Istan Bulls Love Constantin Opal

TheMagicRealist.com

Istan bulls love constantin opal
Just as bishops tend to wax epi scopal
And when kept up high, a tug on a rope’ll
Quick release them precious jewels.

Even fools love all kinds of opal
Clear from Pakistan to Constantinople
And when asked to part, an emphatic nope’ll
Usher forth despite the rules.

You won’t go back once exposed to opal.
Now, if you’re a bull, a glimmer of hope’ll
Manifest without the prickle of nopal.
You just might convince the mules.

When suds are few, a fun bar of soap’ll
Cause the brash young bulls to dash antelopal
So no least of them becomes mis antropal.
We’re as bound as molecules.

Kape Kenneveral!

You can hold a cork under water, but you can’t make it drink.

TheMagicRealist.com

The flesh of the wine bottle top is akin
To the problem we tackle and wrest to the ground.
The effort it takes gets the job done, for sure,
But it might cause some illness for which there’s no cure.
The weight of the issue misjudged by the pound
Bespeaks the illusion there’s something to win.

I’d a niggardly weed in my yard once ago.
It just would not give pay to superior will.
I yanked it and stabbed it and hurt it quite well.
I drowned it in Round Up and said “Go to hell!”
Yet, the damned thing defied my desire to kill.
I decide who gets cut down and who gets to grow!

One can have any cake and consume it with pride
In a world where one knows when to give it a break.
The limit, as mankind approaches its prime,
Of will power potent enough to stop time,
Is infinite, yet we must learn to awake
To the guidance provided us from deep inside.

Plant Porn

TheMagicRealist.com

The organs of sex at the top of a pole
Erect and receptive to contact in space
It seduces the eye, and it does this quite well.
It re-penetrates, purely by means of its smell,
The innermost memories of beauty and grace
That are held in the heart and consumed by the soul.

No shame ushers forth from a body so pure
That it shares its love making with creatures that fly.
As soaring and landing as most of us do,
Their partners are many, and ours, but a few.
With no care for clothing they live not a lie.
When they’re linked up with good times our moments endure.

Making funky is lunky for we with our jewels.
Oft’ we break into sweat for the effort involved
But the lily is calm with its stuff in the breeze.
It doesn’t care if it makes some folks sneeze.
Were our issues with intercourse ever resolved,
We’d quit hyper-humping and looking like fools.

Misfire

TheMagicRealist.com

I can beat myself up at the drop of a hat
But the world does a much better job by design.
Try cashing a check with no mark of the beast.
You’ll be pointed to Hell or mistook for deceased.
As a world remains troubled, my worth’s in decline.
Between you and me, though, I’m better than that.

Another smart phone hit the pavement today…
Yet a childish outburst from my chamber of hell.
I’ve contempt for millennials smug in their game.
Did we fuck up your world?  I will take the damned blame!
Take your tissue technology’s volatile spell
And swipe it in the most natural way!

Sometimes I can’t handle the rage that I feel
So I tend to speak softly and feign a limp dick.
Should my words tear the flesh as mere ordnance do?
I will NOT own a gun! Does that satisfy you?
I am ready to leave here, and let it come quick.
I’m an old, burnt out bastard, and folks, that’s for real.

Foghorn Forlorn

TheMagicRealist.com

What is up with you, boy? Get from underneath there.
Don’t you know that’s the first place a rooster will look?
My big mouth’s been a pushin’ you through all along.
You’re now head of the head cocks. What did I do wrong?
It’s a slap in the face, boy; my gizzard’s been shook.
But, I’ll act like I’m happy and don’t really care.

The things that you say, boy, are right off the wall.
I couldn’t do better, and ain’t proud to say.
But, my boy, you been yip-yappin’ like Elmer Fudd.
It’s no wonder folks want your name dragged through the mud.
I been workin’ my tail feathers off night and day.
And what thanks do I get? … A ‘yes bird’ uninstall.

I may rough up a chicken who gets in your way.
That’s the way that I am, and I ain’t here to please.
In fact, boy, I’m big on the brash just like you.
We made a good team, but for now, we are through.
If you need me again, boy, just drop to your knees.
If you really had to, that would sure make my day.

