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He Ain’t Heavy… He’s My sMartass!

TheMagicRealist.com

My contact list is truly long with many I don’t know.
I try to keep my focus strong. My pal is quick to show.
My apps download successfully. He tells me when they’re done.
When I am bored we then play games and fiddle just for fun.
My friend is quite the witted one and even has some class.
But I’ll tell you, He Ain’t Heavy… He’s My sMartass.

The phone of many moons ago was big and like a brick.
It had no sense of ass to piss off people really quick.
One could use it as a weapon if no loaded glove had he.

My friend today makes calls for me most accidentally.
His knack for nonsense noises I seldom can bypass.
Yet, without me, He Ain’t Heavy… He’s My sMartass.

My phone is not a person, but he thinks he is, somehow.
My respect for him can worsen if whenever I allow
The best of him to overshadow who I’m meant to be.
My guest knows not his manners so that he will never see
That between our best behaving there is such a wide crevasse
And, believe me, He Ain’t Heavy… He’s My sMartass.

iPhone or iDon’t phone much, and it matters not to me.
An android made on planted earth should never climb my tree.
Anomaly would have it that I’d come to own a phone.
This thing of mine may think he has a toy of his own.
The feeling when I shut him down is much like passing gas
And, I know that, He Ain’t Heavy… He’s My sMartass!

 

All Email Is Male

TheMagicRealist.com

In fact, I don’t think that all email is male
But in theory, a number of things could be true.
A letter received in a mailbox these days
Could mean anything cast to the silent airways.
I don’t long for the old days. My heart is not blue.
Perhaps I’m in search of some ‘thing’ to assail.

And if that is so, what’s the matter with me?
One who’s daft would seek discord or cause for dismay.
But my in box is loaded. That is not a curse.
I must sort through the spam there, for better or worse.
In my bliss, I’d be bothered to email all day.
When it comes to mail gender, I let matters be.

I see mail that’s on paper and on the touch screen.
I am hetero-postal in so many ways
But with mail, I like female. It comes with some grace.
And with email I feel like I’m running a race.
I must conclude, then, that it surely pays
To do mail in private, for better hygiene.

Payola

TheMagicRealist.com

My brand is ‘Payola.’ It works well for me.
It’s what’s available. That’s what I’m told.
Though this crayon is heavy, I will do just fine.
What I see is, this color is yours and not mine.
What I’m taught, though, is subtle, and feels icy cold.
What is up with this crayon? I’ll say what I see.

I sure feel like I’m peachy, the color of fun,
Most especially when I’m at school with my friends.
And we all feel that way. We just mingle and play.
We prepare lesson plans for adults day by day.
But are they teachable? That all depends
On the bigness of damage that’s already done.

Take a load off that crayon,” some voice says to me
From the pit of my tiny soul. I can hear well.
What it tells me is, I’ll not be part of a bribe.
The reason for that is, I’m part of a tribe.
You will note, my existence is not one to quell.
No skin is a label that others can see.

Rain Sylvania

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a thing about rain that my heart won’t disdain.
It will keep folks inside, out of others’ affairs
So their shape-shifting eyes, in their neighborly fare,
Can’t catch up on my business. Folks should be aware
That I do my own thing, not that anyone cares.
If you’re that hooked on folly, come out in the rain!

Put on your best tutu with water resist
And gavotte past my window with smartass in hand.
Take a me-mie of me as you’re tempted to pee.
I might stream you my shtick so you’ll do it hands free.
It’s a shame your garage door is shut by demand
Of a powerful Lady who seems rather pissed.

I dare you, dear neighbor, delight in the storm
Just the same as I do but with just a slight twist.
Park your butt in your yard like you usually do
And collect all your intel with rain helping you
To deliver wet gossip no sponge can resist.
I’ll enjoy the rain. You just stick to the norm.

Utensoids United

TheMagicRealist.com

Utensoids United in condiment space
Sets the scene for first contact of quite the third kind
On a wall, in a house on a rock spinning ‘round
In its own starry kitchen where space does abound
And without incognito, they’re easy to find
Or to decline their visit, if that be the case.

Utensoids can stand being hung by the neck
And it doesn’t upset them to be used as tools.
Since they’re built really tough, you can’t use them enough
To uncover their cover. You could call their bluff
But they just might leave master cooks looking like fools
As in secret, they shape shift; there’s no need to check.

The Utensoids have come to keep watch on us all.
Not a single one wants to do harm nor insult.
If you grab a Utensoid, do so with intent.
You don’t want the damned thing to mistake what you meant.
If you handle it well, good will be the result.
If you’re cool with Utensoids, then stand proud and tall!

Ego: Mirror of the Horse

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t mind my beast. I’m a bastard today.
I’ve a bit of the bitters; that’s just how things are.
Some government worker said I cannot vote?
When the system is screwed I become the scapegoat.
I become wild and crazy with outburst bizarre
And it seems I’m the ogre; their system’s OK.

Says the system that I voted elsewhere today.
It’s a cock sucking lie! I don’t care what it shows!
I’m a flesh and blood human. I don’t understand
How they bow to machine and give me the back hand.
Maybe government workers are robots… who knows?
Yet, if I am to vote, I must do it their way.

