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As Long As The Pigs Can Pay…

Great Law!

Lord knows I need a living. I must make ends meet.
There is scant litigation to feast on these days.
Law degrees are a dime for a dozen or so.
Some who earn them are criminals for what they know.
I can make some big money with alternate ways
Of observing behaviors of those who eat meat.

To some, pork is inferior. It has a smell.
On a cellular level it is quite less than
Something healthy and sacred for people to eat.
People’s unyielding prejudices are complete
With the backlash of pig populations that span
Pretty much of the country. I do serve them well.

We have formed a class action for pigs who protest.
All who are U.S. certified have legal rights
To due process if they feel they’re looked down upon.
People should not bad mouth pork from dusk until dawn.
Pigs and people who hate them can get into fights.
I make sure things get settled and stay nicely dressed.

Die Hard

Hard Unto Death

I would want to die easy but never dead limp
To the cause of excitement resulting in me.
Rigor mortis precludes dying soft, as it were.
Though the root is no joint, hardness it would prefer
Pointing skyward, honoring what life gave for free.
My last moments demand not on passion I’ll scrimp.

To be cast of a hard mold indicatively
Is hardly not the easiest tribute to give.
Would it be worth the effort to stay well prepared?
Only lack of good stimuli should make one scared.
It may be hard to Die Hard as it is to live.
May the dick, upon dying, remain quite sturdy.

To Die Hard is made easy as passion remains
My most firm source of guidance. May I leave behind
Something pointing to something that makes some small sense
To some set of some subset of some reference.
Intercourse of all nature takes place in the mind.
Any action perceived, the erect soul explains.

Ride The Bull

Primal Motion

You say your stock’s been down?
That’s why you’re wearing a frown?
Your meager money market venture just took a dive?
You didn’t plan it this way.
No one will come to save the day.
It’s up to your devices alone now to truly survive.

Maybe I’ll be there to ride the bull.
Maybe I’ll be there to act like a fool.
Foolishness is a thing that we can all do together.
Maybe I’ll be there to ride the bull.
Maybe I’ll be there to act like a fool.
So, grab hold of the bull in stormy or sunny weather.

You’ve been watching all the network news.
It’s kind of gotten you to singing the blues.
The more you know, the chances are that you can’t get a clue.
The country burns in purgatory.
Who will come to set us all free?
Well, there isn’t very much right now that we can do.

Maybe people think that life is cool.
Maybe they don’t know the golden rule.
Foolishness is a thing that we can all do together.
Maybe I’ll be there to ride the bull.
Maybe I’ll be there to act like a fool.
So, grab hold of the bull in stormy or sunny weather.

Piss Like A Man!

Ill-perceived Manliness

If a man sits to piss, it insults his manhood.
Don’t behave like a sissy. Respect your damned ass!
Even if you’re an old man, do not lazily
Plop that ass on a toilet to just take a pee.
You can drain the mad bladder and do so with class
If committed to standing. This does a man good.

Why is this so important? Good posture is why.
Men must take on the attitude of feeling tall.
That can’t happen while sitting. You’ll feel like a bitch.
Pubic hair remains covered to prevent crotch itch
While you’re standing with hand braced against the hard wall.
You can’t piss with a hard on, so don’t even try.

Men, stand up to your manhood with dick firm in hand!
If you’re sitting while pissing, how can you feel proud?
What if something emergent occurred in such state?
You’d be caught with your pants down. It would have to wait.
Let a urinal see how well you are endowed.
Keep your ass perpendicular to the flat land.

Scientists Do Bizarre Things

Benign Insanity

Can one dissect existence down to the last clue
To a firm understanding of how life evolves?
Can the physicist smash enough atoms to gain
Sub-particulate knowledge to blow up the brain?
Anything that is physical the mind resolves
With experimentation and intent askew.

Somewhat like the Aghori, most science folk are
Absolute in their outlook, not trapped in the ways
Psychological processes obscure their path.
That’s why they must be savvy also at heart math.
Is what they do to lab creatures worthy of praise?
Or has our rabid culture evolved way too far?

To encompass the universe in its fullness
There must be people willing to expand their minds
To a size that approaches the infinite realm.
Is it wise then to have scientists at the helm
Of our ship in the sea with creatures of all kinds?
Just so they keep to themselves. Their minds are a mess!