The Wellbeing and Wonder of Whack

TheMagicRealist,com

Pick a noun – any noun, ‘doesn’t matter which one.
If it’s whack that it’s lacking, know where to get some.
There’s a town that has oodles – an infinite source.
It’s an attitude bred in the psyche, of course,
Not an actual place that’s devoid of scum.
If your thing’s out of whack, go to Whackville for fun!

There’s a drought on abundance?  Well, how would one know?
By lack of accessories on shopping carts claimed?
Or maybe by facts hocked and spit on the street
For beggars to stare at while trying to eat…
Can I eat with the homeless and not feel ashamed?
Something seems out of whack; that’s the reason to go

To Whackville intent to cop copious supplies
Of the purest, most wholesome whack under the sun.
From there, I can see there is nothing amiss.
Every actor on stage knows to strut into bliss.
When returning from Whackville, my task is near done.
Spreading whack, I’ll lift spirits and roll a few eyes.

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Interrogation

TheMagicRealist.com

Lock your gaze on these glasses.  Now, what do you see?
Occipital lobules cajole in a dance
As the mind conjures meaning and fashions belief.
Is smegmatical messaging giving you grief?
If it were would your suffering earn you the chance
To dispense with all stale memes and set yourself free?

The glass, when half empty, is also half full.
Yet if uttered out loudly some ears would then perk.
The reason for this is there’s judgement involved.
When looked at it one way, it’s said one’s evolved.
When looked at the other, it’s said one’s a jerk.
This ‘assessment of attitude’ trick is pure bull!

There is contrast in life; it’s by nature’s design.
It is good to have vantage points less than ideal,
As they generate outlooks that make ourselves grow.
If we didn’t have bad days, then how would we know
How to deal with desire and carve out what’s real?
The glass is half yours, and it’s also half mine.

Complex of Inhibition

TheMagicRealist.com

I can’t come to see you because I’m not there.
I know we do plan to meet often; it’s true,
But the fact that I’m not where you are anytime
Keeps defeating our meeting – a fool’s paradigm.
If I could just be there to be there with you
Then there’d be not an issue to craft and declare.

I suppose that I could just get up and go,
Heading in the direction to where you now are,
But, my goodness, the thought of not being there still
Does confound me quite deeply and stifles my will
To go any further.  I’m not up to par
For going and knowing not when to say no.

So, help me, dear friend.  Can I be there with you?
It’s not that I’m coy, or can’t find my way.
It’s just that I’m daft and deficient as some
Who can’t find a motive to best overcome
The inertia of living our lives come what may.
In a dance with resistance, my life becomes new.

America the Mutable

TheMagicRealist.com

Oh beautiful for friendly skies
Kept safe as best we can
For politics and sports combined
So folks know there’s a plan
America! America! God has His eye on thee
As entertainment fills the air
From sea to raging sea

Oh beautiful for points of view
That show our colors well
For arrogance and much ado
What good is there to tell?
America! America… A frontier yet today
Performers swing inside the ring
And grimace as they play

Oh beautiful for lethal blows
And shots below the belt
As spirits reach the lowest lows
That ever had been felt
America! America! Don’t keep God up your sleeve
We can do good in brotherhood
The world will then believe

Oh beautiful for front row seats
At lively staged events
For caucuses and campaign feats
And polls that make no sense
My love for you is bitter sweet; by happenstance, I’m here
And when November comes around
I’ll vote and have no fear

Smart Assed Robin

TheMagicRealist.com

I watched a robin after
an early morning rain
others dug for worms… bugs
this lucky one nabbed a baby
snake.  Such a battle so
long the bird has won
head sheared off
tucked away sound
the bird stares at me
another while
as if to say
“Yeah, I ate the son of a bitch; what’s it to ya?”

Depletion Region

DR

A rat’s ass for a gift I received just today
From one of those scientists wanting my vote.
But electoral physics are quanta to me.
If I could but know them my mind would be free
To make a decision arrived at by rote.
Thanks for caring, dear carrier.  Speak what you may.  

