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Self Help Solution

TheMagicRealist.com

Oh, Go drink yourself sloppily! I’ve had enough
Of your running your circles around the fun park.
I am here to make merry – not here to make do
With a sense of self less than the sky is bright blue.
Though I’m not that Olympian, I make my mark
By my pumping out powerful poetic stuff.

All black men think they’re poets.’ Is such a remark,
In its absence of meaning, a mental workout
For the one who receives it? It does put a cramp
In my mind for a mile. Will I emerge a champ?
I make meaning of whatever I think much about.
If I think about bullshit, my outlook is dark.

So, I write of the fecal, as it falls my way.
That is not quite as often as one might perceive.
I’m an athlete. My well-crafted body is made
With some knack for the verbal, although I’m a spade.
If I cared about what others care to believe,
I’d be lost in a theme park with no will to play.

Ready To Be Ready

TheMagicRealist.com

Life is full of momentum built up over time.
It accumulates quickly when we’re at our best
At creating whatever we most think about.
It may seem that it’s best to hold on to one’s doubt.
Yet, our readiness comes at our true heart’s behest.
When I choose to be ready, I get off the dime.

Having fallen from high, and with parachute none,
What advice would one give me, should I ask for some?
One might say, “Just hang on. It will be over soon,
And your soul may just vacate before flesh is strewn
On the pavement.”
I can’t easily overcome

What I’ve built up before me… before the long run.

I can dare to be ready to be ready for
The momentum I make in my meek-minded maze
By allowing each moment to see the next through
To the next, and the next, until each now is new.
I am here for the run of life – eager, always,
To be ready for more journey, forever more.

Loud And Livid Delivery

TheMagicRealist.com

Though one’s innards be livery, does all the bile
That accumulates due to frustration pent up
Cause the outburst of anger with volume of voice?
Is it sometimes predestined or always by choice?
If I sound off to others, am I the sick pup?
When I view this in hindsight, it seems it’s my style.

When I think you won’t hear me, I tend to get loud.
It’s a knee jerk reaction. I’ve little control.
Therefore I must stay vigilant of my ill beast.
I do lack others’ patience. I know that at least.
Perhaps long isolation would comfort my soul.
I’m a hothead. I’m neither ashamed nor too proud.

Sometimes ‘special delivery’ is the best way
To ensuring one’s intent is taken as real.
If my mood takes a nose dive, I must be prepared.
That our good times and bad times are equally shared
Is my premise profound toward the best way to feel.
I can let off some steam and still have a good day.

Just Here To Visit – Not Here To Stay

TheMagicRealist.com

If I weighed almost half a ton, would ankles work
With four pairs of two screwed tight by no engineer?
How I ended up here seems a puzzle today.
Now that I’ve lost my parking space, then must I stay
In a constant upheaval endorsed by my fear
As most often I feel like a well-behaved jerk?

I’m not here to do odd jobs. Who told you that lie?
Was it me through deficiency in self-defense?
It can seem I’m the nice guy for doing jack shit.
It’s a subconscious bugbear that stings quite a bit.
I would tell folks to stick it, if I had some sense.
I don’t know what I’m doing, yet foolish to try.

Do most people fuck with me be because I am slow
In the mind a bit and of a social IQ
That’s as low as the oil stains on life’s garage floor?
I fucked up for you this time. I’ll do it some more?
I can do that so well. Surely I never knew.
Since I’m here for the visit, I might as well grow.

The Best Cure For Toe Fungus?

TheMagicRealist.com

Let us talk about toes – yours alone, by the way,
And that fungus they’re fettered with. You know it well.
Who am I to send email to you with advice
Randomly about getting your feet smelling nice?
Well, I must be an asshole. Most people can tell
By the sheer lack of meaning in what I dare say.

It seems, now, that my inbox and spam box are twins
Who play offense with insults and off-the-wall crud.
I’m a fish in this ocean. As you cast your net
Most escape by derision. You get what you get
When you’re dragging your lines way too deep in the mud.
What would you like to sell me as my patience thins?

