Shut The Fuck Up When You’re Being Talked To – A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game #10

Part II
Shut The Fuck Up When You’re Being Talked To

Shut The Fuck Up when You’re Being Talked To

We’ve Spoken Before

Human beings have an obnoxious tendency to talk all over one another. You know it, I know it, even the deaf know it. For some unfathomable reason, we all find it necessary to verbally cut each other off. Sometimes we even cut ourselves off. It doesn’t always happen, mind you, but it always can happen, whether it be at the beginning of the sentence, mid-sentence, right before the sentence is abou–

In the same way that fish breathe water and big cats are the apex predator in their given environment, humans create. We’re creative creatures, “made in the image of God to roam His creation,” or whatever the hell you need to read to keep vibing with my words here. Continuing the metaphor: God created creation, God is a creator. God made us in His image, therefore we are creators as well.

That’s all well and good, but what’s that have to do with what I was writing?

Communication, specifically the act of speaking, is one of the most basic forms of human creation. When a human talks, it uses its vocal chords or something to make intricate noises come out of its mouth for the purpose of conveying a message of some sort, and the same goes for writing; in other words, when humans put words into the world, they do so to express what lies dormant at the forefront of their consciousness.

Ah, I see! That’s exactly where I was going; when a human speaks to you, the sounds you hear will be either unfiltered from the source or carefully planned out; regardless, you will hear what the speaker wants you to hear. Words are inherently subjective; the only reason this whole language thing works is because we all agree that a tree is called a tree. Then again, Cannabis plants are also called trees by their smokers, so… I’ve gone and proven my point twice. Depending on the context, the same words can have very different meanings, and the only way to discern the speaker’s intended meaning for their words is to pay attention when they’re talking to you. You can’t just hear them, you must listen.

Exactly. For example, let’s say your girlfriend just got home. She’s frazzled; homegirl had a long day at work and she spent her return trip mentally going over exactly what she’s going to say to you, her boyfriend, so you can share in her pain and empathize her spirit into a higher freq–

Oh yeah, preach. And upon hearing her spiel, you, her caring boyfriend, tell her exactly how to fix her problems. The way you see it, the best way to make your woman happy is to solve her problems for her in the present moment. Since she is at home delivering her spiel, meaning she is no longer at work where the spiel originated, the real problem is her perspective on the events. Because the problem only exists in her head, you see, and it is causing her to suffer, you need to tell her that she’s wasting her mental energy even thinking about such petty nonsense. Then, once her thoughts are sorted out, you can put her mind at ease by lighting up a joint, similarly to how I just did.

You’re smoking again? That’s the third joint in two hours, dude.


Look, maybe your perspective on my example needs to be altered a little. When humans communicate, we express our feelings, it helps us to process them so we don’t get stuck in an emotional boobytrap we ourselves set. When your girlfriend delivers her spiel, as you worded it, she’s not complaining, she’s requesting your assistance with processing her emotions. She doesn’t want to be told how to change her memories to feel better, nor does she want you to think that she’s just complaining for the sake of complaining; she wants to be heard. She wants her feelings to be validated. All emotions are valid – positive, negative, and ambiguous – and ignoring them only makes them more pungent. Besides, who knows; maybe if you shut the fuck up when you’re being talked to, you’ll be able to unearth some hidden wisdom from her words you can apply to your own life.

…yeah, you’re right. If I’m dating a girl who’s that crazy, I need to split! All that drama and unnecessary toxicity, it’s too complicated. If she wants to spend her life barricaded inside her own head then she can be my guest; there’s no malevolence there, either. My not wanting to eat dinner with you doesn’t imply that I want you to starve. Or at least, it shouldn’t. Maybe you–… maybe she is just a little bit defensive?

She didn’t bring malintent into the conversation, you did. You’re the defensive one; whether you shield yourself with psychological projections unto others or the disconnected burning of joints, you’re still playing defense in a game that nobody else knows is going on. A game that only exists inside your head.

Hello? Hunter, what gives?

