‘Ain’t Mis-Physishin’

doctor

No pending lawsuits; no fall from grace
I’ll be straight up and right in your face
‘Ain’t mis-physishin,’ I’m wishin’ good health for you.

I’m not a fisherman who can’t catch a fish
I’m not a musician who hates to musish
‘Ain’t mis-physishin,’ my mission is tried and true

I won’t prescript you with no reason why
I won’t inject you unless you might die
‘Ain’t mis-physishin,’ permission shall be my cue

I get enough sleep; my libido’s in check
My heart will not pound if I gaze down your neck
I’m big on privacy; I won’t tell a soul
Of your bad breath or massive malignant mole
‘Ain’t mis-physishin,’ contrition is mine if I do

My work is my practice; I learn as I go
My patients are teachers; there’s a lot I should know
‘Ain’t mis-physishin,’ your condition is up to you.

Spurious Spatial Speculation

Spurious Spatial Speculation

The body is an unmanned probe
Remotely controlled by the realest self
Made from the substance of what is explored
It encounters another so as not to get bored
Expressive of meaning like a book on a shelf
But paper thin like an onion skinned robe

The body makes sense of alien ground
It does so engaging the self that is ‘local
That self is the ego. Its purpose, in fact,
Is to translate the true self with intent intact
Within range the command module then becomes vocal
Relishing in new terrain it has found

Since there’s no one inside – just a window to Home
We lock onto signals that traverse our space
When Eye meets with Eye a connection is made
In Heaven with counterparts proud and well-played
We flood here en masse to partake of this place
With robotic abandon we are destined to roam

So, where in this puzzle does ‘Houston’ fit in?
Is Mission Control where we go when we die?
To some, it’s a mystery; to others, a known
Yet it matters to ego whose true colors are shown
When caught loving earth life and flying high
Despite this world’s gravity as it wears others thin.

Wichita Madman

Wichita Madman

I am a madman on this earth plane
Yet I came knowing how
To play this game of life
And to live more in the ‘now’

Somehow I missed the point completely
I can’t figure out why
So, this Wichita Madman
Does take to the sky

You say I need some kind of therapy
I say, ‘Go take a hike’
‘Cause if you mess with me
You’ll find we’re much alike

We are not singing in the sunshine
We are not dancing in the rain
But this Wichita Madman
Will never complain

It seems I’ve found the right Vibration
One that suits me just fine
I know what’s yours is yours
And I know what’s mine is mine

Next tornado leaving Kansas
I’ll be yellow brick bound
In the land of the little folk
With their emerald green town

Esoteric Electronics Essentials

TheMagicRealist.com

Reality is vibration perceived
Not something to face or to work into place
Vibration is made through thought that is focused
Not through random hopes that flea like the locust
And as thought gains momentum at steady pace
Within space and time all things are received

 Magic is perceived vibration
It completes the circuit of what is real
Like a radio tuned to a certain sound
Will ignore all others that surely abound.
With antenna and tuner, we each know how to ‘feel’
Our way to a better situation.

 What is is what was the moment it’s been.
The ‘carrot of time’ matches rhythm of gait.
Yet, there’s wonder in life as connection is made
To a Source of our choosing wherein Meaning’s conveyed.
To know how one feels is to set one’s path straight.
With such knowing, each cycle begins again.

Benefit of Doubt

The Proliferation of Wholiness
I am what I am , and it is what it is.
‘To Be’ is not something to ponder about.
I’m here on this stage with others like me.
We all have opinions. Some stink with such glee
Intending on luring a lusty snout
Into noxious worlds that make the hair frizz.

So, what’s this ‘therapy’ all about?
I don’t have a TV, and that does some good.
Then, when I meet with the likes of you,
It seems you’ve been bathing in pestilent poo
That has oozed from an orifice too well understood.
Now, smell me again? You don’t need to shout.

“Did you hear what those niggers did the other day?”
“No, do tell. I was being one as well.”
“Well, by golly! You are one, for sure!
Why didn’t I smell that as plain as manure?”
“Sir, perhaps your world may be one of hell.
Maybe best I don’t hear. Who would care anyway?”

Served in serpentine segments or cast in crude clumps
Most emerge from creation a nation beset
With too little knowing and too much re-begetting
Of what makes people hurt and what makes life so upsetting.
When one utters something that someone would regret,
It’s best to just flush, and thus save our burnt rumps.

Figment Field Fundamentals

It is illogical to believe that a bull's feces can in any way engage in copulatory activity with someone's mother.