You assume I have fungus as if the world knows
I’m a registered specimen stripped of his rights.
That’s not even the case. Where the Hell are you from?
You sneaked into my inbox like some kind of bum.
Yet, I’d be but a fool if my temper ignites.
I know no one but me is in touch with my toes.

Lorem Ipsum

TheMagicRealist.com

What The Uckfay? I say in the odd-Latin way.
I don’t mean to hijack it to make verses rhyme.
But it’s there for my use if I need it. So what
If it’s triggered by language that fills in the rut
Of precise advertising for use anytime
When there’s dummy space needed for nothing to say?

Language is quite the dinosaur. It has it’s way
Of remaining quite cryptic in how it’s conceived
Over eons, although it can easily be
A most elegant means by which people can see
Deeper meaning in what all agree is perceived
As reality and what makes for a good day.

If the notion of dummy text makes any sense
It may come as an insult to folks of my kind.
Words can shoot from a fire hose or someone’s pen.
If we piss off all poets, what will happen then?
It should not get my strength nor my will misaligned.
There are text pumps afoot. I shall not take offense.

Now That I Can Tweet

TheMagicRealist.com

Do you love me sincerely now that I can tweet?
I’ve been practicing steadily all just for you.
I can twitter my ass off and do every day.
Many twits do this also with not much to say.
Can my fistful of characters offer some clue
To the ones that I’m tweeting to whereof I greet?

Watch me now, as they say. With the swipe of the thumb
I can instigate mischief or shed light on truth.
Within moments the world knows what I want it to
And it doesn’t take much to show others my view.
It would work out much better were I in my youth
But in light of all that I can tweet like the scum.

I can tweet with the best now and also the worst
As I learn to parse giblets of thought into place
So that dim-witted twit folk can follow along.
I can tweet like a mother, so don’t get me wrong.
I shall stock up on bird feed for now just in case
I’m elected Top Twit. Now, that would be a first.

My Darned Bowels Are STILL Ailing

TheMagicRealist.com

What is up with my innards? They’ve got me again
Doing side twists and wishing that I were a plant.
Seems that bowel gets so cluttered so often that I
Would trade guts for some green leaves. I do wonder why
Normal folks crap with ease but some people just can’t.
That damned bowel’s been a problem since I don’t know when.

On the top shelf, I’ve shitters, bowel blasters and such
Though the medicine cabinet too is a mess.
I’ve got paraphernalia to rig the rear end
For extreme irrigation that I may impend
A prophetic bowel movement with no second guess.
I have glycerol bullets that I don’t use much.

If I cleaned up my act a bit, that might do well
To address this most chronic non-movement of mass
Through my system. I’ve tried everything that is known.
I’d have nothing to lose and perhaps I’d be shown
A new outlook and how to make up with my ass.
Too much damned information? I’m damned glad to tell.

Kicked Right Out Of Dreamland

TheMagicRealist.com

I was sound asleep though I was covered in sweat
As my body turned clockwise while wrapped in its sheets
Of bewilderment as my soul went on a trip
To that wonderful dreamland where I can equip
Myself with all its graces and spiritual treats
That my sleeping and dreaming most often beget.

I remained for a good while although there’s no time
In a world of pure thought-form and nowhere to dump
All the tension I’ve mustered throughout the long day.
I found out there’s no dumping. I did disobey
The most cardinal rule there: Do Not leave your clump
In this mental world.
And their directive is prime!

I’ve been kicked in the rear end. So now I’m awake.
I’m afraid to go back there or even to try.
They might block my arrival and give me what-for.
I’m not feeling distressed that I didn’t dream more.
I shall start my day now as I breathe a deep sigh.
I am not banned forever, thus I have my cake.

Poetic License

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

“Have Engine – Will Poet” shall be my motto.
When it comes right down to it, it’s one with some tread.
As I travel this highway, my ride must be smooth.
When my word road is bumpy, how can my work soothe?
I require Full License in trust that I’m read
Like a bird at its leisure with some place to go.

I’ve a License Poetic to prove I may drive
My machine in whatever way I judge to be
Beneficial in getting up just enough speed
But not so much that reading becomes a hard deed.
I am easy to read, and I cruise radar free.
Way ahead of departure, I’m good to arrive.