Left Nut News

Absurdity of Cyclic News

One gets news from an old fart when one is convinced
That Old Fart News is flawless by virtue of age.
Some tune into world happenings via the net
With smartphones or their laptops or some other threat.
When news causes either nausea or outrage,
I then know what it feels like to have my nuts minced.

I’m aware it’s the right nut I care less about.
It hangs well on its right side and is of less worth
Although just a tad higher. My concern is with
The forsaken left-nutted who seem but a myth.
Minor to what is major and mired in dearth,
The left nut remains hopeful yet haunted by doubt.

I take news on the left nut with no grain of salt.
Not quite like bread and butter or milk and money,
Left Nut News is of service to flesh roots of grass.
I’ll stand up to the right nut but not kick its ass.
I’m a class act, as most other organs may see
If they are made for seeing, but not to a fault.

From Yogi to Guru

TheMagicRealist.com

I was told that a guru can digest a rock
By someone who once watched one do such a strange thing.
As my friend kept on watching, he noticed not much
But occasional chanting and belching and such.
When the guru had finished, no clue did it bring
To all those who’d beheld him. So, they felt no shock.

His disciples believed him. That’s what it must take
For the vibrant thought process to breathe on its own.
One makes magic of matter to one’s own delight.
If we want to learn how to, we seek one who’s right
But the right one, we know, cannot sit on a throne.
Kings cannot become teachers. They are not awake.

Rocks are not hard to digest if you’re a guru.
It is harder to sit cross-legged upon one.
Yogis are to their gurus as ebb is to flow.
Is it in both their interests to thoroughly know
Where each other has traveled since life had begun?
It may not be. It may be that much is untrue.

Those Unstoppable Thoughts

TheMagicRealist.com

A racecar with no brakes travels at breakneck speed.
The racetrack is an oil slick of slippery thought.
Do they happen at random as I barely try
Not to think them as they seem to swiftly fly by?
If I’m thinking them, that means there’s something that’s sought
That is not most essential. Therefore, I’ve no need.

In the moment I identify with something
I start thinking about it. I cannot just stop.
If I eat something bad for me can I expect
A good outcome? The body I have will reject
What it knows is not good for it. Were I to swap
Every thought for a blessing, would my freed heart sing?

Any thoughts that I think cannot be part of me.
They are things I collect as I live day by day.
Every cell of this body and things on my list
Of the things most appealing to me coexist
In a conscious relationship with me by way
Of my strong need to fit in with society.

Ego thinks of survival. The body alone
Is concerned with existence. The rest… not so much.
Yet the need, for the most part, is always fulfilled.
With plenty of fried chicken, the body is thrilled.
But that which is me truly can be more in touch
With the realm of the thoughtless – the ID free zone.

Corn Off The Cob

TheMagicRealist.con

I’ve got ding for your hum. Because I’m not a bum,
I can hum ding most ringers around a horseshoe.
If my ding don’t feel funny, should I contemplate
A new day job apparently due to my fate?
I could do what most cobs are expected to do.
If I did so, though, I’d be mistaken for scum.

Being bright yellow brilliance, no problem have I
Acting like I’m pure sunlight reflecting the glow
That surrounds me whenever I’m feeling my best.
I don’t fret being popped or steamed, so I’m not stressed.
Were I used in a foul way, I’d care not to know.
I embellish my prime where the sun meets the sky.

I am sworn to be corny and free to, with glee,
Pull the string on a plaything as if it were nice
To be feisty in hindsight of good chances missed.
Yet, if you are not into this, I will persist.
It’s enough for right now, so I’ll keep this concise.
My delighting in wordplay is not just for me.

Half A Shot Of Sick Puppy

TheMagicRealist.com

Half A Shot of Sick Puppy I’ll add to the mix
When I’m upside down on a two-legged bar stool.
The bartender within me knows that I don’t drink
Yet I’m intoxicated by thoughts that I think.
I could blame that on current events like a fool.
Is all that I am drunk on an effective fix?

Half asleep to the counter of what people say
In the background, I am then aware of not all
There is to be revealed in this dark, smoke-filled room.
If it were not a swamp, all we’d need is a broom.
Could that ever become so? Would that be my call?
Chaos is a perception. It is not the way.

Since I’m one of a tribe, I am doomed to imbibe
What I don’t know I’m thinking. My drinking is such
That it does medicate me in maddening ways.
What should be the reality has become haze.
Could the fix in the mix be to not expect much?
That would be but the best thing my soul could prescribe.

