I’m standing in the mirror.
Seen, I’m sitting on the floor.
I’ve found I’m doing neither,
I’m sitting by a chair.
What seems to fill this chair?
For better, worse, or fear.
I smell the blood under my nails,
While I’m pulling out my hair.

I ask the man inside the mirror,
While he’s standing there, daydreaming.
I ask the man if he can relate,
To the floor on which I’m sitting.
The empty chair beside myself,
I’m not empty, or complaining.
The nothing I find by myself,
I find somewhat entertaining.

-Christopher Scott Munoz, November 18, 2010

A full course meal,
What words I taste, as they’re jump’n from your tongue.
Onto the very sences I relate,
to the places that I’ve been.

What of it now?! This gray-scale nerve,
Amidst these tangles I christened,
“Mind”
A ball of threads, some white, some black.
No gradient in-between.

As here I am beside myself,
While hystericaly I’m laugh’n.
Not to the world, but at myself, who
Finds my plight is quite a riot.

Not black nor white, found wrong, was damn sure right,
But laughing feels so right.
Off to the left I find myself, wander’n, misguided.
Now passin’ on my right I find myself still smiling.

Hystericaly I’m laughin my life thats such a riot.

-Christopher Scott Munoz, June 2, 2009

Stitches that bind our brains,
Wove throughout our minds.
Each layer a costume,
Each dawned for a time.

Worn for reasons,
Hatched by & for your mind.
You’ve wrapped it up in layers,
Options for disguise

We each wear demeanor,
Outside atop our minds.
In the subtle background,
each layer for a time.

Each time it-self’s been chosen,
By the faces in our minds.
Each side hiding its subtle plots,
Parallel yours or mine.

-Christopher Scott Munoz, March 25, 2009

I’m unsure.
Was the fall feeling I treasure a place I’ve been?
A dream I’ve touched. A place I’ve had? Or what I’m to do?
One thing is for certain, about that fall feeling.
I was left complete, cold, and ready.

-Christopher Scott Munoz, November 18, 2008

Outside he parked his tuck, this Tall Bald Man ran some Show.
He wore a vibrant outfit, his mustache match his sinister tone.
He said he’d show us all a trick, if we stepped into his canvas tent.
It covered the bead of his truck, Inside I found a couch and friends.

The Tall Bald Man produced a Machine, Like a Christmas cookie tray.
We where advised to stand in single file.
He lined us up and lead the way.
It swallowed us all, down the line.
Like the mouth of a bottomless bag.
He moved towards us with the the tin spread wide,
I soon forgot my place and name.

I felt at home. Now worlds away.
The sun glistened through the ridiculously clean windows.
White furniture sat in the sun, newspapers on the coffee table.
A woman with a vacuum paced around and cleaned.
She tells me its time to get ready.
So I gather myself, and find the things that I need.

I find my shoes. I find my socks. In the closet I fetch my coat,
Through the window on the closet door, I see a rubbery suit.
In the closet I find my face on a suit strung on a hanger.
I take it down and stretch it over my bones,
And seel it with a zipper.

Looking around as I step outside the front door.
Streets of houses and perfect lawns,
I see it drive by and I want to scream,
The Vibrant Man’s truck, rolls on down the street.
Inside I remember the thin tin machine.
Who am I now and what is this dream.

I hear a loud sound and an unwinding of gears,
A popping of coils and a racing of wheels.
Like a Jack in the box who’s done taking turns.
I feel the Tin scraping, in lurches and whirs.
The tin scraped and slid on its joints,
Unwinding in phases. Scraping my skin.
This has to stop! I must move again!

I look all around in confusion and pain,
I’m sitting someplace, I don’t know where I am.
And there’s the people all around who’d been in the tin.
Sitting all around with faces of grins.

Something crazy happened and I had stopped the machine.
I looked up and down confused and in pain.
A tumbling of everything, I lay on the floor,
Misshapen, and damaged, I’m half a brick wall.
Half of my body still crammed in the thin tin,
My left eye peripherals strained to take in,
That my left side was bricks and I was a wall,
I couldn’t move anything and felt stories tall.

I looked up to the Man, and I gathered my voice,
I don’t want to play anymore, I asked in distress.
He unwinded still further, my leg in the tin,
My body was free and it pinched on my skin.
It seemed that my leg was caught in the tin.

The Bald man straitened his mustache and knelt by my side.
The streets in the distance rose up to the skies,
The streets folded down and building collapsed,
A folding accordion into the back of his head.
With it went me, the tin, and my friends.

-Christopher Scott Munoz, August 2, 2008