There’s no Highway Patrol for the poet in me.
They say it’s not my day job. I’m too small a fish.
I have not earned my letters for poetic arts.
Thus, I don’t have the right to endear people’s hearts.
So, I’m wild on my highway. I do as I wish.
I can poet my ass off and do it with glee.

Flustercuck

TheMagicRealist.com

There are two or more gathered. It could be in grace
Or in consort with cunning in weaving a spell.
Many people united can become perplexed
With that ‘chicken or egg’ thing and which will come next.
That lame argument is a façade with a smell.
It was implemented to keep fools in their place.

People are much like chickens. We scratch and we peck
At that which is below us, as we judge it so.
As we gather together, we make such a fuss
Over just about anything meaningless, thus
Most the worms we’re consuming will not make us grow.
Social clusters are often a pain in the neck.

I am not xenophobic. I cuck with a few
Of my species because alone I’d not survive.
Each one pecks in one’s own way. There’s no reason why
One should peck like another. No rules here apply
Except those of the cosmos wherein we may thrive
As we had well intended when we were brand new.

Flaming Petutia

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a Flaming Petutia. Minutia fulfills
All desires the human mind idle can bare.
Though the fragrance is earthy, true colors do bloom
As a function of how much the mind will consume
With the purpose of sorting out what one can share
With some others in hopes it may trigger some thrills.

The Petutia, a sphincter with petals unique,
Can release, as it opens, what lies under foot.
It is not to be looked at. It’s grosser than hell!
There’s no flower quite like it. How does it compel
One to while away blissful with feelings well put
In a fine floating boat that is headed down creek?

It is done by my knowing the world makes no sense
Except for the ones who have found a good space
In a field gone prolific in manifold smell.
I partake in whatever will ring my heart’s bell
And will make life a fresh one immune to disgrace
Every moment, in light of no need for defense.

Didgeri Donewith

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s no fun! I am done with my didgeridoo.
It turns out it’s a nightmare carved from a tree branch.
Though there are those who play it and do it quite well
I do better with gut gas. All nearby can tell.
Both our blowing could trigger a fine avalanche
In a world where such things can come out of the blue.

I’ve a didgeridoo as a gift from a friend.
He is not from down under but from across town.
Might he have some agreement with them on the side?
Does he think I might learn how to play once I’ve tried?
Well, I’ve tried it enough times to put the thing down.
There’s just too much hard work and ill will to transcend.

So, I’m Didgeri Donewith. I did what I did
Thinking I’d have the patience to do as those do
Who have talent for getting good sound to come out
Of a tube wholly hollow. I’m left with no doubt
That my lungs need no workout. My didgeridoo
Done did all that it needs to. It now will be hid.

Zonehenge

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a fact we spend much of our time in some queue.
Though we seem to be busy, we’re standing in line.
It is so unproductive to waste so much time
While we’re being held captive. No moment is prime
When there’s no movement forward – no sense of a sign
That my prison will free me for more things to do.

Does it seem to be moving? I can’t really tell.
The Illusion of movement can play with the mind.
Where in the world else but in non-moving lines
Can the mind shut down gracefully as it resigns
Itself to the reality that I’m confined
In a life situation a half tier from hell?

Like most relics, lines have evolved at a slow rate
Notwithstanding their increasing length over time.
We are Stonehenge-like creatures when frozen in place.
When I’m loose in a mindscape, I feel no disgrace.
I should zone out as my time seems not worth a dime.
Life is much more worth living than having to wait.

It’s About Self Control

TheMagicRealist.com

I attract what comes to me – no doubt about that.
When I find myself frazzled by what’s in my way,
I do tend to go off. I’ve been known to get riled
When I feel that my honor is being defiled
By someone with control issues and much to say –
Not with words but with attitude like a bobcat.

Tough black cats at the drive thru is what I will get
When I doubt what my better self knows fully well.
That is: No one can damage my ‘honor’ but me.
What goes on in the real world is not mine to see.
I can get through this fine day without letting hell
Have her pleasure at my expense and much regret.

Self-control is a skill to be practiced and honed
And this world does provide opportunities great.
I can move most my muscles; that much is for sure.
I command subtle energies never obscure
To my worthiness as well as those whom I hate.
My distaste for the drive thru is hereby postponed.