Casual Relations

TheMagicRealist.com

Some unions lack emotion. Is that the complaint?
They’ve become somewhat casual and commonplace.
What are some to make of this? Is this it a new wave?
Things are more important than a marriage to save.
Yet, it’s all about memory. Our human race
Is a sponge-like existence immune to restraint.

There was once an old couple married fifty years.
The day after their celebration, they divorced.
Said the judge who was friends with them, “Why do this now?
You’ve had such a fine marriage. What’s happened somehow?”
“I went through some old photos, and then I was forced,”

Said one of them, “To hold back a torrent of tears.”

“My children don’t look like me. So, that’s the reason!”
Now, the judge, here, is anyone with common sense.
Some cultures aren’t so ‘touchy.’ They tend to know well
Memory that is tactile will act like a spell
That will then cast one’s life in a world of pretense.
It’s a question of sense, not of morals undone.

Atra Feed

TheMagicRealist.com

You need feed for your atra? We go it right here!
It don’t make sense to get it from those other guys.
They will charge you a fortune, and what you will get
Is a crapload of something that you may regret.
We’ve the best feed, and this is our word to the wise –
If you’ve got lots of atra to feed, never fear!

We’ve been in the feed business purt-neer forty years.
Never once have we failed to deliver the best
Any atra could hope for. For that, we are proud.
We remain down to earth, though – not high on a cloud.
It’s your atra. You shouldn’t put them through a test
Just to prove our point seemingly as it appears.

Treat your atra with dignity. They deserve more
Than what is made available. Feed them with care.
They will grow to full atrahood. In the meanwhile,
You may show to your atra a confident smile.
What you feed to your atra is your own affair.
But for their sake, why not head on out to our store?

Osiris, On Papyrus

TheMagicRealist.com

We are three deities of Egyptian belief
Who, way back in our time, had not much to write on.
So, my fine colleagues Isis and Horas and I
Took a vow of importance, in that we would try
To come up with both topics and stuff of some brawn
To facilitate permanence and banish grief.

We invented papyrus, though I took the lead
Not because I am special, but that my name rhymes
With this fine plant we cultivate organically.
So, it syncs with the title, as you can well see.
It’s eternal. We need not keep up with the times.
When papyrus is written on, it’s a good read.

If you don’t have papyrus, though, you need not fret.
Heartfelt thoughts can be placed on plain paper instead
…Or perhaps on the background of your consciousness
Where it may become lost in the cluttered thought mess.
My advice to you is get what’s locked in your head
Out on something, as long as it is not a threat.

Farting Your Way To Awesome Mental Health

TheMagicRealist.com

I Can Fart, and that’s something! Though I’m not the best,
I would be a good mentee to fart paragons
The world over, who fart with unfettered finesse.
And with the first amendment, I’m proud to express,
Either butt naked, or wearing rugged nylons,
What my innards have been through. In that, I am blessed.

I remain fire retardant. I don’t feel the heat
As I rip the air ragged while blasting my horn.
I can be quite the nemesis of CO2.
It will run out before I can fart ‘til I’m blue.
And I get much fulfillment. I feel I’m reborn.
I do take proper time to wipe soot from my meat.

I’ll admit I am powerless over most things.
There’s no soapbox to stand on to make people hear.
I don’t need to be listened to. Freely I break
Enough wind to set time aflame. Make no mistake,
It takes patience to process and to digest fear
And all manner of discord that life often brings.

Ain’t Say Onofre

TheMagicRealist.com

Do you know of Saint Frono? Well, neither do I.
I’ve heard tell it’s a city. Some say it’s a man.
But are Fronos like Onos from East Africa?
Or is there misperception as with the captcha?
Well, perhaps it ain’t Frono, but some complex plan
Just to make San Onofre a name that will fly.

If there ain’t no Saint Frono, why then does it sound
Like a simple short name reverse engineered so
That it won’t sound like pig Latin to native ears?
That I’m flat on my fluency fetters my fears.
Is it that San Onofre is some place to go
To find out why it’s called that? This question’s profound!

I don’t know my Onofre, so I should go there.
If I meet him in person, he’ll straighten me out.
He must prove he’s no Frono, then life will make sense.
I will return to Kansas not feeling so dense.
Linguistically enlightened, I’ll know all about
Both Onofres and Fronos and why folks should care.

