A Most Literal M

TheMagicRealist.com

M could be for Matter. We’re all made of some.
It’s a consonant catered to personal glee
That could mean any number of beautiful things.
It’s the essence of M-ing for which the heart sings
When a detour through eye level leads to the sea
And momentum ensues like the beat of a drum.

M could stand for Messy or Menses the noun
As the mind mingles meaning, malfunction and more
In attempt to decipher why nature must play
In promoting such urges that cause due dismay
For those of a flavor not prone to ignore
That magnificent manhole just south of the mound.

One may wax anti-lingual and labor the view
Of the sequitur logic against sucking face
With another one, hairy, of mucous and warm.
Nature caters, in time, to what’s not the norm.
Why is man sloshing sultry beset with disgrace?
When it comes to linguistics, is M good for you?

I must think of that M just as if it were me
Since we’re most made of microbes; from mother they came.
Could it be that when nature finds man in a rut
She gives the command, “Get Good Guys in your Gut!”
To help out with digestive health just the same
As the flower most surely gets help from the bee?

Barking Trees In the Forest

TheMagicRealist.com

Now the dogs are all barking. It’s seven a.m.
And the kids are out romping around the car port.
They are ready to load up and get off to school.
Yet the dogs are still barking. Perhaps it’s the rule
In the forest where barking trees oft’ come up short
Of attention from humans… Such pity for them.

The children are free, though they’re taxied the same.
And they ramble on doggedly nipping the ears
Of their own, chatter boxing as hard as they can.
They get full response for the slightest demand.
But the dogs are still barking. Should I be in tears?
I’m the stark rabid neighbor who harbors no blame.

It is closer to eight, now; their pleading has ceased.
These bastions of bark, having finished their trial,
Will begin once again as the children return.
If they barked for a living, what fortune they earn!
Dogs have voices like timber that grow for a while
Then fall flat in the forest where heard not the least.

Every Good Printer Should Wipe Its Own Head

TheMagicRealist.com

Every t that’s electric should cross itself well
Just as socks unattended should stay decent pairs.
Every printer that prints other than in 3D
Has a head that needs wiping.  Its will is to be
Of its own clear volition, effecting repairs
Of its own fettered systems so balance can dwell.

Every i that is manual has had its day
Now the age of blue-toothing and why-fi is come.
Someday soon a device will have nary a button.
There’ll be so much to love for the technophile glutton.
Every i that exists will have class – not just some.
They will dot one another without much delay.

I’ve managed two printers. My one is a girl.
She presents not a problem when I am offline.
But the other’s a jerkoff who laughs in my face.
It thinks I’m the bozo; I’m prone to disgrace
As it sounds off to me. I concur with its whine
Every time there’s a mis-feed I’m made to unfurl.

Do I Make Myself Clear?

TheMagicRealist.com

Do I make myself clear? What a question to ask
Of someone not even of scientist mind.
I am sorry, Ron Hubbard, this ain’t about you.
My notion of clarity has much to do
Not with others’ perceptions and mine intertwined
But with certainty that my speech performs well its task.

Do I make myself clear? I’m not sure that I do.
Sometimes words escape meaning and thought fades away.
I don’t speak just whatever comes into my mind.
It’s the process of living among humankind
That evokes from within me what then I must say.
Though I seem partly cloudy, my sky’s nothing new.

Any poet who’s ever made home upon earth
Has had ample reason to write through the heart.
Every creature that speaks or lets loose with a cry
Should have something to say that would brighten the eye
Of its bated beholder who’s state of the art
In its skill at perceiving and discerning worth.

Coon Cranny

TheMagicRealist.com

I do have a coon cranny. What’s up there these days
May be of some interest to those hating blacks.
After all, since it’s up there, let’s talk about why.
When a coon has a hair, it is hard to deny.
When my speech gets grotesque, it’s not substance it lacks
And the smell of wet chicken flesh tends to abrase.

We are quite the bald eagle. Its right wing is right
In its hatred of niggers. There’s still ‘civil’ war.
When black folks see my talent, they swear that I’m white
Yet when whites view my work I’m ignored out of spite.
There’s a thing about hatred my soul does adore.
When I’m pushed to a limit, my black ass will fight!