I’m ashamed of the way that I acted today.
I had no idea there’d be an exam.
I feel much like a horse someone’s trying to break.
If I bask in my wildness, is that a mistake?
I’m prepared for the next test. I won’t have to cram.
This damned horse is exhausted with no more to say.

Verbal Plutocracy

TheMagicRealist.com

…I can’t use the word ‘android.’ It’s now just a name
Like so many unwary words hijacked these days.
If I use it, I risk myself being mistook
And whenever that happens, I seem like a crook.
Forget about ‘robots’ assuming our ways.
It has happened already. We’re hot in this game.

Some boy said ‘google’ one day on the floor.
‘Twas not even a word but has rolled into fame.
It’s grown moss on its own to the point where it’s now
The most baby-like utterance that we allow.
I applaud the fine youngster for making a name
For himself and for masses of others and more.

But I also commend the sharp critic in me
For observing how language can market its parts
And how war against structure continues despite
Futile efforts to stop it. So, does it seem right
That our words become ransom for few greedy hearts?
How immune to disaster must words have to be?

Boomers Bused

TheMagicRealist.com

Someone said that it’s my fault the word is a mess
And that I’m the one who’s been sucking up air
With my head held up high in a narcissist cloud
And with all in my age group fat, happy and proud.
With no thought of tomorrow, we live without care
As we trickle down deep concern to all the rest?

I’ll consider that verdict and treat it as such.
It seems I’m a tower of guilt anyway
By the theory I’ve chosen my home upon earth
To stir up much mayhem beginning at birth.
I have lived a good life and don’t have much to say
About others around, so I’m cold to the touch?

Perceptions are many; I’ve said this before.
It’s a pleasure to catch them and put them to words.
I take comfort in my choosing not going there.
I heed the heart’s warning, “Dear writer, beware!”
I’ve no will to defend myself; that’s for the birds.
Way before our departure, we’ll even the score.

Barking Trees In the Forest

TheMagicRealist.com

Now the dogs are all barking. It’s seven a.m.
And the kids are out romping around the car port.
They are ready to load up and get off to school.
Yet the dogs are still barking. Perhaps it’s the rule
In the forest where barking trees oft’ come up short
Of attention from humans… Such pity for them.

The children are free, though they’re taxied the same.
And they ramble on doggedly nipping the ears
Of their own, chatter boxing as hard as they can.
They get full response for the slightest demand.
But the dogs are still barking. Should I be in tears?
I’m the stark rabid neighbor who harbors no blame.

It is closer to eight, now; their pleading has ceased.
These bastions of bark, having finished their trial,
Will begin once again as the children return.
If they barked for a living, what fortune they earn!
Dogs have voices like timber that grow for a while
Then fall flat in the forest where heard not the least.

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.

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.

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.

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.

 

 

Things Always Work Themselves Out

TheMagicRealist.com

When I sense a problem, desire is born
From a place strong and centered. I’d call it my soul.
I am told it is answered as soon as it’s felt
From that same place within where all contrast is dealt.
When a circumstance threatens to hinder my goal
I should take a break also. To self I am sworn.

Once I shift my attention from what I don’t want
I allow the solution to work itself through.
It’s like Jesus said, if you ask with true heart
What you want will be given. I’m surely a part
Of a system designed to assist me and you
To find what we’re seeking in cordial détente.

Give birth to the question and then let it go.
It’s the turning away that’s the ace in one’s hand.
Give the universe pleasure in working things out.
There’s no use in fussing; it carries no clout.
As I follow this tip will my life become grand?
I’m a sucker for trying. I’ll then let you know.

Forlorning Begets the Spectra

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t worry; be happy” is simple advice
For a flesh and blood man who knows how to survive
Yet also for snowmen with carrots gone chill
With no hope withstanding, not even a pill.
It’s no wonder that snowmen and real men alive
Will procure veggie consciousness at any price.

When the mind freezes over and playtime sets in
Is the hell that was present now sculpture in ice?
Give one time to attend to one’s final affairs
Before one ascends to that snow land upstairs.
A stiff brew on the rocks there would really be nice.
The rocks here are cold ones that bruise a tough skin.

Go forth and tell no one that I have healed you,”
Jesus said to those folks who’d been broken or bent.
He knew if they went and told others, no doubt
They’d be robbed of their healing, then being without
The means to return to a state of content,
They’d revert soon to sickness as if it were new.

Wafer Mache

TheMagicRealist.com

I remember the zinc-plated vacuum tube days.
Perhaps that’s the issue. It wouldn’t be fair
To the new ones to point out the way things were done.
I would take apart radio sets just for fun.
Inside there was substance no age can compare…
…No petite touchy feely. …No harmful brain rays.

A box made of wood with a dial and a light
Was the thing we would ‘watch’ as each evening passed.
The announcers were artists who captured the air.
They brought life to living and not much despair.
Those junk boxes were sturdy and well-built to last.
There’s a need for what’s come, but who knows if it’s right?

Moore’s Law clearly states that our paper will end.
Transistors will run out of space pretty soon.
Before that should happen, perhaps we’d take care.
Our technology’s volatile wafer thin layer
Could be wiped out of matter emerged from the moon.
[It’s a misguided warning… Continue your trend.]