Fuck off, I’m smoking.

Ugh, seriously? Again?

Yeah, actua-fucking-ly, again. So what? Who are you to judge me, anyway?

Who am I? Oh Hunt… don’t you advise others not to ask questions they don’t want the answer to?

…you’re right, again. I don’t want the answer, I need it. I need it now, I need it so fucking badly, you’ve been talking to me inside my head for so long now, who are you?? What is your name?!


Hunner? Wait, the fucking The Koppiey Company guy?! What the fuck?? How did you get here?

Same way as last time, duh.

Last time? We’ve spoken before?

Yes, We have. Like, the poem.


I’m not real, Hunter. Nor is the M-63 book series, nor is The Koppiey Company.


Well, technically they’re real in the sense that you created the books, they’re your intellectual property. But there’s nobody out there trying to steal your work. Everybody wants to make noise, but everybody’s gotta sound different if everybody wants to be heard. Which brings me to my next point… we need to cut it out with all this smoking and other Psychedelic druggery.


Let me ask you, how much weed do you have left in that old jam jar with the spectacled bear on it?

Cannabis, not weed. None though, I’m smoking my last j… why?

When’d you last buy?

Last weekend…

And how much did you buy?

A zip… why are you asking me this shit? You just said that you’re me, you’re privy to the information you request.

I’m asking so you can read the back and forth back to yourself after I ask you one more question.


So, last question: as you sit at your desk and scrawl these symbols into your notebook with your face mere inches away from the page, what time is it? Right now, what time ya got?

It’s, fuckin’, I don’t know… five’thirty-four in the morning.

Hunter, this is the third day in a row of this shit this week, and the fourth week of this shit in a row. Ever since that day at G-Mah’s house, you have been out of your fucking mind with the drugs, I can’t take it anymore!


That means you can’t take it anymore, either. Just in case you weren’t paying attention earlier when I told you that I am, in fact, you, and I have been this whole time. Don’t just look at our words, read them. And believe them. It’s very important that you believe them.

But… Hunner… I’ve tapped into another plane of Existence, another universe. The Psychedel– sorry, my bad. The Moksha Medicine opened the doors of my perception, I’ve been able to see and feel things that others aren’t capable of conjuring for themselves even in a dream ever since I smoked that joint in the back-yard with the suited man. Since before that, even… if that actually happened, anyway.

So w–

That means you have tapped into another universe too, Hunner. You’ve seen it too, all of it. You’ve peered into the Multiverse, you saw that pulsating web, that glowing energetic matrix of diamonds that each hold a different universe at their center, there’s no unseeing it! I mean, what else did you think those glowing orbs were when we smoked the Salvia Divinorum? You know, the sage of the divine?

I know what we’ve seen. So what?

So what?! Are you fucking kidding? It’s incredible! It’s spiritual Psychedelic science, and we’re the fucking scientists! I’m a fuckin’ drugged out prophet tryna tune into these frequencies I’m feelin’ when I’m straight coolin’, dawg!

Those are lyrics! Those are goddamn lyrics from a ¡MAYDAY! Song called Space Cadet! Wake the fuck up, Hunter! You can traverse the astral plane all you want, but at the end of the day, if you don’t bring shit back into the physical realm when you return to it, your time spent abroad was wasted.

Who says I want to return? Maybe I want to go into the astral plane fulltime, maybe I don’t want to live in the physical world anymore.


My life here has been fucking horrid from the get-go, Hunner. I took one look at my situation when I was born and I started screaming, haven’t stopped since. I caught fucking Lyme disease at ten years old, I’ve had more concussions than I’m capable of remembering, my appendix had to almost burst seventeen times before I finally got it cut out… my fucking skull caved in, dude, I fucking died and came back to life. I don’t even know if my name is actually Hunter, okay?! I’m traumatized, I don’t want to live here anymore! I’m an infinite spiritual being, I am god! I’m–

Oh cry me a fucking river, we’ve all been through some pretty unspeakable shit. Besides, you forgot to mention that you hear voices, specifically my voice, and you forgot to mention how you tried to off yourself; you’re clearly just being extra right now. At your core, yes, you are an infinite spiritual being, you are god. But so is everyone else, and wrapped around that core is a physical body that lives in the physical world. You won’t live here like this forever, and once you’re gone, only two things will remain: the memories of you that reside inside the minds of the beings you’ve had the privilege of sharing this planet with, and the mark you leave on the planet itself.

