Archive | November 2018

Esoteric Asshology

TheMagicRealist.com

Why are some people assholes while others are fine?
One would have to look into the sky for some truth.
If the sign of the asshole had welcomed the sun
At the time that the life of the jerk had begun,
That’s a sure sign you’ll need a stiff shot of vermouth
If indeed you must deal with him by fate’s design.

A quick course in asshology may be of use
Since this sign is prolific among all there are.
Those born under the asshole outnumber the rest
Of all other signs totaled. This means we’re not blessed.
So assholes are more plentiful clearly by far.
They cannot be contained. That is why they run loose.

Esoteric in nature, what assholes know well
Is how to make life difficult for those they serve.
Their asshology should make them bright asshole stars.
Pseudoscience can benefit from their memoirs
Written in the third person to throw all a curve.
It does feel like the cosmos is under a spell.

Closet For Rent

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ve a closet for rent. This place is heaven sent
In a house in another house within a third.
It has plenty of space even though it looks small.
If you have many children, you can fit them all
In the hamper included, although not inferred.
You can’t thrive in the street or a government tent.

You can make of this closet a new way of life.
We who live here already you’ll have to excuse.
We are mean and perverse. We may make you our slaves.
Like the immature cowboy who oft’ misbehaves,
Family members who bicker excel at abuse
And at making sure renters do not forget strife.

Pick those dirty clothes up, even though they’re not yours.
Keep the room that encloses you tidy and neat.
That you might get your own room is such a sick thought.
Should you come to own my house I would be distraught.
Your improving your lives means our utter defeat.
That is why we’re all human and quite big on wars.

How Cool Is The Coulomb?

TheMagicRealist.com

It is I who is E who is M times C squared.
I don’t have to believe it. I feel that it’s so.
When a group of electrons reach a certain size
They are then called a Coulomb. Now that’s a fine prize!
It’s not like he’s their daddy who lived long ago.
Electrons have had freedom before humans cared.

But why quibble with detail? The question is this:
Can electrons do harm to the things they flow through
Or the pathways they travel at nearly light speed?
Only if they are frightened by force of ill deed.
Back and forth through the circuitry, each time is new
With a frequency so high they can’t reminisce.

History does repeat itself. Electrons flow
To and fro in the same ways they’ve done all along.
The Coulomb is preferred over one who’s not cool.
If one runs out of charge, one may drift like a fool.
There is great strength in numbers. The Coulomb is strong.
It can keep us in darkness or make the bulb glow.

On Not Eating The Foo

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t be eating the foo! That stuff is bad for you.
If you want to stay healthy, just stick with the rice.
The foo may contain pork snout and ass of the gnat.
I don’t mess with the foo. You can understand that.
Either veggies or raw fish or fruit will suffice.
Staying clear of the foo is the right thing to do.

There are many a creature who do act the foo.
Other creatures consume them and all that they say.
If their acts become fishy, full blown is the need
To protect what was gained through deception and greed.
We may look for a hero to come save our way
Of believing and digesting all we can chew.

What is far worse is eating the foo, I believe.
If you’re not good with chopsticks, you will not do well.
We are clumsy already with just forks and knives.
That may well be a good thing – a check on our lives.
To avoid indigestion and feeling like hell,
Feed that foo to the big bowl, then joyfully grieve.

A Cold Day In Hell

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a cold, bitter day in this hell of a land,
Reminiscent of Hitchcock and horror by noon.
It’s a day to keep cover and stay tucked inside.
Has the weather transformed due to withering pride?
As the Shift becomes Planck Time, it seems there’s no ‘soon.’
How this cold came upon me I should understand.

Constitutional crisis? Another blood bath?
It’s a day unremarkable given the state
Of the battle-worn psyche. I know how to feel.
To digest the reality of a raw deal
Is to be fed by duty to rectify fate.
What came first is the demon – not the psychopath.

I can swear it’s a bad day for no one but me.
I could say it’s a good day. It’s all just the same
As if all days were stardust of minuscule mass.
‘Such a headache to ponder what may come to pass.
I have faith in my country and shiver in shame.
I am chilled to the decrement of each degree.

The Human Condition

TheMagicRealist.com

There is plenty of time now to take a zoom out
And a break from the human condition I’m in.
There is freedom to go out and breathe some fresh air.
Even though there is plenty, some don’t seem to care.
Man will act out in ways of Original Sin.
There is no will to reason and no time to doubt.

It’s The Human Condition, the one that feels fear
From the slightest involvement in life every day,
That again disappoints me, although that can’t be.
I create what I feel, as I judge what I see.
All that goes on around me is ego at play.
If I looked at it that way, would life become dear?

I know well my condition, at home on a speck
Within vastness unspeakable to the hard brain.
All of human accomplishment has to make sense.
True enlightenment maybe will someday commence.
Is there fear that the notion is taken in vain?
Some fresh air and some solitude keeps me in check.