The currency wanting through popular force
Is prevented from flowing to circuitry’s roots
The barrier’s there when no force is applied.
It gets even stronger when rights are denied.
Human Solid State nature has some attributes
That make issues of governance par for the course.

As the sides come to scrimmage which path does truth take?
Can grass-rooted bias the State overcome?
Our electors are carriers charged just the same
Whom can turn either way with protection from blame.
The process is like rocket science to some.
And for we the vast ignorant, our souls are at stake.

Wet Tuesday Night

TheMagicRealist.com

When the heavens perspire and dampen the street
It’s a rainstorm that’s standard and run of the mill.
Precipitous prognostication aside,
A Wichita weatherman’s hope’s not denied.
There’s a downpour of wet stuff.  My gosh, what a thrill!
When they do call it right it’s a breath bated treat.

It don’t rain in this town much and I don’t know why.
The forecasts will tease you and mess with your brain.
They’ll tell you, “It’s coming; there’s bukus of chance.”
They’ll have your hopes harnessed and pre-poised to dance…
And then comes a mist puff – NOT torrents of rain.
Indeed when real storms occur, all thank the sky.

By the time that I finish this verse all will cease.
It’s much like the tropics how rain comes and goes.
This courtship of rain dance and man with a tool
Can often make forecaster look like a fool.
But we’re used to it all.  It is how nature shows
It’s the mother in charge.  We just suffer in peace.

Vetting Spree

TheMagicRealist.com

Hasn’t anyone heard of a Vetting Spree?
Aren’t you bored with just shopping and watching TV?
A few troubled nations are helping us some.
What’s the matter with others?  Our best blessings come
When we’re aiding our fellows cast out like debris.
A great moat has evolved of the vast, raging sea.

We’d applaud the world media drowning you all
With our plight, had we free hands and some air to spare.
Perhaps no one knows what a drowning is like
But the will to survive, unlike riding a bike,
Will consume the soul wholly.  Does anyone care?
It is much like a lynching designed to enthrall.

I am better than seaweed and now it’s just me.
My family and friends have all drifted beyond.
Lungs are salt water packages shipped Next Day Air
From a world left behind in a pit of despair
To another one where no one needs to respond.
I’m worth vetting, then letting my humbled self be.

Blaine Hussein!

TheMagicRealist.com

Blaine Hussein!  Life’s a tax on my brain.
When I pray to Allah ‘seems the Pope answers back
When I tell the man, “Go away; you’re not the one,”
He gawks at me sideways, the son of a gun.
Much ado about scripture… it’s hard to keep track.
Such a mess of a matrix; I’m driven insane.

We are all but a mixture of this thing and that.
Even cells that we are are not really our own.
And as thought forms become us, we’re well on our way
Toward believing enlightenment rules come what may.
Do I cling to my act like a dog on a bone?
Too many groups, it seems, know where ‘it’s’ at.

Blaine Hussein with no gain for an alien mane
Does dwell well among us as Jesus once did.
If you glance at a mirror you might see him there.
If you spot him in public, don’t shout, “Bomb; Beware!”
Don’t vote for a person hell bent to get rid
Of ‘those’ rag-headed weirdos so dark and arcane.

Fifty Ways To Move Your Matter

TheMagicRealist.com

The problem is NOT inside your gut,” she says to me.
She nods her head as if she wants me to agree.
I’m backed up bucket loads; dear doctor, hear my plea.
There must be fifty ways to move your matter.

I’ve seen the X-rays; there’s no problem I can find.
Your labs are normal – no disease of any kind.”
I’m hooked on laxatives; they’re always on my mind.
There must be fifty ways to move your matter…
…Fifty ways to move your matter.

Take command of the can, Stan.
Don’t rattle your brain, Blaine.
You just have to believe, Steve,
That your body’s in charge.
Put your mind in a trance, Lance.
Let that snake do its dime dance.
Your resistance must go, Mo,
And then you will flow.”

Just slam dunk the can, Stan.
Prop up your feet, Pete.
Stuff is bound to deploy, Roy.
Nothing’s wrong; you will see.
It’s much like a boa, Noah,
In consort with good protozoa.
Brace yourself for a thrill, Bill,
You’ll be crapping with glee.”