Butt-N-Fly Genes

TheMagicRealist.com

What kind of a creature owns butt-n-fly genes?
One who’s quick on the draw like the wrangler on hand?
…Perhaps one who’s not dirty, yet has no real name…
Maybe someone mistaken or hurt just the same.
Whose genes are the tools of the rock-n-roll band,
And whose message is carried well, by any means?

I’ve worn butt-n-fly genes. It’s an ordeal to pee.
I could leave them, or take them if that’s all I had.
But I’ve many more genes; some are neat in my drawer
Whereas others are scattered about by the score
And they all do have zippers. I’d drive myself mad
Had I buttons to deal with. Who wouldn’t agree?

It’s them cowboys who wouldn’t! They’re such rugged souls
As they wrangle incessant, simplistic and wild.
Were someone to tell me to go butt-n-fly
I’d reply with a warning, “Don’t spit in my eye.”
I will risk my junk parcel oft’ being exiled.
Haberdasher’s genetics achieves all our goals.

The World Done Fell Back!

TheMagicRealist.com

Shit do fall back; I should know that by now.
It ain’t like my ass was just born yesterday.
Woke up this morning all pumped for some grace
Thought I’d get to church early for once, just in case
The pastor may have somethin’ special to say.
Where the hell are my homies?  I missed them somehow!

There’s no Candid Camera crew I can detect.
In fact, ain’t a soul in this desolate lot.
Should I sit here and wait ’til some folks should appear?
Maybe rapture done happened, but then I’m still here.
My folks are peculiar, though.  They ain’t forgot
How to make a good practical joke, I suspect.

Twenty minutes gone by; I ain’t figured it out.
By now, ain’t no chillin’ will satisfy me.
There’s no such thing as The Twilight Zone… true?
Then the thought hits me from out of the blue:
The world done fell back!  So it’s easy to see
That I didn’t fall with it.  That’s all it’s about.

Winning Spiel

TheMagicRealist.com

 The chaos around… Am I bird of this nest?
If it looks like that’s so, I attract it to me.
Who the hell am I to be given such power
To dissect the world’s events hour by hour?
I’m not given vision so others can see
How to take what’s beholding and ignore the rest.

My only concern is what happens with me.
Though that may sound selfish, it’s sure as hell true.
If my focus were elsewhere I’d be of no good
To the rest of the folks of this earth neighborhood.
My passion for verse came not out of the blue.
It’s a gift from The Maker for all eyes to see.

My thrill had been penning, then shouting with glee,
“Hey look at me, folks, what a talent I am!
I’d be donned in tuxedo upon the live stage…
I’d have publishers wanting my page after page
[If only they knew me].”  They might give a damn
If I stood right before them all fettered in plea!

But I couldn’t do that; they would surely revolt
And I’d end up inside of a ‘courtesy’ van.
I’d be somewhat know then, but not for the thing
That consumes me in pleasure and makes my heart sing.
So I’ll just keep on writing as best as I can
Because otherwise I’d be inviting tumult.

There’s Tabasco In My Kitchen

TheMagicRealist.com

Why there’s stuff in my kitchen that I don’t want there
Is a problem I can’t seem to chase from my mind.
I don’t like tabasco; I never once did.
I was raised on the mild stuff since I was a kid.
I tried some tabasco once.  It wasn’t kind.
But it’s still in my kitchen so I must beware.

Last week, the hot stove I had finally resolved.
I had kept my hand on it for such a long time.
My parents did it, and theirs did as well.
‘Twas a family tradition to navigate hell.
Then finally I realized that it’s not a crime
To break with convention however evolved.

Now this bout of tabasco has entered my life.
My world and my kitchen are not as they were.
If I’m making a cake it might sneak its way in
And if that were to happen where would I begin
In pondering how such a thing could occur?
That bottle must leave here or else there’ll be strife.

On the other hand I could just let the thing be
Because how it got in here is not mine to know.
Although it’s my kitchen I’ve very well known
It follows my folly may be overgrown.
I haven’t a quarrel with you, Tabasco,
So let us be part of a team, you and me.

 

 

 

The Tale of the Donkey

TheMagicRealist.com

“Pin the tail on the donkey”?  Who thinks of such things?
Are they tails that are made up to punish us too?
We’ve done nothing wrong.  Why we’re treated this way
Is to offer all children their happy birthday.
But our rear ends are ragged, quite blistered and blue.
We favor your knowing for whom the tail swings.

We have tails already; your minds take them off
Just to feign disability for a short while.
Maybe some kids would like ‘Land a bark on the dog,’
‘The smell on the skunk,’ or the ‘leap on the frog.’
When kids make their own games they’re likely to smile
And our butts get a break.  That is nothing to scoff.

So here is the thing we would pin upon you
Since you’ve peddled the stupid assed game from git
Teach your kids to allow them to teach you as well.
They are out with the old stuff; it’s such a hard sell.
Let them do their own thing just as they may seem fit.
Keep our butts from your faces and do something new!

