Tag: Poetry

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Visions, Vol. 3: My’nd’imensional Jumps

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

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Blank

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

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L’appel du vide

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

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A Note for The Gardener

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

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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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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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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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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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Under 2022’s First Full Moon

Uncertainty ravages the world’s seas, currently,

The currents are pulling back the curtain for the world to see,

The steering wheel – gripped by the white gloved hands of the few

Trying to steer things ‘their way,’ even if they run over you –

It seems like average person is bursting at the seams

And lawmakers are concerned with “Jewish Space Laser Beams”?!

The media distractions don’t want to lose traction

And the disease evolves, with no release or resolve,

The state of labor unions is strong, workers coming together

To eliminate the spectres and be our own protectors,

So it will be tonight, we banish what doesn’t serve us,

And keep moving straight ahead, don’t let the world swerve us. – RSM

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Let ’em Know When The Party’s Over

I kinda want one of those sarcastic banners I’ve seen in a meme somewhere-

A string of gold letters that usually says something like

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY”

or

“CONGRATULATIONS”

but instead it says

“PLEASE LEAVE BY 9”

Yes. Perfect.

It’s been a cathartic, nostalgic space for my mind lately
as every turn of the year compels me to rewind and review
the last 365ish spins of the Earth –

As the cosmos rotate around our skies I recall
so many more Earth spins before,
when I was having ‘mind parties’ and heard knocks on the door –

All the homies came through with gifts and fun things,
some of them had horns on their heads, hoofs for feet, or huge, bat-like wings-

Badass mfs who like their music bumping, minds wavy, and their lettuce dank,
Stomping on the floor with me, getting the neighbors mad, making the whole hallway stank,
Music getting loud, ganja getting louder,
Bass vibrations emulating such a buzz that the friction made an old lady downstairs drop and spill her hot bowl of clam chowder,

Louder – my mind’s house got even crowded,

LOUDER – more otherworldly party animals found it,
LOUDER!! – I shared my location with my multiversal wild ones,
Passing all the fun around until 8:59, but,
Me and my demons go all the way back, jack,
So I’ve sat them down before and set some clear boundaries –

They know when it’s time to have fun and make scary sounds, but,
When I tell ’em it’s the last call, they know to turn it down, and
Get a broom and mop and clean up all the mess,
Cuz, there’s no point to partying if you don’t get any rest,
nothing to celebrate if you don’t work hard enough to pass your life’s tests.

I always liked the idea to “Treat death like a friend,” from Harry Potter the Deathly Hallows,

I have my own angle to add, though –

Have fun in life, party with your demons, but, let’ em know when the party’s over.

My winged, scary-looking friends know the deal –


The time has come to help me clean up this place and “Until next time,” I tell them, “It’s been real.” – RSM

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