeling of cool wetness settles

the water from above refracts our feelings

not unlike a glass of water, or a pond below refracts light.

 

Lovers can’t be starcrossed with dark clouds in the sky.

Real love has the patience to see the storm through. – RSM

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Life and Times

Much has changed since the times of over-sized clothing,

A style choice now I look back at with loathing.

Experiences chosen when I choose to reminisce vary,

some bad, but most good, a few are just scary.

 

It’s really those strange nights I can’t recall

that make me wonder how it ended, and what started it all.

Boys will be boys and kids will be kids,

and teens will be teens and everything in between

and everyone loves to think about those times

and then whines, like “Why are those good times gone?”

It’s because good times that never end are only found in happy songs.

 

Age is the universal oxymoron,

the only thing that makes the young want to be older,

the old want to be younger, everyone in between

feeling as if they’re already at either extreme.

 

I take my age as it comes, in years, and in all 26 and 3 months of mine

I’ve learned very much and forgotten even more,

but experience is what kept me yearning to learn more,

correct mistakes, and instead of drown in sorrow,

to make my own life great.

 

So as time treads on, unrelenting by the minute,

I’m grateful for all that I see before me.

For all that life has given me in this time,

I’ve gained happiness from it,

although not void of sadness and despair, far from it.

 

Your life is in your hands, as well as in your eyes,

See it and handle it as you like.

I prefer to describe my life and times in rhyme,

just as beautiful as the sunrise, this life of mine. – RSM

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Ambitious Anxiety

It is in the light that we wish to stand,

urges suppressed, trying to keep our bad memories purged and repressed.

Speaking like a politician on Election Day,

nervous like hell but praying it’ll all be okay.

 

It is in the light we wish to shine, and make our lives brighter,

illuminate those around us, be a smile to see with happiness to reflect.

Some shudder at the thought that some days we forget,

and hope to never be the perpetrator of neglect.

It is in darkness we feel guilt, shame, sadness,

as we throw darts at the bullseye over our own faces,

little do we know this bullseye is spinning in our minds

like a hurricane and those darts are missiles being dropped

on our emotions and self-esteem by our own conscience.

In darkness we try to forget by remembering

that 1 time out of 100 we made a noticeable mistake,

and mark that as a the beginning of the end, our fall from grace.

 

When our time to shine comes about, anxiety can surprise us.

Our mind does a search of “How many ways can this go wrong?”

faster and more thorough than Google ever could.

A side effect of success and progress can be high stress.

A mind on edge thinks everything is an all-or-nothing test.

 

Remember why you’re here,

learn to love the way it looks when you see yourself,

and the way it sounds when your own voice meets your ears.

“You have a right to be here,” as Max Ehrmann confirmed.

Don’t think of life as ‘Win or Lose,’

because no matter what happens, you live and you learn.

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Who Am I? – Poem from 2010

I found this poem while going through an old notebook from college. I wrote it when I was 20 years old as a junior at St. John’s University. I intended it to be a spoken word piece, but never performed it. It’s interesting to look back at it now, over 5 years later from 2010, a time when my identity was forming in many different ways.

Who Am I? – by Ruben Muniz

I am who I am, I am who I was, and I am who I will be.

I am my family, my friends, and all my associations.

I am who I am! Do you need a further explanation?

There’s more to me than the eye can see.

I am who I am, nothing more, nothing less,

and who I am is me.

 

I am my family.

My family comes from Puerto Rico, so I must be Puerto Rican,

But I’m from New York, so I guess I’m Nuyorican,

But when I’m outside the country I’m Ame-rican.

American, if you will, born and raised in the USA.

Puerto Rico is under the US’ flag, so I guess I’m American either way.

 

But what is “American?”

Does anyone even know?

Puerto Rican is a mix of Spanish, African and Taino,

Among a dozen other nationalities brought together

by war and political irrationality.

Question: does nationality make personality,

or is it merely a formality?

I prefer the latter to the former, others disagree not so discreetly.

No matter how I put it, if I say it harshly or sweetly:

I am who I am, I am who I was, and I am who I will be.

 

I am who I am, nothing more, nothing less,

and who I am is me.

 

I am my friends.

I am the kids who I grew up with;

Many of them have become the young adults that are my friends today.

I associate myself with good people, so when people ask about my friends

I have no bad things to say.

This doesn’t go without exception, and it all really depends on perception.

Is she doing well? Is he a bad person?

Which actions improve the reputation of someone?

Which actions cause it to worsen?

 

Nonetheless, I am the kids from my block.

I’m the kids from my high school, both the nerds and the jocks,

I’m the young adults from my college, in New York and Europe alike.

I enjoy time with new friends, even more so with old friends,

but my best friends are my life.

I am who I am, I am who I was, and I am who I will be.

 

I am who I am, nothing more, nothing less,

and who I am is me.

 

I am my associations.

I am a New Yorker, I am a Bronxite.

I am the apartment building I lived in my whole life.

I’m a high school graduate who goes to college at St. John’s

I’m a brother to my sister, nephew to my uncle,

cousin to my cousin, and a son to my mom.

 

I used to work at Key Food on my block,

and at Cold Stone in Times Square.

To a few girls, I am an ex-boyfriend…

but I’m not even gonna go there.

To some I’m good, to some I’m bad,

to some I’m happy, to some I’m sad.

Right now I’m my dad’s son,

One day I’ll be my son’s dad.

 

I am me by association.

Whether it’s a person, a thing,

my home, or ancestral nation,

I am who I am, I am who I was, and I am who I will be.

 

I am who I am, nothing more, nothing less,

and who I am is me. So who am I?

 

To you, that depends on who you are,

and how you see me.  – RSM circa 2010