What a mess has been made. This is ugly, dark shit
From the pit of a toilet marked ‘colored’ somewhere
Live on stage in a Twilight Zone plantation scene.
Don’t forget, I’m a nigger; I’m born to talk mean.
My job is to ‘nig’ and give white folks a scare.
If you think I am truthful, then you’re the nitwit.

Rat Back Retriever

TheMagicRealist.com

There isn’t a Rat Back Retriever in town
So we’re here to apply to the mayor in you.
Resting proud on the back of my big purple rat,
I am sure most retrievers must know where it’s at.
What I do is I chase Cheshire cats upon cue.
With my big assed rat side kick, we ride ‘til sundown.

There isn’t a fever that one could display
That would right itself smartly, not yielding to aid.
But a Rat Back Retriever can heal with a glance
And if things are quite critical, we’ll sing and dance
To any tune practiced and very well played.
Though we’ve lost track of meaning, there’s still much to say.

If you’re a believer, do know this is true:
There will always be room in your heart for a rat.
Make sure that rat’s healthy and has a keen mind
So to any retriever he’s easy to find.
One may think one may have healthy living down pat
But the Rat Back Retriever will sanctify you.

System Resets

TheMagicRealist.com

I see this new day as a positive thing.
It’s a brand-new beginning. It’s never too late
To embrace the new day and to nourish it well.
Today can’t be yesterday if now you dwell
In the now where your power and focus are great.
It’s my pleasure to ponder what this day may bring.

Our today and tomorrow can be different from
Our yesterday, journaled so well in the heart
If only we focus on what’s up today.
Letting go of what’s happened will clear a pathway
Toward giving your living a healthy new start.
Every outlook that’s pure yields a pleasant outcome.

Today, and that after, proceed from the now
The vibration of which we have complete control.
I must look for some things that I feel good about
Then kick back and enjoy how my life turns out.
Vibration comes forth from the pit of the soul.
There’s no time like the present for learning just how.

A Tasty Smidgen of Every Religion

TheMagicRealist.com

I do bless and appreciate all the world’s ways
Of giving our praise to that which we believe
Created all being. What seeing we share
As there’s much more in common that all can compare.
We are chefs in the making prepared to receive
All ingredients needed to feed our mores.

One’s connection to God is a personal thing.
And sometimes our religioning taxes that bond.
Get aligned by yourself, and then you be the light
That shines through your own faith. Your brightness just might
Keep your brethren in unity through the beyond
So that your team takes credit for grace’s wellspring.

It’s God’s kitchen. There’s something for everyone here.
He would certainly keep His own pantry well stocked
For all cooks of the world to have room to prepare
Our fine meals of diversity garnished with prayer.
Our souls have emerged with the urge to concoct
To our full heart’s abandon with motive sincere.

Order Disorder

TheMagicRealist.com

Now, remember our lesson from yesterday.
Obsessive Compulsive type folks were discussed.
Do recall, they are fidgety, fickle and mean.
And besides all of that, they are not very keen
On behaviors like loving and learning to trust.
So we label them psycho’s, and that’s our best way.

Today, let us talk about people who get
So much out of living they lead tidy lives.
These sick ones, so proper with neatly combed hair,
Have a thing about order. One could easily compare
Their minds to most elegant virtual archives.
But take some more notes, class, we’re not finished yet.

Though there’s Order Disorder, that isn’t so bad.
But Disorder Disorder is more chronic still.
If you practice disorder so much to the point
Where the only relief is a toke on a joint,
Know disorder is only an act of free will.
Not knowing would cause most of us to go mad.

Big Break Theory

TheMagicRealist.com

We all need a break, and a big one is best.
This one that has lasted for trillions of years
Is the biggest on record. There’s good reason why
Rocket scientists keep their hopes trained toward the sky.
Any hope of collision could banish our fears
Of trajectories randomized, crooked or stressed.

If we call it a bang, that sounds violent as hell
And it ain’t all that accurate, so say the ones
That a bang did occur. What they actually meant
Is that space in itself is an omni-event.
Expansion is lethal. Within it are tons
Of the opportune wonders we cherish so well.