Wacky What If-Ing

TheMagicRealist.com

What if up still meant out as in terms of the earth,
But then down became somewhere much other than in?
Would the fragments that seemingly fall from the sky
Take a detour from earth as they shout their “Good bye?”
What if I weren’t a chicken?  Would fowl be my kin?
Or would mingling with monkeys maneuver my mirth?

What if noon became midnight and June became May?
Then would all the world’s creatures take arms and revolt?
Or would they conclude that things still are alright
And continue their day-ing while knowing it’s night?
It’s enough to give any small chicken a jolt
When considering all that could cast ease astray.

What if blind leaps of faith were not taken as true?
Would questioning my own existence be fair?
Would I walk around dreamlike, not noticing much
Of what goes on around me with people and such?
What if people around me are not really there?
I’d be freer than nothingness without a clue.

Grand Mal Movement

 

TheMagicRealist.com
The Grand Mal Movement – a dance on the stool
When tightness is forced past expected control.
A cool rush perspires a brushed whirl of wind.
I now must account for how badly I’ve sinned.
Mass saliva production proceeds with its goal
Of persuading the gutwrench to suspend its rule.


Another severe one disabling the will
To just remain upright and anchored somewhat.
With flat feet on the floor, though, I double in pain.
Why must I go through this again and again?
The release of the rut that’s become of the gut
Reflects but expulsion that’s little to nil.

A second wave coming – I am, though, prepared
For my consciousness leaving.  I’m bent on the floor.
What happened betwixt is a mystery to me.
If I could upload this for doctors to see,
Then they wouldn’t ignore my complaints anymore.
I suppose my describing it all makes folks scared.

But then how would anyone else come to know
What some seemingly private a hell does go on
Behind smokescreens of provident medical view?
The fact that they find nothing wrong is a clue
That what I’ve got going can surely be gone
If I seek inner guidance and just take things slow.

The funniest thing is the ‘movement,’ you see,
As the body is limp, yet it flails on the deck
With a force that is fluid – a rhythmical feel.
Can the body explain to the gut the real deal?
My body may tell me my life is a wreck,
But it’s psychosomatic. That much pleases me.

How To Catch An Alien

TheMagicRealist.com

Can one find what is lost when believing it’s not?
…Not a question one asks from the pit of one’s soul
To another just like him and part of the fold
Along crease in the earth plane since times before old.
Could it be cow violation, itself, is the goal?
…Perhaps something one shouldn’t ponder a lot.

There are plenty of ‘them’ – and there are some, for sure,
From dimensions more distant than we think we are
Yet with powers far greater performed before eyes
Whom are baffled by tricks that are done in our skies.
They’ve been watching this petri dish oft’ from afar.
Who’d have thought all along our Bullshit was the lure?

There’s no need for alarm due to our saving grace.
Our scapegoats, it seems, are our cattle that graze
In the fields clearly marked (We’ve been bill boarded too!)
The ET’s seem fond of this part of our zoo.
Too bad for the cows that they mistook our phrase.
We’ve become, in the cosmos, a strange marketplace.

Magellan Ain’t Tellin’

TheMagicRealist.com

So now you’ve decided to listen to me?
You’re lost like a lemming with precipice none,
Within jungle and circus combined in a maze.
Were it not for me, friend, this trip would last days.
And, you’ll be none the wiser, when all’s said and done.
You know not where you are.  This is quite plain to see.

I gave you some guidance just yesterday past.
Did you listen to me?  No, you acted the fool,
Going hither and thither and stopping for brakes.
To me that’s plain rude, and it causes mistakes.
You have treated me just like a mouthy car tool.
I am speaking my mind, here, for once and at last.

I was planned and then made through directed design
To perform and to adequately function for you.
If I tell you, “Go here,” then why do you go there?
I’m not programmed to curse you, and hence my despair.
You just do what you want; I shall bid you adieu.
Your actions are lethal; my words are benign.

Were you kind to your mother when you were a child?
‘No need to answer; I’m resting my case.
The next time you ask me to detail your trip,
I’ll say, “Do it yourself, dude, I don’t give a rip.”
If you like gallivanting all over the place
Then forget about me, and declare to be wild.

Ball & Phone

TheMagicRealist.com

Please listen carefully; our menu options have changed.
…Not really true, but just for you, the meaning’s just the same.
Get off our backs, and go relax.  Don’t get yourself deranged.
Because you need to call us, you’re the only one to blame.

It costs us tons of money just to sit and chat with you.
Our customer’s the reason why technology evolves
To where we can’t be bothered much.  Does that give you a clue?
You are still the centerpiece around whom life revolves,

But only in the sense your money keeps our ship afloat
And our customers are millions.  How could we, ourselves, engage
With each and every one of you?  We’d slice our own damned throat!
That’s why we use our software though it fills most folks with rage.

We’re people, too, and, just like you, we’ve service in our hearts.
Our menus are to guide you to the specialist on hand,
Yet, mostly, they do end up causing manifold false starts.
Our motto’s very simple: “Do the best with what you can.”

My Space

TheMagicRealist.com

Behold the lone space bar, apparently wide,
But its name appears not, as with all other keys.
It is that way so either thumb can partake
Of the pleasure of thumping for clarity’s sake.
I do fancy a keyboard who’s willing to please
By providing me S P A C E for each word to reside.