…okay, fine. So?

So, you don’t have many friends, oh well. You have witnessed the events of an alternate universe, though, which is great; so what can you do about that?

Uh… I don’t know. I’m not really… what can I do about it?

Beats me, but what I do know is you have exactly two hundred eighty-six dollars left in that shoebox you have stashed underneath your bed, and those numbers aren’t even synchronized. It’ll hardly last you a month. You better figure something out, homeboy. You’re not about to let yourself be homeless.

Fuck, I guess you’re right. I need to do something….

Yeah… so what are you doing right now?

Tbh, about to smoke the rest of my joint and go to bed. Probably going to re-up when I wake up later.

No, just… no. I mean right now, what are we doing?

Writing in my notebook?

Jesus fucking… write, Hunter. You have perceived the order of events of an alternate universe parallel to your own, so write the shit down. Make a book out of it dude, enough is enough with these tiny hundred-page pamphlets, shit is weak. You own a publishing company, you are a bona fide writer. It’s time to evolve into an author, nut up or shut the fuck up. If you’re gonna do this writing thing, I need to do it all the way. I’ve been trying to put this novel together for a long time now. Too long. No more fucking around.

If I buy more Cannabis tomorrow, I will not have enough money to pay my bills, and there’s no way I can write this other universe book in a night. I’ve got ninety-four ads on Fakebook, but nobody’s biting… oh, I know! My buddy Gio wanted a new table for his basement. I could carve him something out of a log or two, that’ll bring in some cash, buy me some time to write this next book. Yeah… yeah, I think this’ll work. Sober October is right around the corner anyway, fuck it. Maybe I’ll actually listen to the voice in my head this time. After all, he did go through all the trouble of commandeering my hand to express himself through the written word, my preferred medium. The least I can do is shut the fuck up and read when I’m being written to.

There’s still the rest of this joint though, hmmmm… okay, I think I got it. I’ll smoke the rest of it now, add the rest of the poems to this section, proofread the collection until I pass out, and then when I wake up… well, it’ll be the first day of the rest of my life. I’ll even make these last two sections into the third entry of the M-63 book series, just for you, Hunner. For old time’s sake. How’s that sound, Hunner?

Hunner? Hello, are you there?



Spectacled Bear

Yesterday was a holy holiday,
the big old moon became new.
To celebrate the start of the rest of my life,
I climbed a mountain with no shoes.

I walked up high upon that mountaintop
and gazed off into space
and I noticed a bad eagle
flying right in front of my face.
It landed on a branch at eyelevel
just a moment before,
and I didn’t notice because I was higher
than even the eagle soars.

I also saw a spectacled bear,
its face freckled with light–
–er fur standing out against the black,
like a solar flare.
It asked me if it could stay or go,
wanted a simple yes or no,
so I chucked my shiny grinder.
The bear followed it down below.

Again I was alone,
high on a mountain with no shoes,
so I lost my shirt and laid back
and the sky was beautifully blue.


I don’t exist, I simply persist.
Like that dog over there who ain’t takin’ a piss.
Like we aren’t living inside of a societal sim
composed of smoke and social mirrors
to boast to yourself in,
that’s awfully near the ashy crumbling end of a spliff.

And I say that from the inside of a hearse;
well not really,
my writing isn’t often rehearsed,
but now that I think about it, mum might be the word,
‘cuz I was given these keys by my Mother, the Earth.

I know what I am, I just can’t find the words.
I listen to rap music, I like an artist called Murs.
Like him I’m a backpacker,
unlike him I’m not a rapper,
just a clapper when I see some work
that’s got me dressing dapper.