It’s a billiard game started long time ago.
The players are we who come forth and emerge
Into glorious being, and then fade away
To our welcoming pockets with not a delay
The game has just started. We’re well on the verge
Of pursuit of the eight ball. This too we should know.

Elevator Music Awards

TheMagicRealist.com

Folks who craft lousy music that puts folks to sleep
Ought to have recognition for work that’s well done.
For work that is fair, many juices will flow
As with all tender meat. Every artist should know.
How does composing rut music constitute fun?
It’s along the same lines as someone counting sheep!

There’s a tune that is played on most government lines
While waiting on hold for the next of avail.
It starts off real slow, then it starts to get weird,
As my consciousness seems to have been commandeered.
It takes talent to craft at the pace of a snail
With such melodic ease in the strictest confines.

This genre of music should have its fanfare.
Folks who write and arrange this stuff should be exposed.
Big pharma may scorn them, but that shouldn’t be
Any reason to keep them from all who agree
That annoying music is purely composed
To keep all desensitized so we don’t care.

Doctoral Pieces

TheMagicRealist.com

Yes, I’ve earned a few letters to put past my name
But I didn’t get far enough to be called ‘doc.’
I’m a Master of Arts. My true self would agree.
Since I made it this far I am tickled to be
Just a half tier above the most sentient rock.
I’m a glutton for knowledge. Is college the same?

I have gained most my knowledge outside the fine walls
Of our vast institutions of elegant thought.
I consume it by living our streets night and day
Staring into folks’ faces who’ve no means to pay
For the blessings in life that should never be bought.
I would join with the homeless if I had the balls.

From knowledge comes wisdom. Poor folks know that too.
They tell me that ‘P’ word itself is a joke.
Have you huddled with homeless in dead, bitter cold?
I’ve done so a few times. It doesn’t get old.
I’m a voice of humanity here to evoke
[Not through doctoral thesis] the Fine Art in you.

Dementia’s Dues

TheMagicRealist.com

No need for my mind. I left that back on earth
Where all other minds mingle just as they may.
I don’t need a space suit when I’m flying high.
I’m alone in my own world where planet’s whiz by
And the alien creatures I hang with all day
Have considered me family ever since birth.

What on earth was I thinking? It matters not now
Because if I remembered, I’d be there again.
Besides, I’ve a new way of getting around
Feeling just enough gravity to not get me down.
I’ve a lady who’s made of moon dust for a friend.
We’ll be Adam and Eve, and we’ll raise us a cow.

Whatever’s afoot back on earth is no news
Because one doesn’t use social media here.
My mind may seem open and playing the part
But do know that I’m elsewhere, perhaps with my heart.
That being down there will someday disappear.
I am paid up to date on dementia’s dues.

An Odd-Looking Vase

TheMagicRealist.com

What an odd-looking vase. There’s no symmetry here.
Most aesthetically speaking, it crosses the eyes.
And the teas that are dotted before they are brewed
Makes a lopsided keepsake, in that, it is skewed.
The container’s a mangle to anyone wise.
What manner of artist does instigate fear?

It could although be not a vase that I see
But anti-vase faces, encircled, abreast,
Indicating a couple preparing to kiss.
If one sees it that way, is there something amiss?
This doesn’t make for a standard eye test
Because one or the other is all it could be.

A vase is two faced. That’s the thought for today.
The spacing in facing is intimate share
Among lovers and haters and those in-between.
We can be rather tender, and we can be mean.
A vase that holds flowers is vivid affair
That the space between facing shall be there to stay.

Signs of Life

TheMagicRealist.com
When one talks about signs, there are myriad kinds.
We’re accustomed to trust them to say the right thing.
But when cruising while high, should the cops be alarmed?
If you get them to smoke some, will they be disarmed?
No, the cops are not privy; to justice they cling.
They will quote you the riot act. Don’t cross their minds!

I don’t drive around high, but high drives around me.
It’s a challenge I meet on the road every day.
When I get behind someone who’s driving as if
Someone said, “Sir, prepare to drive over that cliff,”
My question is, why is this jerk in my way?
Is he seeing, perhaps, something I cannot see?