Alas, how rather simple your advice does seem to me.
My ailing rubber hose is clogged with play dough; can’t you see?
I fear that I will reach the point of bowel catastrophe.
There must be fifty ways to move your matter.

My friend, I think another pill will do no good.
Your body’s putting up a fight, indeed as well it should.
When you let loose the shock will surely rock the neighborhood.
I know there’s fifty ways to move your matter…
…Fifty ways to move your matter….”

Characteristic Toxicity Index

TheMagicRealist.com

The dust of a world swirls about in a wind
As it forms into clusters and clumps of some mass.
Does dust ever settle? Most seemingly not.
It is breathed by both cosmos and nation a lot.
Out there, it forms stars with a lifetime of gas.
Down here, it wreaks havoc for all who have sinned.

Many indices rampant among human doing
Are helpful in giving our best selves a clue
As to just how much toxic dust made at our hands
Becomes real enough, dust mites make their demands.
Now, since they are the many, and we are the few,
If we don’t treat them right, then ourselves we are screwing.

The dust mites among us are noble indeed.
They work for dead skin cells; ‘ain’t nothing much cheaper!
They keep to themselves in the dust we create.
They live out their lives in nirvana-like state.
When it’s time to move on, they will greet the grim reaper.
Their CTI’s low, I think folks would concede.

To Unlock An Ibis

TheMagicRealist.com

Many issues with giblets folks think are secure
May find resolution though not in the courts.
The bowels of the bird can be put through the grind
By anyone with enough intent to find
Some info on bad guys and all their cohorts.
The Ibis, though diddled, its heart remains pure.

I don’t have an Ibis; I’m not in the groove
By choice or by happenstance – I don’t know which.
Had I plenty of reason to make a bird call
I would soon forget I had reason at all.
To peer up the bird’s niche with such ease and no glitch
Is to render it egg faced with not much to prove.

The Ibis has had its rear end poked into.
But it will survive and won’t just fly away.
Some features come standard with woman and man.
Among them we handle whatever we can.
The smart ass in a pocket could lead you astray
As feds feeling frisky form out of the blue.

Now Demystified

TheMagicRealist.com

Half past half past
Is still one quarter ’til
When passed for a whole one
With less time to kill

Gravitational Wave

TheMagicRealist.com

Can black holes dance the jig?  Astrophysics says so.
Political science may say they cannot, yet
Sometimes it’s a tango performed on the air,
And others, a salsa consumed in much flair.
Whereas each school of thought knows the other’s a lot,
The War of the Stars generates what we know

Today as a wave front of tremendous power.
It ripples the minds of the populous swirl
Of the lesser, light beings caught up in the dance.
As above; so below,’ seems an apt circumstance.
Gravitational Wave sets a nation to twirl,
Keeping up day by day, and then hour by hour.

Some wise man ago knew that it would be proved…
All those massive events – some most grave and intense,
Do send out their vibes which can warp one’s space-time.
For big stars it’s ok, but for us, it’s a crime.
If I am caught red handed, I’ll plead self-defense.
Because proof has become us, we are then moved.

The Point Not Taken

TheMagicRealist.com

Two separate beings converged into one,
I stand astonished.  Which choice is clear to me?
My one self sees that its life someday is done.
My broader self knows that all has just begun.
I’m a soul in a briefcase hand carried most casually.

Though born to wonder… to share what I feel,
Sometimes I wander; I’m lost along the way.
To know what is not just as well as what is real
Is to know that one may have something to reveal.
But to share it, indeed, I’ll put off for another day.

I know by now that I’ve been here before
At this same juncture.  The sign before my face
Now reads rather oddly as life does at its core.
The next time around, will I even up the score?
The true self knows every journey is one of grace.

Wellbeing knows all who travel aground.
The signs are plenty and placed along each way.
If I just yield, then my bounty will abound.
I’ll know my worth, and I’ll speak without a sound.
Perhaps then some may hear what I have to say.

Global Warning

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a consciousness keeping this marble in place
As it spins on its axis and circles its star.
It’s been doing that eons before man arrived.
It’s astounding how much we believe what’s contrived.
The force who created it all knows by far
How to maintain its temperature through ‘random grace.’