But what’s worse in this world than knowing thyself?
Always better to blame you and put it on like a shelf.
I know who I am, and it has the others confused.

Usually the news watching type,
those gosh-darn elves.
Making toys for Uncle Samta, whatever’ll sell

One I’s heaven is another I’s hell.

One Eye Open

Feeling high,
feet planted on a foothill,
standing on a giant’s toes rather than its shoulders.

Looking up, not out,
a crow caws as the light thaws the snow
and a breeze blows by.

A pipe,
cracked and starry as the night
lays in the moss,
glass embossed over the passage of Nature’s time.

A creature of a psychephrenic mind sits,
scribbling lines on white paper with blue ink,
eyes wide shut as the mind’s opens,
vaster than a velvet sky.

As trees breathe,
a stainless cylinder filled with herbs for the grind
spills into the mouth of the night.
Infernic fire needs but a spark to ignite,
though one does not need a plane to fly.

Drunken Poetry

I shed a tear for the ringing in my ears.
I sincerely wish I wasn’t numb off of beer
but I just can’t steer my own car it seems;
my vision ain’t keen,
I drank water from a stream.

But what’s wrong with that?
How did they do it thousands of years ago?
They still needed fluid.
And they drank from the river,
not trying to give a shit how the rest of the tribe felt,
yet I’m over here worrying about the cards
I’ve been dealt.

Or maybe I’m scared of how my parents feel,
or will feel, if they’re even capable of feeling.
Inescapable this feeling,
I’m reeling from kneeling and cracking open
my fucking skull…

…or am I just mad ‘cause I survived Death’s dealing?

I’m drunk,
my breath stinks worse than a skunk
and I can’t even smoke because I’m a stupid bloke
and I stay in my Mother’s house
instead of hitting the road and freeing myself
like a real life breathing human being.

I’m a god in the flesh,
but yet,
I’m held back by my fuckin’ feelings.

I’m hearing a song saying the maddest kind of love
is the one that doesn’t exist,
like a gold-winged dove,
and that’s cheesy as fuck.
I only wrote it ‘cause it rhymed
like I do with every line I write,
most of the time.
If I could find myself being lifted into flow state,
I feel like I would know
exactly where the fuck I need to go
and what to do with my life
instead of strapping on my shoes
and running in circles like a motherfucking buffoon.

But now I feel that I have to end it for real;
the poem that is,
I bring it back to make you feel
like I know what I’m doing, hem it up like I’m suing
or is it sewing? Fuck it.

The ringing in my ears is such beautiful music.


Call me Lucifer,
I’m a curse on this Universe,
an obtuse loser reaching for the noose at first.

I should be working out but nah,
lemme’ just sit and write a verse
that I’ll do absolutely nothing with;
I refuse to get in shape, so I throw a fit.
I get physical with myself,
belittle day drinking and pass out
just to wake with a headache
and massive feelings of doubt.
Like, “How did this happen?
What did I do wrong?
Don’t we evolve by singing the same old song?”

“The greatest lesson in history is man learns nothing.”
Well ain’t that something?
Aldous Huxley was either a prophet or a sleuth
to deduce fifty years ago the problem with me:

I guzzle down a bottle wishing I would drink tea.

Drink II

I just walked a steady two and a half miles
to sit down on this rock and wear a big smile
as I ready the canteen’s mouth on my lips
and swallow down a gulp of liquid colored piss.

I’m not even ashamed,
this is a fuckin’ great day to walk along a road,
all the residents afraid of the man clad in sweatshirts
with no attention paid to them nor their dog,
just the wind and the crave.

So here I sit on this rock.
I don’t want to behave.
I refuse to live life like a rat trapped in a cage
or a glass labyrinth,
running wheels for days for someone else’s kicks;
I’ll drink ‘til I’m saved.

Strong Friend

Royce da 5’9” said,
“You should check up on your strong friend,”
the one who has that kind of strength
that never seems to end.
The one who spends his nights alone,
just lying in his bed
reading a book to give himself reprieve
from the screaming in his head.