Keep an eye on what’s happening ‘round you all times
Is some simple advice for those high on the road.
But it’s also for others who must get around.
With you fools on the highway, I’m helpless and bound.
Get your asses in shape. Kindly lighten my load.
In the past I have shot folks for much lesser crimes.

 

 

At the Behest of Ben Benigniac

TheMagicRealist.com

Now, Ben is a man who has lived through some strife
So his war scars are rigid, as stout as his stand.
Although he is usually friendly and nice,
Warm and agreeable, not thinking twice
About lending a hand to his lost fellow man,
These wars that are raging mess with the man’s life.

He listens to people and has a few friends,
And his neighbors appreciate good-natured ones.
That’s why they’re together in common affair.
As birds of a feather, they flock and compare
All the news about killings of daughters and sons.
Has he come to expect this until the world ends?

Well, he looks to his soul. There is comfort within.
In the long run, such matters work out on their own.
When his mask is a scowl, people see the way through
To his true heart that rarely does take on a view
That would pull down his temperament form where it’s flown.
No need to preach peace, Ben, as war’s not a sin.

In Pursuit of the Functional

TheMagicRealist.com

I’m sorry, young fellow, this waveform won’t do.
There’s just something about it that seems rather odd.
It appears at the center, not noticed at first.
But when I look closely, my mind is coerced
Into thinking this signal’s not something to laud.
That X axis is sassy; what’s happened to you?

Other students of life know to follow the rule.
The X is for time, but the why cannot be
Of more than one value per moment’s avail
Although value is moot on a much larger scale.
Affairs of the heart are like waves in the sea,
And the ocean of axes can be a rough school.

The heart is quite centered upon the time line.
At least, that’s, in theory, where it doesn’t count.
In reality, though, there’s no heart symmetry.
It’s a tad to the left of the center of me.
My belief in its functioning is paramount
In this structural world we have come to design.

Fart Mother Smuckers

TheMagicRealist.com

I’m amazed as I’m lying here resting my bones
Just chilling and munching and checking things out.
I’d be nuts if I said there ain’t much on TV.
There’s all kinds of crap that might interest me.
If it weren’t for my living and breathing no doubt
I’d be grooving to tunes with my spirit headphones.

There’s a truth to my living. I’m doing without
The hustle and bustle of everyday things.
There’s a way to my knowing. This too is true.
If I knew how to think, I’d be dangerous to you.
I just keep to my world and accept what life brings.
From point A to B, that’s the easiest route.

So, life is great. I am comfortable knowing
I don’t have to know much. That suits me just fine.
There are plenty of fart mother smuckers, you see,
And they all have ambition to help you and me
To relax in wellbeing made to their design.
Don’t ask me to move; there ain’t no place I’m going.

Freewheeling Feeling

TheMagicRealist.com

When I’m feeling good, I am letting good in.
As the pond fondles water, it caters to flow.
There’s no thought worth thinking that’s not here and now.
If I don’t feel like living, I’m good anyhow.
My world is my pleasure; that’s all I should know.
To consider much other, where would I begin?

The way that I feel is the way that I know
My vibration is syncing in tune with my source.
If I’m feeling quite well, then I know I’m aligned.
But If not, I’ll adjust. That’s the way I’m designed.
There is much more to thinking and feeling, of course.
If I complicate matters, I’ll then cease to grow.

There is nothing more sacred than my feeling great.
It’s my reason for being. I care not to learn
How to leap into waters that cause me despair.
I prefer staying focused and floating on air.
There is simply no simpler way to discern
What I want and do not want. I’m in a good state.

You Can’t Trash a Trician

TheMagicRealist.com

Get a load of that Trician, folks, gosh what a sight!
He’s the marvelous hero who works door to door
With gadgets and cables and tools of all kinds.
The stuff that he knows might just boggle our minds.
When he gets here he’ll lay all his stuff on the floor
And begin working wonders to lead us from plight.

He’s got meters, repeaters and gizmos galore
As he stakes out the problem and lays it to rest.
If he will take a break you might offer him lunch.
When you do get him talking he may get the hunch
That your faith in his skill has been put through the test.
He is hard wired eloquence live at your door.