Nature Of The Coil

TheMagicRealist.com

As the coil whistles wild tunes and rattles the nerve
Of what rest of self savors – an ease about flow,
The mind could think that wellbeing has a firm grip
On the body, or it could go bonkers an trip
On just why it seems, all the time, it has to know
To what purpose the whistles and rattles might serve.

It’s a coil, after all, in the form of a bowel.
I will steer clear of jargon that steers from what’s clear.
A tight coil is less spring-like, or more, by the way
I devote my attention throughout the long day.
If I take notice that no bowel movement is near
Then my day is a menace; my language is foul.

Thirty feet of a snake that will never stretch out
Nor will never see light of my day from its place
Well-concealed in its chamber, content in its ways,
I should cease my condemning it and give it praise
For the work it does ceaselessly in its embrace
Of whatever I put it through without a doubt.

By the Numbers

TheMagicRealist.com

The Pi-th root of infinity, should it exist
As a variable that traverses the mind,
Is a root counter rational. And it’s not real.
Even though it’s not real math, it does have the feel
Of the essence of living among humankind.
Within seas of infinities, none are dismissed.

Any root of infinity should be the same
As the sum of infinities, meaning, them all.
That is, if it could be quantifiable stuff
Where one gets to the point where one says, “That’s Enough!”
Yet, indeed it’s a concept one couldn’t call small.
It does draw the mind close like the moth to the flame.

By the numbers, I number among the ignored.
That is nothing to cry about. I will be heard
As my meaning has function with my heart and mind.
Might that happen this time around? I am resigned
To a life of fulfillment transfigured through word.
There are worlds of infinities to be explored.

Two Lips by Land or Tulips by Sea

TheMagicRealist.com

Many landscapes and seascapes avail themselves to
Simple pleasures of living that people enjoy.
Many lips go for kissing or catching the breeze.
There are spaces for tulips along friendly seas.
Whether tulips or few lips, each harbor the ploy
Of accessing the inner self like an old shoe.

Two lips land locked could be but one half of a quad
Where the missing half seems not a task to conceive.
Or two lips can be literate, light and at ease
With the spirit of nature who’s willing to please.
With some tulips between lips some hearts do achieve
Some small measure of happiness. Does that seem odd?

It’s the toss of a coin, sometimes, how things evolve.
Often life seems a game of chance hostile to will.
But it seems, at the same time, that I’m in control
Of what happens in my life and with my own soul.
That control comes from within – the voice that is still.
With a lifetime of life scenes, I’ve nothing to solve.

A Codec for Cotton

TheMagicRealist.com

I do most things online. I get digital sex
Through a modem equipped with touching technique
That sends chills up my spine when I’m getting things done.
When it comes to my laundry, my cycle’s begun.
I upload it to DigiClean once every week.
It downloads clean and folded, according to specs.

But sometimes I have trouble converting my load
To dot lnd format. This causes me stress.
I know Customer Service will lend me a hand.
They are always so friendly, and they understand
That although my ill applet has me in a mess
I will soon have clean laundry within my abode.

Often times it’s the codec that culprits my cause.
They get changed much too frequently due to the way
Bits of data treat fabric, synthetic or real.
They know nothing of texture. They can’t up and feel.
A fresh codec for cotton does brighten my day.
When one does laundry online, one obeys the laws.

What Every Colon Knows

TheMagicRealist.com

One would think I’m a colon or that it is me
As I move about backed up with scowl on the brain.
If I find myself trapped near the end of my gut,
Seems my bowel is an asshole who’s tired of the rut
That we both made together while waxing insane.
My behavior’s atrocious, as I can well see.

I gave up on the action paths. None will work well.
I’ve popped shitters like Skittles and chased them with milk
Of magnesia. I’ve tried tons of ex-lax and more.
I’m so hell bent on crapping, I’ve got my own store.
I would like stuff to flow softly through me like silk.
But it seems that my blasted pipes are shot to hell.

On the other hand, though, that may not be quite so.
I create my reality whether I’m trapped
In a body that feels like it’s felt its last days
Or in one that feels wholesome in all natural ways,
When I clean my vibration, that bowel will be zapped
With a blast of pure energy. This I well know.

