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

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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