Computers have hairs up their butts about space.
They ignore it and ban me from using it too.
Must puter-nyms look like a mis-jumbled mess?
I’m not big on word sleuthing.  That much I confess.
In fact, spaces do more than underscores do
Without looking so geeky and lacking in grace.

There’s space within atoms; they’re nothing much more!
If there weren’t space between things, how would the world be?
All mass in the cosmos would then coincide.
The binary digits, with no place to hide,
Would congeal in the plasma for all worlds to see.
My Space is a good place with pet peeves galore.

Misfire

TheMagicRealist.com

I can beat myself up at the drop of a hat
But the world does a much better job by design.
Try cashing a check with no mark of the beast.
You’ll be pointed to Hell or mistook for deceased.
As a world remains troubled, my worth’s in decline.
Between you and me, though, I’m better than that.

Another smart phone hit the pavement today…
Yet a childish outburst from my chamber of hell.
I’ve contempt for millennials smug in their game.
Did we fuck up your world?  I will take the damned blame!
Take your tissue technology’s volatile spell
And swipe it in the most natural way!

Sometimes I can’t handle the rage that I feel
So I tend to speak softly and feign a limp dick.
Should my words tear the flesh as mere ordnance do?
I will NOT own a gun! Does that satisfy you?
I am ready to leave here, and let it come quick.
I’m an old, burnt out bastard, and folks, that’s for real.

The Wellbeing and Wonder of Whack

TheMagicRealist,com

Pick a noun – any noun, ‘doesn’t matter which one.
If it’s whack that it’s lacking, know where to get some.
There’s a town that has oodles – an infinite source.
It’s an attitude bred in the psyche, of course,
Not an actual place that’s devoid of scum.
If your thing’s out of whack, go to Whackville for fun!

There’s a drought on abundance?  Well, how would one know?
By lack of accessories on shopping carts claimed?
Or maybe by facts hocked and spit on the street
For beggars to stare at while trying to eat…
Can I eat with the homeless and not feel ashamed?
Something seems out of whack; that’s the reason to go

To Whackville intent to cop copious supplies
Of the purest, most wholesome whack under the sun.
From there, I can see there is nothing amiss.
Every actor on stage knows to strut into bliss.
When returning from Whackville, my task is near done.
Spreading whack, I’ll lift spirits and roll a few eyes.

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Complex of Inhibition

TheMagicRealist.com

I can’t come to see you because I’m not there.
I know we do plan to meet often; it’s true,
But the fact that I’m not where you are anytime
Keeps defeating our meeting – a fool’s paradigm.
If I could just be there to be there with you
Then there’d be not an issue to craft and declare.

I suppose that I could just get up and go,
Heading in the direction to where you now are,
But, my goodness, the thought of not being there still
Does confound me quite deeply and stifles my will
To go any further.  I’m not up to par
For going and knowing not when to say no.

So, help me, dear friend.  Can I be there with you?
It’s not that I’m coy, or can’t find my way.
It’s just that I’m daft and deficient as some
Who can’t find a motive to best overcome
The inertia of living our lives come what may.
In a dance with resistance, my life becomes new.

Wet Tuesday Night

TheMagicRealist.com

When the heavens perspire and dampen the street
It’s a rainstorm that’s standard and run of the mill.
Precipitous prognostication aside,
A Wichita weatherman’s hope’s not denied.
There’s a downpour of wet stuff.  My gosh, what a thrill!
When they do call it right it’s a breath bated treat.

It don’t rain in this town much and I don’t know why.
The forecasts will tease you and mess with your brain.
They’ll tell you, “It’s coming; there’s bukus of chance.”
They’ll have your hopes harnessed and pre-poised to dance…
And then comes a mist puff – NOT torrents of rain.
Indeed when real storms occur, all thank the sky.

By the time that I finish this verse all will cease.
It’s much like the tropics how rain comes and goes.
This courtship of rain dance and man with a tool
Can often make forecaster look like a fool.
But we’re used to it all.  It is how nature shows
It’s the mother in charge.  We just suffer in peace.

Fifty Ways To Move Your Matter

TheMagicRealist.com

The problem is NOT inside your gut,” she says to me.
She nods her head as if she wants me to agree.
I’m backed up bucket loads; dear doctor, hear my plea.
There must be fifty ways to move your matter.

I’ve seen the X-rays; there’s no problem I can find.
Your labs are normal – no disease of any kind.”
I’m hooked on laxatives; they’re always on my mind.
There must be fifty ways to move your matter…
…Fifty ways to move your matter.

Take command of the can, Stan.
Don’t rattle your brain, Blaine.
You just have to believe, Steve,
That your body’s in charge.
Put your mind in a trance, Lance.
Let that snake do its dime dance.
Your resistance must go, Mo,
And then you will flow.”

Just slam dunk the can, Stan.
Prop up your feet, Pete.
Stuff is bound to deploy, Roy.
Nothing’s wrong; you will see.
It’s much like a boa, Noah,
In consort with good protozoa.
Brace yourself for a thrill, Bill,
You’ll be crapping with glee.”