The Privilege Of Sport

TheMagicRealist.com

‘Tis the night before midterms. Across all the land
People watch the contestants as they duke it out.
They deliver hard blows to each other’s intent.
We determine lethality with each event.
Many polls are available to foster doubt
And provide information most can’t understand.

There is talk of a blue wave amid the fanfare.
I have had my heart broken in this way before.
But I can’t live my life with no semblance of hope
That the world can be righted. I have but to cope
With the game as it plays out. I help my team score
With my ballot, along with some serious prayer.

This one’s not like the other ones. I said that too,
Twenty-four horrid months ago. It seems like years
That I’ve felt like a loser on a losing team,
Somewhat laughed at and messed with quite to the extreme.
There cannot be a reason to nurture my fears.
And our spectator sporting is not for the few.

It’s The Enemy, Stupid!

TheMagicRealist.com

It is not the economy or climate change,
Nor the busloads of niggers invading our land.
It is not about faith in the red, white and blue
Spouted off by a leader who has not a clue.
We create most our enemies by our own hand.
We may look in the mirror and not feel so strange.

Who comes here from some faraway land to kill folk?
There may be one or two, if statistics are fair.
It would seem we’re the problem – not people outside.
If we looked at this truthfully, we’d shed some pride.
We’ve become awfully tribal. Most people don’t care.
We are prey to our own as our hatred we stoke.

Take a look at the enemy not of brown skin
…The poor ones wanting freedom from their oppressed lands.
They don’t come here to kill us. We do have our own.
They are ruthlessly masterful, and they’re home grown.
If you speak with an accent no one understands,
Know that you’re not the enemy we keep within.

Ditsy Dog Dogma

TheMagicRealist.com

If you do own a Ditsy Dog or one owns you,
You have much to give, one to the other, by way
Of much love and attention to every detail
Of each moment where truth and excitement prevail.
Therapeutic is that which can get us to play.
That’s the Ditsy Dog Dogma. It can be mine too.

I would not call him frisky. At that he would balk.
Energy is a substance he draws from the air.
He will prance like a dancing bear when giving thanks
Or whenever I praise his most marvelous pranks.
I do find him quite silly, but he doesn’t care.
He reminds me of that when we go for a walk.

Ditsy Dogs are delightful. Their hearts are of gold.
They are prime entertainment and good exercise.
Any mood that is sour, they will make it right
Through deliberate daftness and attitude bright.
And in step with their dogma, they are our allies
From the time we are children until we are old.

Congregation

TheMagicRealist.com

Will they meet for the last time or many times more
Than the law will allow self-destruction to rule,
Not unnoticed but ignored and pushed to the side
Among their congregation oddfellowed with pride?
To partake of communion, one must play the fool
For a leader who all think that they would die for.

They prepare for their teacher. His lies they ignore.
It’s the gist of his message alone with its punch
That excites them effectively. Cult leaders can,
By the way of deception, rewrite one’s game plan.
The great leader now chosen may be out to lunch.
But his followers will only have him do more.

Why do some drink the poison while others do not?
It’s a confounding mystery if it makes sense
On some level notwithstanding sheer disbelief
That the congregants gathered will ever feel grief
For their misguided loyalty to blatant offense.
Desperate acts of the cult leader thicken the plot.

Net Worth

TheMagicRealist.com

Contemplating my net worth, I come to a blank,
Since I bought it from Walmart, not Amazon Prime.
It is made of tough nylon and hard naugawood.
It did cost me a fortune. That means that it’s good.
You would think I was cheap if I paid but a dime.
So my net worth is high. I’ll take that to the bank.

Tell me, what is your net worth? Do you own your home?
Do you discard soiled underwear after one use?
Don’t be shocked by these questions. They’re not asked by me
But by nations with tariffs on nets shipped by sea.
Work translates to production. From that I deduce
That no work means less drama and freedom to roam.

Cast your nets freely seaward and into the sky.
Take in all that makes worthiness something to own.
I am worth who I’m worth to whom all that I meet
Except banks and insurance folk with hearts petite.
The value of the volley is vividly shown
By how well we remember that someday we’ll die.

The Mischievous Child

TheMagicRealist.com

Children want to be happy. Sometimes that looks like
One of many a headache throughout the long day.
We all cater to mischief as it brings delight
In a manner that makes everything seem alright.
We were all once like Krishna, contented in play
And calamitous capers conceived for the strike.

Just as girls will be girls, we know boys will be boys.
And all children are sinless in God’s loving eyes.
It’s big boys and big girls whose mischief can cause harm.
As adults we make lethal our innocent charm.
Tuning in to the inner child may make one wise
To the magic of merriment and simple joys.

Does my mischief have meaning or slap a mean stick?
On most days, that’s a no-brainer, but not today.
I’ll admit I have writer’s block, but it’s all good.
Since I’ve gotten this far without knocking on wood,
I would say, for today, I’ve had plenty of play.
It is in my best interest to end this one quick.