Anxiety washes away like waves
along the winding coastlines of SoCal during the day
No matter how many times I beat it, it returns
Just like how a fresh new crest of a wave re-emerges,
Eternally growing, moving, charging, crashing, repeating the cycle again,
when anxiety peaks I think of the sound of waves crashing
And try to think of things from a different lens. – RSM
As a young child (as one does) I imagined quite a lot and explored with my mind and hands;
So oddly enough I became randomly enamored with empty ash trays in the arms of the backseats of old cars –
It was like discovering a little hidden pool or crawlspace in an otherwise bland landscape.
Beneath the fake wood as my mom drove us around in my grandfather’s 1970s landboat
I found a world of wonder in these mini metal trap doors originally meant for other people’s cigarettes.
They were clean and unused, though still a bad look for kids to play in –
They were (in my mind) little hot tubs, bunkers, a random place to put my fingers,
somewhere where I could put my toys as they came along for the ride.
I became fascinated by hidden ash trays, almost like an art form it felt like finding the smallest of elegant little spaces
that harked back to a time and space when the adults in the room were not only the only voices, but tobacco filled, gritty sounding voices that carried like the feeling of rubbing your palms against loose gravel.
While I learned the lyrics to ‘It Takes Two’ by Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock and my light up sneakers flickered brilliantly, I still yearned to know more about yesteryear,
and like a tiny early 90s archaeologist I always searched for the hidden compartments until I found them – the ever classy built-in ash tray; an unlikely calling card to my childhood.
They’re all but gone now, surviving only in especially well-preserved chariots of the mid to late 1900s, but for a time they were an iconic part of my world – a call to love the world for what it was; a place to explore. – RSM
Shakespeare (for example) is read across centuries and continents;
countless human eyes have bounced off of his words.
Little squiggles communicate language, keeping his hundreds-years-old thoughts relevant.
Reading is telepathy, according to Stephen King at least,
A mind and time bending set of decorations.
It’s a plug-and-play for the brain, far from lame,
From your own latest tweet back to the book of Revelation.
Illustration, photography, images decorate space
while music miraculously decorates time.
Video games take you within while being without – immersion, gone wild,
and the world wide web brings it all together in space-time, sublime.
Sure, criticize it, hyperbolizing it’s negative effects, if you desire, but,
A million multiverses exist within each of our minds and we’ll all leave a “tech footprint” before we die,
So have at it, fam! Enjoy yourselves with the media we consume, create, and share to our peeps,
It’s a wild dream we’re living on our ever-growing collection of screens.
How else could I get these words out for all to see?
Do you really think a 20th century publisher could reach the masses like a website can, or an account on IG?
Embrace, don’t hate, on the times we experience, ‘now’ is all we have anyway, friends.
Everything in moderation of course, take breaks, touch grass, vibe out, sleep in –
But I hope that you’ll enjoy the modern marvels that we all use, cuz damn,
I think Shakespeare would use every creative tool at his disposal if he had a Tik Tok or an Instagram!
Dalí would have a field day, given the chance
and wouldn’t mind the trolls shunning his work at first glance.
It’s beyond a tech network, it’s a realm, a world of imagination-based vibes.
Enjoy this multi-sensory dance of space-time sublime. – RSM
A violent storm brews on a sunny day, internally,
a disconnect between the thoughts I think and the world I see,
the great nothing attacks with calculated poignancy
and a million little no ones have their fingers pointed back towards me.
A lot of names it goes by, the DSM gives it definitions galore,
an idle mind be wildin’ out, creating fake,
demonic children running around my inner self’s candy store –
breaking down all the shelves, they’re giving the clerk hell,
until I restart my mind it all subsides, this grand swell
of my mind’s river finally dies down. Sometimes it takes a nanosecond,
other times the inner storm rages all day, and I just gotta lie down.
Nothing motivational here, just an expression of
my thoughts, breakdancing sideways, inside of a closed confessional,
chaotic combinations coming to crux with the pressure from
not the atmosphere, but reality/society/these phantom obsessions, bro. – RSM
Just hear me out, even if you think this is silly:
Colors that you see within your current scene are miracles in themselves,
allowing light to glow in full technicolor, rendering all images and visions so vibrantly alive,
And don’t even get me started on vibrations and sound,
an infinite slate of possibilities found within our hearable frequencies,
Imprinted in our memory, music maps major and minor chords
Into emotions and experiences tied to our recollections of earlier serenades,
Your other senses and more contribute to this life’s stats and lore
And all we little humans do in this universe is magic –
indistinguishable from advanced technology, because those are the same damn thangg,
We use thoughts and actions to manifest our dreams and aspirations,
From the mundane to the most profound creations,
Magic is the way thought comes to fruition and it lies within those who act on their visions. – RSM
What a relief as I take off into the cool breeze,
I’m feeling the air, hearing my footsteps as I sweat it out,
I zoom into the void of my path ahead.
My mind drops into silence from its usual chatter, ever-loud;
distractions disappear like a leftover fog from a cloudy day.
Peace sits between my ears as a flock of seagulls sets a course ahead to explore. – RSM
It’s Bad Bitch, Part 2, she’s thick, curvy…
our first year’s on lock, wheels still turning…
another week away down on South Beach,
flashy, classy, sassy, she’s a damn Queen,
wearing all her hubbies’ sunglassies,
looking hotter, than the sunset now..
She’s been so down and under pressure
she’s way too fine to be this stressed, yeah
I’m used to her, and now she’s used to me…
So let’s grow together!
Turn up the music…let’s celebrate
It’s been a year now… a lot more on the way
Okay… alright… it’s about damn time!
In a minute, we’ll be chillin’,
tanning, drinking, margaritas, along the coast,
We’ll be grinning, reminiscing, a little kissing,
Beach babe with the matching Coach –
Admiring her nails, laying on the sand,
Gazing at the water with a drink in her hand,
the baddest bitch around, on water, air, land,
got everybody looking at her like ‘oh, damn!’
She’s been so down and under pressure
But she’s a Bad Bitch, there’s no question
She’s looking fine, no glasses needed to see…
It’s about damn time!
Turn up the music…let’s celebrate
You’re very welcome – happy anniversa-ray!
Okay… alright… it’s about damn time! – RSM ❤
Inspired by ‘About Damn Time’ by Lizzo
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
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
The strong-aired curves swerve – a typhoon, perturbed, as
forceful winds flurry with feverish words –
our, mind’s micro-tornadoes dictate the day-to-day of this play, though,
society keeps us locked in to the track we’re on, molding us, like Play-Doh –
the goalposts are moving targets, dancing to wind-chimed rhythms, floating through life’s maze
and throughout the thoughts that run through us, our ego survéys –
these, hurricanes are in the brain, gusts measured in emotions-per-moment,
we circle through the cycles of love, peace, fear, and pain, – swirling,
the storm dissipates – and we’re left in a space with no humidity nor rain,
just a calm, cool, cloudless view of the dark hues of outer space.
Back around we go in our roles on this never-ending, traveling Broadway show,
as the strong-aired curves swerve – a typhoon, perturbed, as
forceful winds flurry with feverish words…
– RSM
Rubén Sebastián Muñiz | ∞ 