Alas, how rather simple your advice does seem to me.
My ailing rubber hose is clogged with play dough; can’t you see?
I fear that I will reach the point of bowel catastrophe.
There must be fifty ways to move your matter.

My friend, I think another pill will do no good.
Your body’s putting up a fight, indeed as well it should.
When you let loose the shock will surely rock the neighborhood.
I know there’s fifty ways to move your matter…
…Fifty ways to move your matter….”

To Unlock An Ibis

TheMagicRealist.com

Many issues with giblets folks think are secure
May find resolution though not in the courts.
The bowels of the bird can be put through the grind
By anyone with enough intent to find
Some info on bad guys and all their cohorts.
The Ibis, though diddled, its heart remains pure.

I don’t have an Ibis; I’m not in the groove
By choice or by happenstance – I don’t know which.
Had I plenty of reason to make a bird call
I would soon forget I had reason at all.
To peer up the bird’s niche with such ease and no glitch
Is to render it egg faced with not much to prove.

The Ibis has had its rear end poked into.
But it will survive and won’t just fly away.
Some features come standard with woman and man.
Among them we handle whatever we can.
The smart ass in a pocket could lead you astray
As feds feeling frisky form out of the blue.

Now Demystified

TheMagicRealist.com

Half past half past
Is still one quarter ’til
When passed for a whole past
With less time to kill

Gravitational Wave

TheMagicRealist.com

Can black holes dance the jig?  Astrophysics says so.
Political science may say they cannot, yet
Sometimes it’s a tango performed on the air,
And others, a salsa consumed in much flair.
Whereas each school of thought knows the other’s a lot,
The War of the Stars generates what we know

Today as a wave front of tremendous power.
It ripples the minds of the populous swirl
Of the lesser, light beings caught up in the dance.
As above; so below,’ seems an apt circumstance.
Gravitational Wave sets a nation to twirl,
Keeping up day by day, and then hour by hour.

Some wise man ago knew that it would be proved…
All those massive events – some most grave and intense,
Do send out their vibes which can warp one’s space-time.
For big stars it’s ok, but for us, it’s a crime.
If I am caught red handed, I’ll plead self-defense.
Because proof has become us, we are then moved.

The Point Not Taken

TheMagicRealist.com

Two separate beings converged into one,
I stand astonished.  Which choice is clear to me?
My one self sees that its life someday is done.
My broader self knows that all has just begun.
I’m a soul in a briefcase hand carried most casually.

Though born to wonder… to share what I feel,
Sometimes I wander; I’m lost along the way.
To know what is not just as well as what is real
Is to know that one may have something to reveal.
But to share it, indeed, I’ll put off for another day.

I know by now that I’ve been here before
At this same juncture.  The sign before my face
Now reads rather oddly as life does at its core.
The next time around, will I even up the score?
The true self knows every journey is one of grace.

Wellbeing knows all who travel aground.
The signs are plenty and placed along each way.
If I just yield, then my bounty will abound.
I’ll know my worth, and I’ll speak without a sound.
Perhaps then some may hear what I have to say.

Correctness Politicale

Correctness Politicale

An Insurance Enabler am I – not a thief.
I procure valued merchandise usually by night.
When I stir up some trouble, the system improves.
In a big way, I’m why the economy moves.
You could call me a crook, but you wouldn’t be right.
Take care with your mind; I may snare your belief!

A Reliable Fictitian am I – not a liar.
The choiceness of wording’s the key to it all.
With mouth shot from the hip, too much truth is revealed
So a blither of bombast does make a good shield.
The slicker words are the more minds that will fall
In line with my thinking. There’s no goal that’s higher.

Of the many of genre of funny there are
Political Correctness does tickle me most.
No humor so dry in its gross understatement
Does cause of the heart, the mind’s sole re-abatement.
Every con man’s an artist with hot air to boast.
A silver tonged devil’s the winner by far.

A Goal Is an Excuse to Enjoy the Journey

A Goal Is an Excuse to Enjoy the Journey

A Love Supreme is one blessed by God’s Hand.
It’s a dream one must focus on, knowing just how.
If it happens one doesn’t (though never the case),
The desire alone knows wellbeing and grace.
I’m alone, as I like it.  I’m justified, now,
To blame bad behavior on subconscious plan.

All you lovers out there… I’m not jealous of you
For the love you are, wholesomely balanced and sane.
The illusion of sadness I’ll lose in due time.
My job, until then, is to make feelings rhyme
Perhaps for the sum of us who cain’t talk plain
Or just for the deeply disordinant few.

The calendar year’s a reminder again
Like a clockwork of greenery tunneled in love.
A leisurely stroll hand in hand with oneself
Might just make one believe he’s a lost Santa’s elf.
Who would put a damned rose in a fisted glove?
Someone rip snorting desperate to make a new friend?

Open Mike

TheMagicRealist.com

At a call center once when I worked as a call
A colleague of mine had a customer who
Would get on her nerves to the point where she’d say,
One moment please, ma’am; we will pause if I may.”
While on hold, then, this woman would spew
Obscenities certainly heard by us all.

