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
All the time, so it goes,
a quick shift lifts my consciousness out the nearest window,
a random round-robin of rare realities rage,
ranging from what’s reasonable to the completely unfeasible,
my mind is a flip phone with T9, sometime in 2002, after 9 –
unlimited. It talks all it wants.
A gust of wind blows me back in,
a nano-second long journey takes me across the universe and snaps me back to my reality.
Then,
through the entropy of imagination, the cosmic jungle of all possibilities seen through my own unique lens,
I’m. Once. Again. pinballing through existence, leaning into this mysterious experience, with no resistance –
And here I am, back in an instant – sliding right into my third eye’s home plate, where it always begins, this,
Infinite, unpredictable winding pathway of pathways, it sounds overh’whelming in writing, but I find it lovely,
My thoughts are on shuffle, my mind jumps into the Google text box, but never hits ‘Search’ cuz I’m always ‘Feeling Lucky,’
My ego’s like Jasmine on the balcony: playing hard to get.
But just like Aladdin my imagination is stationed on his magic carpet,
hand outstretched with a smile, asking her, “Do you trust me?” – RSM
I’m on a journey where things just tend to get stranger,
I have a stoic face on, from a chemical brain changer.
my emotional range has been strictly maintained
so I stare down bliss the same way I look at danger.
I’m a feather, slowly floating along through sweater weather,
whether the winds are weak or strong, I’m just gone
and the song in my mind is on a short loop, perpetual,
It’s the same time of the day, no matter when I look at the schedu-al,
Third eye’s view is laser precise, cuz all the colors of emotions are void,
I can only see in a sharp black and white, I can hear a loud silence, I can feel the noise;
each moment is vivid, from the inside out
But I’m on Saitama’s vibes all day, without a doubt. – RSM
The air lies still.
A docu-series rambles on, recanting memories of generations past.
A storm batters the trees outside with violent gusts, endless rains ravage the view beyond my closed windows.
I close my eyes for a long few seconds. A familiar light bulb clicks on in an old dusty attic bathed in bright moonlight on a clear, chilly evening – emitting an aqua blue hue, suspended from the center of the ceiling.
I travel here when I think of death and the afterlife, either on my own or from external stimuli – sometimes a dangerous daydream scene emerges from a quaint reality:
For instance – I’m waiting for a bus and wonder what would happen if it hit me, resulting in death on impact – how do my five senses respond? Where does that leave ‘me’? Or maybe a plane goes down on a trip and before I know it I’m on a new found post-life trajectory.
Be it a heart attack, something else sudden, or a terminal expectation that everybody sees coming, I’ve thought about what death would be like here and there as far back as I can recall. I remember looking out my window as a toddler, and wondering if I fell and died where my mind and soul would come to reside, where I would travel to, where would my soul wander – where does consciousness go after this life?
The aqua blue lightbulb in the attic is in my mind’s eye, on a different plane where all my inner imaginings lie – I have an old journal as thick as a small brick. Pages frayed, leather-bound. I flip to the nearest blank, past thousands of older hand written engagements, I write it all down in the aqua blue-lit attic while imagining another possible path or experience that may come to pass when this life is finished.
In those few seconds with my eyes closed on that dark, stormy evening, I visited the attic where the blue light glimmers – opened my old journal, and wrote down my latest vision. – RSM
Know that you did your best, and it showed.
The love by your side is what grounds you, she is your earth;
how else could you rediscover these roots and water the tallest trees while planting new seeds?
El jardinero – you did your part, and more.
Think of yourself less as the bridge – a hard, flat, steel, man made vessel that gets run over in both directions.
Think more of yourself as the garden and the gardener, cultivating your growth, and the growth of those around you, just the same.
– 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
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
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
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
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
Rubén Sebastián Muñiz | ∞ 