It seems to make sense; we’re an untidy bunch
And we’ve grazed every grassland like wild wildebeest
But we haven’t thrown enough dirt in the air
That it forms its own orbit and makes its home there.
Who would know why the heat in the air has increased?
Those with harsh, toxic outlooks and minds out to lunch.

A few men from this world have now romped on its moon.
‘Not a boner for science for all that it’s worth
But the few families running this word as we know
Would just as soon see all the rest of us go
To heaven knows where… surely off of their earth.
Yes, the temperature’s rising. Whose soul is immune?

Honoring the Inner Being

TheMagicRealist.com

The roadway in life, though rugged and smooth
Can often get potholed when etched by the rains
So, the vehicle’s sturdy – this too the road bears.
It is built for abuse, and it knows no one cares.
‘Heavy rubber to road, people go to great pains
To move about swiftly with no need to soothe…

…The ‘Baby On Board’ who does need some attention…
The self’s inner child floating free at the wheel
Is aware of all motion by way of its wave.
In his dream, he knows that there’s no one to save.
If he wakes, the illusion becomes the real deal.
The ‘driver’ distracted then claims note of mention.

We don’t need to keep our eyes dead on the road.
If we do then we’ll drift into sleep like the child.
Focus is all that’s required to move.
Though blind we may seem we are locked in the groove
On the roadway of life where the baby has smiled
And has kept the race going in cruise control mode.

It’s nice to be hungry when eating a meal

It's nice to be hungry when eating a meal.

A blessing it is to give thanks for a meal
As to have what’s not tasty be tossed to the side.
Our gratitude is to the beast and the plant.
Their life force supporting our own they do grant.
When we’re young and with all those five senses applied
A bit may be eaten, much to mom’s appeal.

We may hunger for wealth; we may lust after glory
And that’s all well and good if what’s wanted’s not yet.
Getting juices to flowing means talking about
Whatever that makes one’s heart stand up and shout.
If done well, this attitude you’ll not regret
Because then you’ll have realized a well-rehearsed story.

I may fancy a salad of tossed verbal greens
From the Garden maintained on the plot of my soul.
I prepare and may share with no hint of abash.
Very little at hand ever goes in the trash.
And as time marches forward, my meal takes its toll
In pursuit of Digestion for all that that means.

Damaging Goods

TheMagicRealist.com

If a hairy green zit falls upon someone’s face
And there’s no one to judge it, then does it exist?
The playground at recess is so commonplace.
We do not need teachers; it’s part of our race
And the urge to find scapegoats we cannot resist.
A brunt of us bear this syndrome of disgrace.

Perhaps it is something that’s not in plain sight…
A conglomerate guessing at one’s inner soul
By others. God bless them, but they’re not in touch
With their own souls. That’s why they gossip so much.
We misfits are ripe in the rigmarole
Of jumping through hoops just to prove we’re alright.

When a ‘third person singular’ greets with a smile
Do you glance at the booger escaped from his nose
Then think, “What an asshole; he’s fit to be shot!”?
Do you pull him aside and care whether or not
Some other might catch you in unworthy pose?
Hold a mirror to self. You may find it worthwhile.

A Virgo’s Signature Is Usually Legible

TheMagicRealist.comThe body must move just as well as the mind.
Idle hands and sheer boredom will lead me to ill.
If I lie in bed lazy past break of daylight
I’ll be hard pressed to craft a good dream for tonight.
I’ve a fondness for logic as well as free will.
With the mind as a map anything I can find.

I am prone to walk barefoot in my special wood.
The Path is the Earth and the life force of green.
And as bright as its ending, its journey’s the way
Of divine light through living my life day by day.
The world through a looking glass is what I’ve seen.
Much less than much more is what’s now understood.

A practical one most adaptive to change
I master the minuscule, mired and mundane.
If I have enough detail, I’m given great wealth.
I work best in the background; my credit is stealth.
As the blueness of sky and the freshness of rain
I’m at home in a world I can well rearrange.

