Archive | January 2017

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 at home 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.