Behind the 8-Ball Echo the Drawl

Pay attention when I'm talkin' to ya, boy. This bat - I say, this bat don't come from a cave.

Whatcha doin’ there, boy? Turn around; let me see.
I need to make sure you’re not up to no good.
Do it nice and slow like you do everything.
Any quick move – I just might take a swing.
I’m the bird on patrol in your neighborhood.
Don’t forget who’s watchin’ ya, boy. It’s me!

My job is to keep your kind under control.
Though don’t quote me on that. When I stutter you can.
But if I were you, I’d just keep my mouth shut.
Your complainin’s what’s keepin’ your race in a rut.
Don’t talk back to me, boy. Don’t you understand?
It’s my big mouth and ego who’s on patrol.

There’s no way I’m puttin’ my life on the line.
If you so much as flinch wrong, you’re goin’ to jail.
My patrol car is runnin,’ and my lights I’ll keep blinkin,’
All the better to get your black asses to thinkin’
If you whoop ass with me, my wrath will prevail,
And if you end up dyin,’ with that, I’m just fine.

There’s no problem with race in my neck of the woods.
I keep a tight watch on black life that I see.
After all, black lives matter. Ain’t that what y’all say?
To me, that means screwing you day after day.
If I go to jail, in no time I’ll be free
To resume my pursuing young black men with hoods.

Same Space Marriage

The holy piss holy water when scared shitless.

Holy gross-out, mcdude, I can’t keep my mouth shut.
What a hell of a sight, here, before my eyes!
Has the whole world gone crazy, or is it just me?
Has nature swapped roles for the bird and the bee?
No way, Jose, I will not improvise.
Dude, you cannot marry your frigging mutt!

Don’t matter if it’s pointer or setter.
Don’t matter what the Supreme Court has decreed.
Your love screws with my mind, as well it should.
I will not have your kind in my neighborhood.
I don’t care if you get on your knees and plead.
For you, there’s no living, for worse nor for better.

You want me to cosign your doggie style?
Well, listen up, junior, let me give you a clue.
No dog can give a man fantastic head.
Go find some nice deep throated woman instead.
You’d lick a lab’s loin? Don’t tell me it’s true.
Don’t care if she nibbles your ear all the while.

Take leave of my church. Kindly be on your way.
I’ve married all kinds in my numbered years
Among races and faiths and the various genders…
Pimps and prostitutes, pearls and pretenders
But the gall of you two surely accents my fears.
Please scoop up that poop, and have a nice day.

Love Is An Infectious Ease

Love Is An Infectious Ease

Love is a full blown Infectious Ease
Who inhabits all creatures human or not.
Its primal urgency rivals World News
Of which there ain’t much. It’s mostly a ruse
To get people worried and feeling distraught.
We’re busy right now! Go piss in the breeze.”

Love infiltrates our human race
Despite all malignant hate and fear
Salvaged from crannies afar and nearby
Then baked into sumptuous Network News Pie
That makes of the stomach a cesspool austere
Which then circulates venom all over the place

Love laughs in your face and says, “Lick me, please!”
It don’t ask no opinion on national debt.
It’ll slap you upside your busy head.
It’ll make you damn glad your ass ain’t dead!
Love has no conception of ISIS threat.
If people was fuckin’, they’d see as Love sees.

One can trip on Love, if that’s what’s in store.
The consequence, though, is that Love conquers all.
There can be no exclusion where Love is concerned…
There’s no badge of courage nor medal to be earned.
Love, among things, is a dick standing tall
And a good loving woman who wants nothing more.

Lives Matter.

The Magic Realist

We The People of this treasured land
Are a union most perfect in so many ways…
Domestically Tranquil With Justice For All
Was the initial intent which then became law.
Our Pot, as it melts, though, sets some necks ablaze
To the point where they speak with a gun in their hand

 

So, this Matter of Lives comes up once and again.
After feeling such sorrow, does it hurt more to know
That Lives have no color except that of you?
We know whose don’t matter. The point is, what’s new?
In morbid nostalgia, do we echo our woe,
Thus empowering haters to gain a new friend?

 

Human Nature’s a Bitch! Don’t you know that it’s true?
Our forefathers knew this, hence, their slickness well-penned:
To evolve a system of blue and of red
Wherein gene-rooted schisms that result in bloodshed
Yield Correctness Political and the right to pretend
That we’re the one nation who has but a clue.

Thanks for the Updates, Dr. Bill.

You're a Borg of a Pill, Mr. Bill!

What is the deal here, Dr. Bill?
I’m sitting here doing my usual thing
Then all of a sudden your commandment appears.
With work not completed, I’m up to my ears.
Now, you tell me I’m finished, as if you’re some king?
Up your Thrill, Dr. Bill! Why be such a Pill?

My work has value, and yours did as well.
You’ve done some great things most keen and world class.
But you fall short of proving you’re human, to me,
Except for this fetish for updates I see.
Their randomness of occurrence is a kick in the ass.
If you updated the devil, he’d evacuate hell!

And just what are all these updates for?
This brand new computer still runs like a snail
Well after it shits, showers and shaves.
Is your intent to make us all digital slaves?
Your interrupts, sir, are beyond the pale.
If they did any good, would you then give us more?

Well, Dr. Bill, here’s an update for you.
Throughout your infusion of binary grace

I’ve been writing about how this all makes me feel.
I’ve learned to separate virtual from real.
Within every nuisance, there is truth to embrace.
Thanks, Dr. Bill. Now I bid you adieu.

Mr. Trump, The ‘In Your Face’ Speed Bump

No Time For Political Correctness

No time for warm fuzzies; no time to kiss ass
This country’s in trouble, oh but alas
You’re sharp shooting me for the revealing, crass things that I say?

My record is proven. I do get things done
And while I’m doing them, I have lots of fun
I’ll grab hold of this nation and get it to run
Just like a reality show. It’s much better that way

 

Yeah, that Megyn’s a witch, but then why should I care
Even though she cleverly managed to curl my fake hair
With a zinger that seemed to come from right out of left field

My position on women is: I’m always on top
I prefer they be sexy AND to know how to mop
And, if they’re superb, I just may send them to shop
In short, I like them quiet, trained and well-kneeled

 

And, as for you Mexicans. You can all take a hike
Right back over the border by foot or by bike
Except for those few who can do as well as I do

I have a great relationship with all of you blacks
And I’ll say just the same thing behind all your backs
Though whenever I’m around you, I can’t seem to relax
If you get me elected, I’ll proclaim Spade Haven for you

 

I Focus…

Focal Vision

…in ways most others care not
I am labeled ‘autistic,’ but what’s in a stamp?
Seems we’re all but chess pieces played on a board
The name of each piece reflects how worth is scored
Yet each has the guidance to come out a champ
By allowing “The Player” to call each shot.

I focus because it’s the way that I am
I can’t see the board; I’m consumed in each square
The number of possible games to be played
Exceeds that of electrons all ever made
There’s no doubt to my purpose; I am sent here to share
Yet another strategy unique to each jam.

But maybe I’m here to just be a fool
I don’t really play chess; the fact is I suck
If given a choice between chess and some hay
I’d be chewing my cud for the rest of the day
This analogy flattens as if by a truck
Lest I make of it an exquisite tool

Since autism grants me a narrower view
I look at the Game from the inside out
I am privileged to honor each perfect square
And to thank it for letting me spend some time there
There’s no reason to worry. I have no cause to doubt
That the next move is certain, fresh and new.

‘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 some thing that someone would regret,
It’s best to just flush, and thus save our bent 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