Traveling through space most least revealed,
Not of football, law, or of wheat widespread,
I Journey into this wondrous land
Whose boundaries mock the mind of man.
Is there a signpost up ahead?
My next stop is always The Figment Field

Where shadow and substance are each given words
As are things and ideas, thus we call them all nouns.
The grace within language makes for glory or gore.
Then once thoughts are spoken, we can hide them no more.
Why then is there wonder as confusion abounds?
Perhaps we might study the words of the birds.

The Figment Field is a frame of mind
Who pictures thought through point of view
Catching moments from one end to take to the other
I’m done with this this thought; now, let’s go for another
It stirs words and meaning like psychic stew,
Then it sends out a vibe to draw thoughts of its kind.

Tomorrow I’ll Mow the Lawn

The Magic Realist

I’ve been here near a while by now…
New hermit crab whom neighbors peek.
The grass is getting pretty high.
What reason have I to be shy?
Is it their hearts I dare to seek?
Then, do mine own I disavow!

 If I should venture outside my door
Will eyes swoop like birds of prey…
To examine this carriage and semblance of soul?
Will my life then be shown to the world in its whole…
With all my secrets hung out for display?
I really don’t know what is in store.

This lesson lifelong whom I fully indulge
Seems childish and basic from point of view
I only know that, suffice it be,
An irrational poise comes over me
To dream of accruing such revenue
That the world behold as my worth I divulge.

Don’t It Make My Black Hole Blue

The Magic Realist

Strange cyan hue surrounding the black hole in Andromeda
Such strange and extraordinary phenomena
For more than a decade science had not a clue
And don’t it make my black hole blue

The blue light comes from a disk of hot young stars
Pancake shaped and swirling like racing cars
My massive singularity it does eschew
And don’t it make my black hole blue

Thanks to the Hubble and its imaging ways
Thanks to the watchers, and their unceasing gaze
My existence is confirmed. There’s no guessing now.
The birthing of stars one cannot disavow.

With the mass of 140 million suns
I keep a watchful eye on my blue little ones
But what else can such a big mother do
And don’t it make my black hole blue

Don’t it make my black hole…
Impervious to flack hole…
Don’t it make my black hole blue

I Need Ya Ta Fixer, Doc!

Gitter Dunn DundeeI need ya ta fixer, doc!
‘Ain’t been herself purt-neer half a week now
I know you’re the feller to get the job done.
‘Tried to fixer myself. She ain’t improved none.
I cain’t even gitter to milk the cow,
And, she’s ornery ‘round the clock!

 I really need ya ta checker out.
Every month, ‘bout this time, she gits bent outta shape…
She starts talkin’ ‘bout yoga and goin’ to school.
If she got her some schoolin’, I’d look like a fool!
But, other than for that, she’s in pretty good shape.
‘Cain’t be the moon – just hormones, no doubt.

 Still, I cain’t have these critters makin’ her silly.
I’d check under the hood. Do you know what to do?
Ain’t ya got some shot that’ll chase ‘em away?
‘Cause iffin ya do, that would sure make my day.
Can you give her a pill that’ll make her like new?
She’s a tough old gal. For a wife, she’s a dilly.

 Any other time, she’s a’workin’ just fine…
‘Ain’t complainin’ or cryin’ or throwin’ a fit.
The kids and the dog gits along with her good.
She mops and cleans and folds the clothes like she should.
She’s a hog in the sack, but she snores quite a bit.
Her warranty’s good for as long as she’s mine.


The Art Of The Matter

The Magic Realist

There is nothing so serious going on here
As we sift through our sorting and cast blame about.
When Idea expressed from the heart becomes form,
Consciousness is focused away from the norm.
Given chaos or cosmos, which would you live without?
Might the purpose of Art be to dissipate fear?

To brush one’s birth upon planet earth
Is to paint upon canvass suspended in space.
Synchronous life strokes do embellish our dance.
We would color the moon if given the chance.
Know that life is a blending of pigment and grace.
Know the true magnitude of your worth.

To see the magic in what is real
Is to know the reality of what is magic.
Art embraces the stillness within the calm
As it plays upon meaning to quell the qualm.
Though spilled blood upon linen is not all that tragic,
The purpose of being is to feel.

There is nothing so serious going on here
That it would cause me to break down and cry.
With all feelings to feel and all thought to express
Why linger in moodiness, lack or distress?
To dwell upon these does dis-ease amplify?
So what say you, there? I will lend you an ear.