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.

Hid-Thish Me Not

The Magic Realist

Since last half past Fall
And deep within
I ponder what there may be to know
To stop sneezes bandied to and fro.
Is it a sin
To detest them all?

 Hermetically hithered in psychic mist
The itching olfactory ceiling is felt,
Then orgasmic release of one’s germ revenue.
The sound that is uttered is a phlegm filled A’choo!”
Whence just moments prior, within sickness dwelt.
At least cover your mouth, I must insist!

 A’choo!” then, is standard
Among most
Though benign variations span worldwide
By syllabic profusion, they all coincide –
All a toast
To sickness meandered

 When I went to the doctor, I got my shot.
While waiting I met with a sniffling soul
When I said “Hello,” he said “Hid-thish… How are you?”
‘Twas obvious this fellow’d come down with the flu.
I’m back home by now, and I’m feeling quite whole
So hold on to your germs, and ‘hid-thish me not!

Getting Cash And Other Unnatural Acts

Getting Cash And Other Unnatural Acts

Around yonder corner near gnarly nook
Need engorges the gratuitous groin.
Behold the oracle adorned in gray –
Her face of blue and well-lighted display.
With emerald light slot and big-buttoned loin,
Foreplay begins as I’m read like a book.

In district red-lighted near dust of the sole
My member emerges from leather sheath
Its underside pin-striped ensuring the flow
Of magnetic seed so my lover will know
Just who I am and what lies underneath
The motive to plunge up my own rabbit hole

With manhood in hand and mind in a maze
Plastic penetrates mysterious hue.
Brief dialog ensues… then, let’s get it on.
We won’t be together ‘til the crack of dawn
So just for this moment we rendezvous.
How does one encounter this oddest of lays?

 

Beryllium Butterfly Balance

Beryllium Butterfly Balance

Begetting baubles’ bangling brass beads
Blankets bare bitterness beyond better belief.
Believing in boredom belittles the brain.
Browbeating the blues but beleaguers the bane.
Bad beef bruises bellies, but believing bodes brief.
Bantering boasts bewildering breeds.

 Big butterfly balance between banging butts
Beneath beaming blue bass before bedtime
Begs to bedazzle, beguile, then beseech
Bastards bound blissfully blind by the beach
Before buzzards befall bitter birdlime.
Besides breaking bread, Boasting Broad-beak be-struts.

Honoring Hothar Diggity

Hothar Diggity Dam

There once was a loser named Diggity
Whose ‘woo’ came off just a tad wiggity
So, when he made a pass
Girls would say, “Kiss my ass!”
He thought them to be rather biggity.

Hothar is by now in spirit
With a love song for those who will hear it,
And, lucky for him,
Those would be Seraphim.
Their grace, his heart doth endear it.

With no motive to sling pipe a lot
Hothar’s someone whom ‘love life’ forgot,
So would you give a dam
For where Diggity swam?
And, do truncate his first name to ‘Hot!’

Radar Room

Radar Room

A space to grow is a rose in bloom.
A place where my heart is true to roam
The mysteries of wires and all they connect
Is a chamber I’ve chosen with utmost respect.
A workshop and play land is my home.
Of late I do favor Radar Room.

Radar Room is a state of mind,
A way of life and sacred ground
For a techie detective exploring Ohm’s Law.
I’m at home with my soul in the midst of it all.
Tinkering tools and passion abound
With gadgetry of every kind.

Fried salmon and onions… sea salt and solder…
The air is a crispness embracing the dew.
The antenna rotates and radiates well.
The local oscillator rings like a bell.
When something needs fixing, I make it anew.
Were it not so, there would be nothing odder.

 Frequency surely is the key
To aligning the transceiver known as self.
What others see on their displays
Should alter not my chosen ways.
I place all loneliness on an empty shelf
Then tune myself to higher ‘me.’

Switch

Many a dissonant mind you may boggle

Oh, wondrous Pole!
Hail, glorious Throw!
Science and leisure applaud your facility,
Honor your cause, and respect your ability
To make a thing go
Or withhold its soul.

 Rotary, Push Button, Solid State, Toggle
Variety’s but virtue, and you are the core
Of life’s inner dealings and outer expression
While greeting electrons in rapid succession.
Evolving more complex than ever before,
Many a dissonant mind’s  yours to boggle.

 Hail, Changing State!
The nub of your being
Is bi-stable bliss for device uncontrolled.
You’re a tidy technique for a thing to behold.
As believing breeds seeing,
You make life great!

Electric i

There once was an i on a table...

There once was an i on a table
And attached was an interesting label:
“If you plug in my cord
You won’t win an award,
But, i’ll dot myself knowing i’m able.
 
“On the other hand, if i am cain,
What’s been stated is offered in vain.”
Being silly like this
Turns my bitter to bliss,
Or else I would end up insane!