Too Much to Chew

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ve got too much too chew. It came out of the blue
Or oblivious. I don’t know which one it is.
Simple greetings befall me as well as small talk.
By default I’m committed. There’s no room to balk.
I’ve been offered a chewing as well as a quiz
Once again I’m amazed by what I’ve stepped into.

This huge bone I’ve accepted seemed small at the start.
Or perhaps my small eyes see most anything big.
My eyes get me in trouble. My loose tongue as well.
I do act on my own and create my own hell.
If my eyes could see big things as small as a twig
Perhaps then I’d be shielded from hurt to the heart.

I should bite off a large chunk if I think I can
Get my jaws wrapped around it not seeming the fool.
Yet when I find that I’ve bitten off more than I
Could digest in a lifetime, I’m ready to try
Anything that might stop my becoming a tool.
I can be of good service and still be a man.

The Decisive Device

TheMagicrealist.com

A decisive device is one that can’t act nice.
Its decisions it makes with no input at all
From the user who just wants to get some things done.
I do not go for gaming nor surfing for fun.
And it gets so aggressive and makes me feel small.
I can’t deal with a dick headed devil device.

Don’t peek-a-boo to me with messages from
Your right corner, peripheral to my intent.
You do tittle my gaze as if I were a cat.
You should know that I’m human, and what’s wrong with that?
You continue to dick me. Indeed, you’re hell bent
On securing my madness so then you will cum.

A divisive sufficing may be what I need.
My decisive devices can get me perplexed.
When they tell me they’re doing things I don’t want done
Should I gather my privates, then turn tail and run?
I can’t figure out why things are so over sexed.
I shall guard my virginity as I proceed.

Fork Out of Dodge

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

I’m your Fork Out of Dodge – a proverbial guy.
I’m dramatic and forceful when it’s time to go.
Any fork undercover is grateful to be
Among those expelled first from Dodge most rightfully.
It’s the city most thought of when getting to know
The sensation of terror. The question is, Why?

Stuff can happen in any town. Why pick out one
To become the example of bad scenes to leave?
And since when does one’s safety depend on the fork?
People fork off in Kansas as well as New York!
Yet these questions are moot. I’d do best to conceive
My own clear understanding. It’s better than none.

I’m a Fork on the run and I haven’t got time
To be hanging around when the fan is turned on.
If you haven’t a fork who is stranded in Dodge
Then relax and partake of yourself a massage.
I will fly by the night. I will not wait ‘til dawn.
I am destined to grow toward a new paradigm.

The Weather Girl Thought that the Cameras Weren’t Rolling

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

What amazing a profile the Weather Girl has
Whether sunny and bright or wet, cloudy and cold.
It’s a short presentation to tell what will come.
It’s a bit like astrology – nonsense to some.
It’s been said every Weather Girl does as she’s told
But this isn’t quite so if she likes modern jazz.

So what under the sun can a Weather Girl do
That would cause any moron to pucker the snout?
How one digests one’s media is akin to
How one wipes one’s behind when there’s not much to do.
To be entertained fully, we must check things out.
So I go watch the Weather Girl blooper on cue?

Take a chase for a glimpse of those fine body parts.
News is only a peep show. By moment we pay
For a flash of the headline and tons of bull fluff.
It’s astonishing how folks survive on that stuff.
But I’m just an old poet with too much to say.
So thank God for the morons, and God bless the arts.

Hello, My Dear…

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

Your Attention, my dear, I am thirty years old.
Though my life had been peachy, I am in distress
As it seems I’ve been cut out of castle life for
My behaving so generously with the poor.
I’ve been put out to pasture and I must confess
That this story of mine has not ever been told.

Yes, my life in the grass is not easy, you see.
All those nearsighted knights with their poles are a threat.
I’d considered I’d bribe them so I’d graze in peace
But the bastards can’t see well and they are obese.
That I’m thin is a good thing. I’m willing to bet
That my fortune is safe while it’s stashed up a tree.