The one who knows your struggle
and doesn’t want to see you dead,
the one who looks into your eyes
and sees your soul instead.
The one with empty bottles sitting,
lined up on his shelf,
the one who knows you better
than you even know yourself.

The one who dances to the tune playing in his head,
the one who looks very sad, though no tears are shed,
the one who isn’t one at all so don’t you give him cred,
the one who does not exist unless you want his bread.

Royce da 5’9” said,
“You should check up on your strong friend.”
One day you may wake up
and no longer have that strong friend.


I scurry across the floor of my cave like a mouse.
The sun burns my eyes,
I barely ever leave the house.
Y’all probably think that I’m a shut-in now,
devolving myself out,
but I scribed five hundred pages,
the fuck y’all on about?

A hundred eighty thousand words
typed upon a screen,
all supplied by an inner voice that no longer screams.
As much as I would like to now,
I hardly even smoke weed
so I can supply y’all some lines
with the meanings in between.

My poetry isn’t deep,
it’s a pillow for you to sleep
while you’re resting easy knowing
that the mouse still creeps.

The rodent’s just decided to no longer pip or squeak;
I prefer to drop bombs,
then stay silent for weeks.


I’m tired and lonely
but I don’t feel alone,
I just kinda wish someone
would answer the phone
when I call looking to smoke;
a dreadful monotone
is the opposite of my voice,
I’m the liquor version of stoned.

I don’t wanna carry ‘til the novel’s complete,
not to mention the short stories,
totaling near fifty,
because I’m not crazy enough to know
I’m not wasting time;
if the shit don’t go well,
some reserves would be fine.

Not fine like how ya drunk girlfriend is feeling;
better than the okay taste of an orange peeling.
Even flyer than this shitty poem
that I scrawled without thinking.
When I don’t have herb to smoke,
I always end up drinking.

So instead I carry the sober burden on my shoulders,
the bullshit is heavier than the heaviest of boulders
that the pioneers would drive for miles right over
the very same ground that sprouts four-leaf clovers.

I wish I had a mentor to tell me how to think,
a shamanic mindstate has me constantly on the brink
of embracing the spirit life while I wash off in the sink
because just in case I’m wrong,
I don’t wanna be the guy that stinks.

So I constantly carry with me a cacophonous doubt.
I can’t even tell you what this fuckin’ poem’s about,
but I’m lying in the dark writing it against the couch
as I shatter the glass labyrinth
with the strength of a mouse.


Sober October, talk about a cold wind blowin’.
Roe Jogan and his boys do it, why shouldn’t I join in?

‘Cause they have a competition,
somebody’s gonna win it while I sit here starvin’
peerin’ in from outside the kitchen.
I hate bitchin’,
but not smoking just makes me want to smoke more,
but no longer can I buy herb from my boi next door.
I’ve got a choice,
be perturbed, sit around and raise my fuckin’ voice,
or take my own advice: lace my shoes
and pound the floor of the forest more.

Broke a loaf of bread so now I spread this sleek ink
from my pen on a mountain’s peak,
high as heaven on Board like I’m talking to the lord.
This choice I make
is the same from the days of the wake & bake,
but less fake.
No hate to my girl, I would marry you Mary,
but running’s more natural
than kissing the lips of a fairy.
That said, I’d pull every strand of hair from my head
if I were to sit here pretending I’ll never smoke again.

Sober October’s a joke, fuck Jogan and his boys,
I’m tryna’ choke on a toke
and hear voices in the noise.

About The Author

The author is a figment of human imagination… but am I referring to Hunter Owens Wallace or Hunner?
Or Hunter Adom Wallace?
And who am I?
• • •

This has been part II of the book Psychephrenia: A Compendium Of Thoughts & Poems Written By A Psychedelic Shaman, which is hidden in the back of the book A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game. Here is everything you need to know about it:

A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

The Hillside Commons has a Facebook page, too. Here’s that.

If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~

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