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.

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!’