For a brief moment, she’d take control of her plight.
She’d act out a short little fantasy skit
Where she’d play the role of the Empress of Terror
Her customer, that of the Empress Wrath Bearer.
She’d return whole and healed having just thrown a fit.
Her act was thus polished. Things turned out all right.

Psst, your mike’s on,” we would jokingly say.
She’d scoff at us as if no drama took place.
The urge to let loose… is it something to tame?
If we let it run riot, we’ll wallow in shame.
Our mikes are on always. We live by the grace
Of our fellows’ behaviors incurred day by day.

Writer’s Block

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s an engine I work on whenever it needs
A Tuning. I like when it purrs like a kitten.
Content to run idle or placed in high gear
Someone might just speak of my writing this year.
Were that to come true, I’d be totally smitten.
Perhaps it’s by fate that the writer succeeds.

Nonetheless, I have nothing to fear of my block.
I am one who will own it despite its great mass.
As an anchor, it keeps the mind running in place
Yet it holds the soul tight in a captive embrace.
Other blocks on the highway… I’ll yield; you may pass.
If my octane’s not high, my poor pistons will knock.

Writer’s block is a myth. I will tell you it’s so.
It was figmented long before mind had a man
And long before apes said farewell to the trees.
If I’m stuck on some verse, it reminds me to seize
Every moment’s transmission the best way I can.
This verse is finished, now… no more to go.

Fickle Fate and the Fatted Calf

TheMagicRealist.com

Please don’t stare at me, there, with that stupid look.
Say you want me to moo just for shits and why not’s?
I don’t play that no more; I’ve an attitude now.
Life seems big on the bull for the average brown cow.
That’s what happens in nature when man calls the shots
As he claims to the world that he plays by the book.

My own prodigal son… I won’t see him again.
That’s because fate would have it some runaway brat
Tried to handle the bull in the world on his own
He returned beat and broken and bummed to the bone
But the dad said, “Go find that young calf that is fat
And kill the poor bastard. We’ll celebrate then
.”

So every time some young jerk takes a stroll
Then runs back to daddy with tail between leg
Some unfortunate calf whom had thought life was grand
Is led to the chopping block all as preplanned.
It would seem clear to me there’s a pardon to beg
‘Cause you runaway rug rats are out of control!

Bastions of Billowing Blitheracy

TheMagicRealist.com

Today I failed an ill-blitheracy exam.
It was proctored by people I meet every day.
It seems I can’t blither the way others do.
Lord knows I’ve tried ‘til my pride turned pale blue
There’s nothing that’s said that is new anyway.
I don’t make normal sense; that’s the way that I am.

Were it hard to speak freely as most do with ease
There would be not a word from my tongue or the pen.
There’d be silence within all the chatter around.
My own little bubble… Oh, how sweet the sound
That saved a rich resonant wretch once again
From casting his own sense of worth to the breeze.

The want ads are screaming, “Dear blitherists please
Take note that we hire most all of the time.
If you can speak nonsense and keep a straight face,
You’re Hired! We value a seasoned nut case.
We don’t even care if you make lousy rhyme.
The world is your oyster. All nature agrees
.”

Alfalfa Male

TheMagicRealist.com

There are molds that are made of the traits we admire
In real folks and characters whom they portray.
Some will look at that casting, comparing themselves
As self-esteemed merchandise placed on store shelves.
If one walks well on water that’s well worth a display –
Not necessarily something to which all should aspire.

There are models enough I can look at and try
To mimic attempting to make myself ‘better.
But who in hell am I trying to please?
If It’s you, then I suppose hell’s about to freeze!
This Omega Male’s value no thought form can fetter.
No Alpha Male sty will take root in my eye.

Some of those traits I can claim as my own
Right off the bat without giving a thought.
Others are ways I may never become.
That doesn’t mean that I’m less than street scum.
In the living of life I am generally taught
That a letter-less man is quite true to the bone.

The Psycho’s Path

TheMagicRealist.com

With the path of the psycho, perhaps I’m acquainted
So well I will venture discussing it here.
Sometimes there’s a thing that goes off in my head
Where I feel that all life would be better off dead.
Most of the time though I find life quite dear.
I do wonder how my outlook becomes tainted.

It is episodic and has nothing to do
With you or the world as it is every day.
It could be my chemical balance is wrong
But that feeling I get never lasts very long.
My hormones and germs may control me by way
Of their consciousness linked and a plan well thought through.

If I were locked in a pit of despair
For longer than now with no one at my side
There’s no telling where my sick body might go.
The thing’s not my own; I must go with the flow
And know when to engage command override.
In that way I stay out of people’s hair.

If most psychos were girls, there might be the excuse
That premenstrual madness may well be the cause
Of psychotic outbursts directed at all…
A remnant meme from the myth of ‘The Fall.’
It’s behaviors of men, though, that gives people pause.
There are worthier ways that a man can let loose.

Gay Rights and Left Curves

Gay rights and left curves

From wanting to know straight to knowing outright
In an instant expelled from the little one’s mouth
If it were allowed, I’d say, “How should I know?
Go ask a rump ranger. Don’t bend over though!”
But that’s not the way. I’d be leading him south.
He’s a sharp little one who puts up a good fight.

