Tag: prose

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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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h’woooosh

My mind is always spinning.

I’m a fuckin’ whirlwind.

The curved air rolls with the force and speed of the images produced within my consciousness,

Third eye, dizzy –

Hitting all corners at least twice before realizing I’ve been spinning.

A grand, rotating revolution, spinning is the problem – and spinning is the solution!

Just endless spirals, lights of the night go round and round,

Images, viral, reaching right into my retinas as I recall the square frames

as I endlessly scroll down –

S

P

I

N

N

I

N

G

!

A regurgitation of recent memory, trains of thought criss-cross-crashing, flying off the rails,

airplanes flying, shooting my thoughts up high while spilling out white streaks of racing-thought chemtrails

SPINNING around, my point of view’s on ballerina style, just a Whirling Dervish,

morphing, contorting – an 18th century French poem, written in cursive – a lightly used, Hello Kitty themed furnace,

a concerned Greek chorus, singing, trying to warn us – a rebellious sect of spaghetti, bobbing and weaving away from a fork –

it’s, a natural force of the mind, subliminal– it keeps [spinning] it goes so fast, unpredictable,

Mind’s eye like a set of 24-inch Sprewell rims from 2003

a wheel within a wheel, a Mayan calendar of an experience

sPiNnNiNg I change channels in my head

From Tik-Tok clips to Cher’s greatest hits to random scenes from Eddie Murphy’s ‘Delirious’

I’m serious, just kaleido-scope into my third eye view, and see whatever comes to;

Mind you, at times its not intentional, the way it aligns, but,

nevertheless, I’m usually just a happy, little mess;

Rotating revolutions, all mixed with randomness,

Self-entertaining, that’s what my mind’s eye be like, fam;

If you catch me laughing to myself, no te apures I’m doing just fine!

I just paused on something funny I saw on my internal screens, and just had to hit re-wind. . .

Because, you see, my mind is always spinning.

I’m a fuckin’ whirlwind. – RSM

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Spirals

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

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It COVID be Worse

I’m one of the lucky ones that can honestly say it could be worse. I catch myself complaining to myself about boredom, not being able to see friends, and all these first-world problems that has come up these past few weeks, but it very much could be worse.

If I had a medical job, or was an essential worker, or was laid off, or was a senior, a parent, a caretaker, homeless, or more than one these at the same time – I don’t have a lot to complain about. I’m faced with one of the best case scenarios – a test of patience. A challenge of how to use my free time with limited options. That’s it.

I want to find ways to to help, and I’m trying, but what I keep hearing is the best way to help is to stay home, don’t socialize, don’t go out if you don’t need to. It feels pointless, useless to think that just staying home helps, until I hear about people on the beach being responsible for further outbreaks and reckless behavior being a liability to others.

So if you’re young, able-bodied, and are bored, ‘stuck at home’, just be stuck at home then. You’re helping. This is your challenge – it’s different for everyone, and it’s yours to rise to, for your sake and everyone else’s. – RSM

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Circum Romani

It’s hard to hide ‘the crazy’, it’s bursting at the seams

as our fearless, brainless ‘leader’ yells, rambles, and screams;

It’s a multi-ring circus with the clowns up front,

Disregarding all the crowd’s needs for their own wants.

Waving shiny banners, having us all play along,

Everyone’s hand over their hearts- singing the same song.

We outdo our Gross-Embarrassment-Product, every day,

DC-Puerto Rico-China-Syria-Ukraine,

And you can’t just blame the main idiot for all the pain,

Oligarchy is the team, and oppression is the game.

Sports are a distraction, TV and movies have been

the-opiate-of-the-masses, plus religion? Man, we’re strapped in.

The Roman Circus used to give bread to the crowds,

events free of charge, and the Romans roared loud,

they would cheer when their victims were killed and dragged away.

The Roman Circus never stopped – the show goes on today. – RSM

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The Astral Movie House

What if right after your death you find yourself alone, in a one-seat movie theatre, where you arise as if abruptly woken up from a dream.

Your ideal self-image from your life’s memories is manifested, and you look and feel, by your own opinion, as the best you ever have.

An 70mm film projector flickers, and begins rolling a film onto a realistic-as-life screen directly in front of you. A classic black and gray circular countdown starts backwards from 10, in the clearest picture you’ve ever seen, anywhere.

The film begins. Your earliest memory in life plays out as the first scene. You are taken aback. Your emotions criss-cross and crash, and finally, you understand: ‘heaven,’ ‘hell,’ and ‘purgatory’ will all be experienced here, in this single-seat movie house. You’re free to get up and leave at anytime, but the thought never occurs to you.

It all comes back, a full recap of your now-past life. The best moments invoke laughter, tears of joy, leaving you feeling like a rejuvenated soul; while the worst ones trigger despair, regret, and unkempt anger, mostly directed at your past self. But not fear. Fear is for the living.

The movie ends, and as the credits roll, every name of all your loved ones, friends, family, co-workers, people you met just once, all scroll along. You are credited as the lead role, and the director.

There you are, alone in your own private astral cinema – lessons learned, emotions drained, and at peace with your past life – a catharsis unmatched.

There’s a red EXIT sign to the right. A force within you questions where it leads, and beckons you toward it.

You rise from your chair, and walk toward the EXIT sign. It leads you around a corner to a long, maroon-carpeted hallway ending with a single door. It’s an industrial dark gray, with a few scratches, and a worn black and gold PUSH sticker on it. You stop at the threshold, take a deep breath, push it open, and walk through.

You new first memory starts. – RSM

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Tha Turntable Chakra

IMAGINE imagine IMAGINE imagine

music could be GENerated, music could be GENerated

just by your thoughts… you think something, and BAM – tones, tambourines, tom-toms and other auditory tools tell a story, put on a show – justlikethat.

What if it was so simple, a subconscious rhapsody – radiating, rambling, rumbling rhythmically, with every breath you take, every move you make;

– just a series of vibrations that emerge from your mind.

No other external instrument, no other pre-requisite – just a pure, beautiful sound, decorating time.

Like an aura, but audible, able to be heard by all within earshot.

What would yours sound like?

Not a very fair question, cuz honestly, wtf – I just thought of this, and you’re not prepared, how rude of me – I’ll go first:

the song that would play would vary from moment to moment, and would change with how my mood sways from day-to-day in a never-ending figure eight,

and would oft play something trippy, dance-able, funky.

Right now, first thing that came to mind was ‘Oh My God’ by A Tribe Called Quest, so I’ll just go with that.

When people say “that’s my jam!” or “issa vibe” in response to a song, think about it – it matches the tune in their mind’s eye.

Not a lot to imagine at this point, is there?

Your soul’s song is real. So turn it up – RSM

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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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