Do trust in your Trician and give him a hug
That is if he’ll have it and if the job’s done.
Or you might just give him some pizza instead.
If you grill him a steak it won’t go to his head.
When your Trician is working he’s having much fun.
When his good work is finished we all can feel smug.

Fuel Your Desire

TheMagicRealist.com

The self must feel good; God commanded it so!
To do harm to others would not cross one’s mind
Were such a person well off and ‘at one
Like the typical lighthearted sun of a gun.
‘Ain’t a thing of more import for all living kind
Than ensuring a good feeling’s ready to flow.

Though twenty-four seven’s my usual shift
I have time to step casual and have it all ways.
My momma told me, “Girl, do what you want.
You must go forth in life as your own debutante.
Don’t do what you don’t want to gain others’ praise
Your own inner guidance is your natural gift
.”

I endeavor to stay in that ‘feeling good’ place.
It isn’t too difficult if I know how.
It’s a matter of reaching for thoughts that feel good
And of working to stay there despite humanhood.
It sure helps to stay focused right here in the ‘now.’
Life is wide open country and stepping with grace.

Things Always Work Themselves Out

TheMagicRealist.com

When I sense a problem, desire is born
From a place strong and centered. I’d call it my soul.
I am told it is answered as soon as it’s felt
From that same place within where all contrast is dealt.
When a circumstance threatens to hinder my goal
I should take a break also. To self I am sworn.

Once I shift my attention from what I don’t want
I allow the solution to work itself through.
It’s like Jesus said, if you ask with true heart
What you want will be given. I’m surely a part
Of a system designed to assist me and you
To find what we’re seeking in cordial détente.

Give birth to the question and then let it go.
It’s the turning away that’s the ace in one’s hand.
Give the universe pleasure in working things out.
There’s no use in fussing; it carries no clout.
As I follow this tip will my life become grand?
I’m a sucker for trying. I’ll then let you know.

Horace the Humping Horror

TheMagicRealist.com

Do listen up, girls, there’s news I must tell.
It’s disgusting and quite disappointing to me.
That Horace guy whom the boss hired last week
Asked me out on a date with his caveman technique.
I agreed to sleep over just so I could see
If this fellow could work his machine very well.

It was tragic, dear ladies, don’t sleep with this man.
You will bounce like a basketball being not bound
To hitting the floor every once in a while.
The man is a menace; I guess that’s his style.
I was looking for love, but a humpbeast I found.
So avoid this asshole the best way you can.

I hadn’t faked orgasms much until now.
No need to do so had ever occurred.
But this jack hammer Horace, although he’s endowed,
Must lose the damned hard hat, for crying out loud!
We are not made of concrete, but he hasn’t heard.
Don’t ask him to slow down; he wouldn’t know how.

Take a Break from the Race

TheMagicRealist.com

What the heck is my hurry? I’m not the vane hare
Whose over self-confidence caused him to lose.
Nor am I the wise tortoise so steadfast and true.
I’m just an old human with not much to do.
I came for the joy – not singing the blues
And the folks at the finish line don’t really care.

There’s a rumor the line at the ‘end’ isn’t there…
That the end we are reaching will never arrive.
I believe that is so. Every action I take
Is for one purpose only – for ecstasy’s sake.
That is why things exists; I thank God I’m alive.
Since I’ve never been dead, what is there to compare?

‘Lighten up and laugh more,’ is some simple advice
That I usually get from my circle of friends.
They see that I’m often caught up in a race.
If I don’t reach the ‘finish,’ I’ve egg on my face.
All is well with my running. My winning depends
Not on effort and sweat, but on thoughts that are nice.

Decisions’ Revisions

TheMagicRealist.com

We make many decisions; we then make them right,”
Is the mantra that my inner being holds true.
The guidance I get from my source deep within
Keeps me balanced so that every game is a win.
I already came knowing this out of the blue.
Every being who lives has this keen inner sight.

The choices I make throughout life, day by day,
Are most often ones that I craft on my own.
But without inner guidance to keep my life straight
I am easily led into traps that negate
My own reason to be. Into chaos I’m thrown
If I don’t follow guidance. That’s not the best way.

My work in this perfectly balanced mobile
Is to weigh the existing beliefs within me
Against new stimulation of beckoning thought
To reveal what I now want and why it is sought.
When I master this method I set myself free
Of misguided behavior that’s cramping my style.