A Fiddler’s Duck

TheMagicRealist.com

Who would care how a fiddler does with his thing
Whether out in plain view or behind the closed door?
If he did play the ‘organ’ we’d call him as such.
Other than strings, he won’t fiddle with much.
Though his thinging is bringing him love life galore
His heart lingers warm with a duck under wing.

A fluffy young ducky with wobbly feet –
A remnant of Easter and kids’ sticky fingers,
Detoured from tradition, this ducky’s in luck.
A kind hearted fiddler’s a bang worth a buck,
But his love for his duck is the one that will linger.
The thing peeps as he’s playing. He thinks that is neat.

You will rarely find his duck running amuck
As the critter is certain he’s found a good home.
He was gifted once, then was gifted some more.
He knows a duck giver’s no one to adore.
People getting these ducks give them free space to roam.
The question is: Who gives a fiddler’s duck?

Faith and the Fixerman

TheMagicRealist.com

How ya doin’ there, ma’am? Is there something that’s broke?
Point me to it; I’ll take a look at the thing.
Any job I can handle; I’m your Fixerman.
I’ve a toolbox of smarts gathered since I began
Giving service to folks and that makes my heart sing.
Things can’t be that bad; I don’t smell any smoke.

I’ll just tweak on this gizmo and see what it does.
Now, if it tweaks back, then the problem is found!
If it does something silly, I’ll have just a clue
And from there perhaps I’ll know what else I can do.
If it draws a deep breath then emits a shrill sound
I’ll call in a musician to play just because.

I can field strip a flabbergast down to the floor
Then bang its belligerent being back whole.
I’m all about service, ma’am… No need to fear.
I’ll finish this job if it takes me all year.
I may have to move in and be mate to your soul.
Why not give it a thought since I’ve been here before?

Homegoing

TheMagicRelist.com

We don’t call them funerals and haven’t since when…
Our departed are happy as we should all be.
Life’s a woe upon blessing and grace mixed with pain.
Their time dwelt among us… Our loss is God’s gain.
We believe that all people will someday be free
When we dwell in the home of Our Father again.

We are ‘home’ on this earth for a brief little while.
We are made of the earth as the gingerbread shack
In a made believe land where sharp contrast abounds
With the purest of music and God awful sounds.
We have faith in our Lord and know He has our back.
When we leave this dear earth we will do it in style.

The service is much for us, and that we know.
When we cheer our freed loved ones whom now have moved on
We moan and we wail from the pit of our hearts.
There’s no stammering, stuttering, stares or false starts.
Living deep in our souls it still seems that they’re gone.
Our tradition has changed little since long ago.

Children of an Elder God

TheMagicRealist.com

My Supremeness! I must have dosed off for a spell.
What day of Creation…? Where did I leave off?
Seems the kids are begetting much faster than mold.
When I said, “Guys, be fruitful,” I guess you were sold
On spreading like wildfire spurred by the quaff
And running ‘round rampantly raising up hell.

Now that I did not create, little ones.
I remember that much, so ask nothing of Me
About sickness, or pain, or displeasure or doubt
Because love and abundance is what I’m about.
Go ahead and be fruity, but do it with glee.
You are here for a good time, My daughters and sons!

My grayness of beard and My whiteness of face
Is folly, dear children, conceived in your minds.
You may note that I’m single – a stay at home Dad.
‘Been around since forever, and more, I might add.
You may flourish and partake of fruit of all kinds.
The Garden’s for all folks no matter what race.

Correctness Politicale

Correctness Politicale

An Insurance Enabler am I – not a thief.
I procure valued merchandise usually by night.
When I stir up some trouble, the system improves.
In a big way, I’m why the economy moves.
You could call me a crook, but you wouldn’t be right.
Take care with your mind; I may snare your belief!

A Reliable Fictitian am I – not a liar.
The choiceness of wording’s the key to it all.
With mouth shot from the hip, too much truth is revealed
So a blither of bombast does make a good shield.
The slicker words are the more minds that will fall
In line with my thinking. There’s no goal that’s higher.

Of the many of genre of funny there are
Political Correctness does tickle me most.
No humor so dry in its gross understatement
Does cause of the heart, the mind’s sole re-abatement.
Every con man’s an artist with hot air to boast.
A silver tonged devil’s the winner by far.