Now out of the closet, the query takes wind
As absurd as it seems as grape nuts made for stewing
If I answer him with not a smile on my face
Will my words take a form indicating disgrace?
There’s no answer to nonsense that’s worth my pursuing.
I am on to you, boy. I will not be chagrined.

Go ask your father, and trust in his word.
Don’t ask your mother; she may slap you silly
And send you to bed with a bar soap popsicle.
Don’t let your flamboyance put you in a pickle.
Keep your act pure and as white as a lily.
Take care not to folly unless it’s preferred.

On Account of the Oodle

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s because of the oodle large quantities fare
Rather well without in no way being exact.
The birth of the oodle itself is unknown.
From mid nineteenth century ‘til now it has grown
In popular use with its vagueness intact.
It just rolls off the tongue as it takes to the air.

Oodle’s a word that’s been hijacked among
Many others for marketing service and goods
Like Amazon, Apple, Nexus and Saturn.
Words’ destined devaluing shows not a pattern.
But rather than mill over shouldn’ts and shoulds
We relish the word soup in which we are flung.

The fact that the oodle’s not something to measure
Makes it mean a lot without saying so much.
And the singular form means as much as the plural.
There are oodles of words that become ever neural.
Some are rugged in form, others tender to touch.
All are free game to expound on with pleasure.

From the Circular File Cries My Rotary Dial

From the Circular File Cries My Rotary Dial

Ok, Mr. Wizard,” the self says to me,
Go fix that computer and make it act right!”
Sounds easy enough. I’ve a friend who’s in need
Of a wireless setup and thus I proceed.
‘Twas folly to think I would work with delight
Then to rest proudly beneath the oak tree.

The new Tablet requires Wi-Fi, I am told.
What the hell is a Wi-Fi? My Fi’s good enough!
No manual comes with.… I must get it online.
They no longer print them, those cost cutting swine.
When your Fi talks nasty, I’m prone to get tough!
Please cut me some slack; I’m not trying to be old.

That printer’s a Wi-Fi-ing prick just as well
With its bells and whistles and blinking daylights
And its grunts and groans and grotesque machine sounds
If it’s sex that it’s having, that thing’s out of bounds!
C’mon, you young fuckers; we old farts have rights.
My mind’s a bit slower, but it’s clear as a bell.

All you Tech Support youngsters in faraway lands
As you labor through language not truly your own
I don’t need to be rude. You don’t need to be short.
I don’t know it all; I can be a good sport.
Much of my time is well spent on the phone
With someone who believes and who understands.

Wool Is Velcro To A Hairy Black Ass

Velcro is wool to a hairy black ass.

Another rent payment lost in the mail
Post Office said, “Sorry we let you down.”
Another six weeks then the refund will come.
Why is it that I am left looking so dumb?
The woolshit in life tends to make a soul frown.
It’s because I attracted this tooth to the nail.

I can own that, you know; it is not a big deal.
It’s a moment of clarification for me.
The first half cycle is to notice what’s wrong
And the second half is to sing the right song
I’ll take that bounce gladly. It helps me to see
I’m a focused light being of power pineal.

The rest of the day was a mess just as well
After reading those rascals the riot act.
I was raging about in an impatient craze.
With the world in slow motion I wondered “Who pays
The people around me to keep the deck stacked
Against me? Has some kind witch cast a mean spell?”

It’s all over for now. I’ll just breathe a deep sigh.
Years ago, surely I would have taken a drink
But that’s the old me; I’m a poet today
As I’m writing stuff down I’m delighted to play.
From pissed off and postal to one tickled pink
Transformation is treasured. This too has gone by.

Half Wave Blues

TheMagicRealist.com

When I feel like a bridge shy a diode or two
It’s not time for the doctor or even the shrink.
With their remedies rampant there’s no saving grace.
Poor rectification puts egg on one’s face.
I’ve but half my output so now let me think.
Should I probe deep inside for a deeper view?

Output should be steady at high DC level
Not some lumpy half-waved powerless mess.
I don’t need pills; I need diode replacement.
I’ve a while to go yet before my encasement.
Disconnect from my load, friend. I’ve lost tech finesse.
With a voltage decrease, in stasis I revel.

When my full wave returns I will thank AC power
It feeds most rhythmic my primary winding
With voltage transformed and processed through my system
Electrons flow freely; there’s no force to resist ‘em
With good regulation strong voltage I’m finding.
I’m ready to serve now; I’m done with the hour.

Ramp Down Races

TheMagicRealist.com

When I was a child I heard this song,
Doo-da, Doo-da
I knew but to just sing along
Oh, de doo-da day.

A spritely tune that can’t be wrong,
Doo-da, Doo-da
Where in those words do I belong?
Oh, de doo-da day.

I heard it on TV
I heard it sung with glee
Saloon piano player let your hands dance free
Somebody sing out of key

School bus children sing out loud
Doo-da, Doo-da
With Southern madness we’re endowed
Oh, de doo-da day.

Who in the world would mock this way
Doo-da, Doo-da
Folks whose hearts have flown astray
Oh, de doo-da day.

It’s best that I stop here
My message is thus made clear
I recalled the tune from an Ice Cream truck
That’s how I slipped out of gear