But I cannot survive in the woods very long.
And my dainty voice beacons your unanswered call.
You will get compensation for helping me out.
I am talking Big Moolah. That’s what I’m about.
All you need do is send me your fortune – that’s all.
It’s the kindest of worlds where we all get along.

Pussy 4 Less

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

What’s a fellow to do when he’s out for a screw
And the merchandise mingling is too highly priced?
Could one go undercover and act like a hoe
Then transfigure among them before they could know
That the fee they demand often feels like a heist?
Men should stand up and shout! That’s what righteous men do.

When I want some quick ass, I am prone to bypass
All the bullshit and trickery romance can yield.
Give me meat on the fly. I’m a fast-moving guy.
I will have my quick nookie – I will, do or die!
But I won’t pay a fortune to be aptly healed
Of my spurious passions that lead to impasse.

Bumping Ugly with someone you know can be fun.
There’s no payment involved but the time that it takes
To develop a nurturing, loving rapport.
But, like top brow tycoons, poor dudes want nothing more
Than some convenient action without the high stakes
As the threat of inflation affects everyone.

Will You Be Ready When the Moment Gets Romantic?

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

Do you feel Springtime Fresh when the bleeding time comes?
Is your FICA score less than abysmal these days?
Do those stubborn cum stains on your sheets make you cry?
Do you curse at your neighbors and wish they’d all die?
Do not worry your nuts off. The world has its ways
Of addressing most symptoms through beats of its drums.

Dirty rings around collars and in toilet bowls
Is a menace this brave world could well do without.
When the air in life’s bedroom becomes hot and stale
There is always the sports channel. Life does prevail.
Does your body lie turning and tossing about
Through the night due to fear for the fate of our souls?

Leave that chewing gum off the bed post for tonight.
The dickhead who first thought of that ought to be shot.
That is, if he is living – if not, then reborn
That his germy ideas be subject to scorn.
Does your backbone betray you when you cop a squat?
Take a pain pill. Then everything will be alright.

YOUR PAYMENT !!

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

Yo, GET BACK TO ME ASAP, you ignorant fool!
I’ve been sending you emails for weeks! Are you there?
I’m obliged to know why you’ve not contacted me.
We have nine point nine million that you’ll never see
Unless you reply promptly. I don’t want to swear,
But a fish that’s not biting is way less than cool.

I am Miss Mildred Stenchfinch, Ambassador to
The Nigerian Designate in charge of wills.
Someone has kicked the bucket and left you a load.
Don’t you want to grab hold of this fortune you’re owed?
You could use it to jerk off, then pay all your bills.
I am looking for someone dull headed to screw.

Now, you are a fine one, but you’ve got to respond.
Lord knows fucking with people is diligent work.
So, Get Back To Me, dimwit. Indulge in my scheme.
Getting tons of free cash should be every fool’s dream.
Please respond to me, dear. I am not one to irk.
We are quite busy here with much wealth to abscond.

Can I Trust You.. ??

cute puppy, TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

Heartfelt Greetings, Dear Sir/Madam, Bless You This Day!
It’s my pleasure and great honor to contact you.
I implore you to take the time to read this well.
You’ll determine my fate – whether heaven or hell.
If you’re skeptical, I understand. I am too.
I have much less to do than who I must portray.

I am Engineer Ruhullah Zafer Hadid
From the Syrian Arab Republic of Pause.
And apart from your being quite rightly surprised,
Know my gratefulness cannot be over disguised.
I was Finance Consultant; the key word is ‘was.’
Now I’m rich beyond measure, yet mine isn’t greed.

I am seeking your help to dispense you some wealth.
It is quite a large sum. I must give it away
To some fine, trusted moron. I hope this is you.
There’s no future in begging, so this gig is new.
Do get back to me soon. ISIS may ruin my day.
Surely that would be bad for your financial health.

 

Attention Beneficiary

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

May the peace of the savior be with you, my dear.
I am sure that this message arrives at a time
You’re surprised at its coming to reach you just now.
I’m the Financial Minister of the Cash Cow
That is on loan from India. There’s been no crime.
If you want your jackpot, come and get it right here.