Vacation’s Foundation

TheMagicRealist.com

We didn’t come forth to get anything done.
Life is not a long list of events that take place.
It is rather a reason for flowing our love
As we take our vacation from heaven above.
We’re accustomed to contrast as leather to lace.
Praise that little know secret: We’re here to have fun.

The biggest event is not when we get there.
There is only the journey; the ‘there’ ne’er is here.
And if we remember we’re here for the ride
We’ll traverse the game board with free will at our side.
As we travel enough our life path becomes clear.
We then meet every challenge with wisdom to share.

Just as life is a journey, we will return home
Just the same as with any vacation we take.
The notion of holiday’s not to complete
Every purpose we’re planning like pigeons in heat.
We engage life vacation much for its own sake.
We’ve no hope of vacating this living syndrome.

One and a Halfth Coming

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t trip off a cloud, folks, this ain’t the time yet.
I’m just here to clear things and sort some stuff out.
Lord knows any parent can count up to two
But I don’t have children; I’ve sheep to tend to
And they’re much more conducive to living devout
In their fullness of being, not knowing regret.

But humanity has a weird way with this thing –
This living on earth in alignment with all.
You seem to take truth and then twist it somehow.
If I did have a grave, I’d be twerking by now
To the tune of a star-spangled bugler’s call.
You make of my words not a loving wellspring.

‘Just a simple reminder: I will come again
And it won’t be to clean up and straighten things out.
I’m still good at carpentry, but that won’t do.
I’d be better off keeping a sharp eye on you.
‘Cause you’re making stuff up as you spew it about.
The shit’s got to stop; I will not count to ten!

My Kingdom Within Cannot Be Within You

TheMagicRealist.com

My pleasure depends not upon pleasing you.
I learned this while crying my heart out one day.
I had thought it’s because I’d mistaken your hope
In my loving you as some kind of restraining rope.
Now, we’re both misaligned. Did we plan it this way?
It’s amazing what folks with agreements go through.

We each need our counsel, yet we shouldn’t seek
To guide one another. That doesn’t make sense
As no guidance coming from others is true.
They all have their motives that service not you.
Rightful reason evolves, then, to render defense
To the ego who fears that its soul has gone weak.

Direction that’s constant comes yet from within
Where the still silent voice does modulate flow
Of the energy resonant deep in the gut.
When we don’t take direction, we wobble somewhat.
Our friends may just lead us where we shouldn’t go.
So rely not on others… not even your kin.

ApocaLips

TheMagicRealist.com

Often speaking through doom colored lips is a breeze.
The still air of boredom and restlessness plots

And conjures all manner of sick tale to tell.
Deplorables paint a nice picture of hell
But then so do I while connecting my dots.
Whatsoever one chooses is then what one sees.

If you don’t have a good thing to say, then don’t speak!”
Is the scolding I’d get as a talkative child.
When in error I’d take what goes on in the world
As a sure sign that meaning itself has unfurled.
Like bats flying rabid, ideas run wild
From prophetic scriblings in language oblique.

‘Hope my gisting is clear; I’ve no message to bring
As I reign in my placated prison of thought.
If there’s war against evil, bring scripture to bear.
Then if that doesn’t work, perhaps joining in prayer
Will bring all to whatever treasure is sought.
Absolute peace on earth – Would that make our hearts sing?

Forlorning Begets the Spectra

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t worry; be happy” is simple advice
For a flesh and blood man who knows how to survive
Yet also for snowmen with carrots gone chill
With no hope withstanding, not even a pill.
It’s no wonder that snowmen and real men alive
Will procure veggie consciousness at any price.

When the mind freezes over and playtime sets in
Is the hell that was present now sculpture in ice?
Give one time to attend to one’s final affairs
Before one ascends to that snow land upstairs.
A stiff brew on the rocks there would really be nice.
The rocks here are cold ones that bruise a tough skin.

Go forth and tell no one that I have healed you,”
Jesus said to those folks who’d been broken or bent.
He knew if they went and told others, no doubt
They’d be robbed of their healing, then being without
The means to return to a state of content,
They’d revert soon to sickness as if it were new.