As the Central Bank Barrister, I speak to you
As the in-between nitwit in charge of your case.
Since the usual asshole has run out of steam
I have taken his place so things stay as they seem.
So, get back to me, sweetheart. I’d love to embrace
Every part of your bank account leaving no clue.

Our own Chief Representative Bereavement Bro
Has been crying his heart out on behalf of you.
There’s an ATM card being held in your care.
But in order to get it, you need not beware.
We just need lots more info. Please send it all to
Our Head Phishing Headquarters whose friend is your foe.

Tesla’s Off-Grid Multivibrator

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

Watch This Video NOW! You will cry tears of pee!!
There’s a Great Big-Assed Secret we’re living to share.
You are being sucked dry by the Power Grid folk.
Get your asses in gear, people. This is no joke!
We are telling you this because we really care
That you get your electric through us nearly free.

This is the real thing. This is not like those cheap
South Sumatran Sun Cells that those other guys sell.
This one’s not like the Meat Motor with the rawhide
And it’s not like the Lip Laser electrified.
It’s our plan for peak power – a bat out of hell
To take full charge of people whose pockets run deep.

Every reason to fear is why we are so dear
In convincing you you need to make your move NOW!
If you don’t take advantage, our offer won’t last.
You don’t want to let time pass and be the outcast.
So get out the old credit card. Manage, somehow,
To prepare for your fleecing. Then we’ll disappear.

When To Fondle Your Lug Nuts Is Not Mine To Know

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

It may be that your lug nuts are hot to the touch.
If this happens too often, then it’s a sure sign
That there’s too much heat passed to them through those brake shoes.
So, lay off that break petal, friend, you’re bound to lose.
But if that’s not the problem, you might be just fine.
Though, it could be the tranny or maybe the clutch.

Say you don’t have a stick shift? Then don’t mind my last.
You may think that I’m guessing, but that’s not the truth.
If those lug nuts are hot, you might give this a try –
Throw some cold water on them. They could be just shy
As they’re caught greasy-threaded by such a hand sleuth
Who is keen to take notice to heat they’ve amassed.

Don’t sneak up on your lug nuts as they do their thing.
I don’t think you would like it were that done to you.
Lug Nuts do have some sense of whenever they’re felt.
Just remind them you care for them. They’ve never dealt
With someone who will feel them just out of the blue.
Do those lug nuts a flavor. Let them have their fling.

If In Doubt, Piss On It!

TheMagicRealist.com

Now, it wouldn’t make sense if I pissed on a bone.
Always through it, I say, is the best way to go.
Do I have enough left to complete all my rounds?
I’ve got piss on the trigger, and it knows no bounds.
I seek out the un-christened. That’s all that I know.
I’m a casual pisser with skills I could hone.

I can piss. I can sniff. I can dissect the air
With my neural net nostrils that suck up the scent
Of all things that have happened, and creatures gone by.
I must update my ‘wall’ here. The last has gone dry.
I must re-mark the places where time I have spent.
The fine art of good pissing leaves me without care.

I can piss in mid trot and will not miss a spot.
There’s a lot of my pissing I’ll do on the fly.
There isn’t a thing I won’t piss on because
I’m a Master of Whiz. You may bid me applause.
If I piss on your day, there’s no reason to cry.
I’m a dog, for darned sakes, and I just piss a lot!

I Can’t Find What I Believe Is Lost

TheMagicRealist.com

Where the hell did it go? It was just in my hands!
Lord, I know I’m not dreaming. Have I a mind still?
I laid the thing down somewhere. Now it is gone.
I have searched every crevasse from dusk until dawn.
When I’m baffled, I just can’t believe in free will.
It has been teleported to faraway lands.

I’m caught up in the frenzy of thinking it’s lost
So my effort is frantic with focus unclear.
I keep searching in circles nonsensically so.
Where that thing disappeared to, I simply don’t know.
That I haven’t found it fandangles my fear.
I would vacate this Twilight Zone at any cost.

But the price isn’t heavy. In fact, it’s quite low.
What I must do is believe it’s not lost.
By releasing all tension and struggle, I will
In effect find what’s missing, and then what a thrill!
And through the ordeal my dear mood won’t be tossed.
I can find what is not lost since time long ago.

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.]