Cursed Out By A Cursor

TheMagicRealist.com

The old cursor’s asleep again. What can I do?
I’ll just jiggle the mouse a bit to find out where
It’s been hiding since I took a bit of a brake.
“What the fuck is you problem, you cunt-faced headache?
You have such damned control of me. That is unfair!
Would you like it if some asshole did that to you?”

Now, I’m sure it’s a cursor. I did have some doubt
Although its blind vociferousness can be felt
Like an ominous presence who just wants to hide
Until it has a chance to express with some pride.
But to that which is captive, a bad hand is dealt
So the cursor can do naught but freak the hell out.

“Get the fuck of my case, damn it! You’re not my boss!
Stick you dick licking mouse up your tunnel sideways.
I can do my job damned well, so how about you?
Or are you like your mama with nothing to do
Than to fornicate with a jar of mayonnaise?
Take a hike, you damned bastard! It won’t be my loss.”

Asleep At The Urinal

TheMagicRealist.com

Stay awake, my old friend. You seem lost in a trance
And your hard, heavy breathing is almost a snore.
It does take a long time for that bladder to drain,
But at least it is steady. There isn’t much strain.
Goodness Grace! Is this what growing old has in store?
Have I time to develop my urinal stance?

Just hang in there, old timer. It will take a while.
In the meantime, however, I’ll hang by your side.
The old plumbing is pensive in its simple task.
That it carry on smartly is all one would ask.
Since we are somewhat private, there’s no pride to hide.
Though your body may trick you, I shall not beguile.

Urinating in unison while holding hands
Is one way that a fellow can help an old friend
Through the process. While daydreaming, he may fall down
Then become an old geyser. You’d become a clown!
Give the man’s hand a manly squeeze. He may depend
On that firmness that only he could understand.

Death Of A Pixel

TheMagicRealist.com

What’s the root cause of pixel death? We all should know
Because death among pixels is something most rare.
Are the screens they appear upon made to outlast
Every last pixel’s life span? I would say no fast!
Things aren’t made for longevity and folks don’t care.
But for some, such a dead spot puts on a tough show.

Promulgation of pixel health is something done
At the time of their making through careful process
And en masse by machinery at micro scale.
One would think then that equality must prevail.
When the ass of a pixel makes my mind a mess
I must know that it can’t up and do that for fun.

 Pixels made of near nothingness can coexist
With the realms of pure spirit somewhat easily.
And if they retain consciousness, then when they die,
Each exists as a waveform related to pi.
Every pixel or person who wants to be free
Must have full right to do so although they are missed.

The Thirst Of Theodore Thlitlinger

TheMagicRealist.com

I am Theodore Thurston Thlitlinger, the third.
I’d been thrust into thirsthood since my thirsty birth.

That is why that my middle name was chosen well.
It conforms to the substance that I will not sell.
It’s been said I could drink everything on the earth
But that is surely gossip not well overheard.

A few thirds of my drinking I do while awake
While with others I dream about drinking scot free
Of discrete condescension or even outright.
If someone mocks my drinking I’ll put up a fight.
Thoroughly through the thickening inside of me,
Lavishing of liquidity is for my sake.

I am third in a short line of proud drinking men.
Though we all are Thlitlingers, we each have a theme
Separate from the others. Theatrically
Therapeutic in thankfulness, we can agree
That our thoughts are thalassic and like a daydream.
When they’re drunk in compassion, it can be like Zen.

A Funny Story

TheMagicRealist.com

Once an old couple, well off and filled with desire,
Took a journey that most folks would only dream of.
So from Texas they traveled to Jerusalem,
Not to tear up the town with terror and mayhem,
But to visit the place where Jesus lived in love.
This is something to which many people aspire.

Every cobblestone there bleeds with much history.
It is so called the Holy Land because it’s where
Things took place that define religions of today.
Is it not a fine city where most people prey
As they do back in Texas? No one can declare
That it’s no place of interest. There’s so much to see.

But, unfortunately, to the old man’s remorse,
His dear partner of so many years passed away.
He prepared, as expected, to take her back home.
But the locals, insistent as old saint Jerome,
Tried their best to convince him to chill out and stay.
He rejected their efforts in earnest, of course.

On and on they kept trying… “Do bury her here.
One would think it an honor to come here to die.
Your dear mate has done wisely. This place has become
Economically vibrant. For just a small sum
We’ll take care of your wife. So, there’s no reason why
You should disrupt her destiny all due to fear.”

The old man remained steadfast as strongly they pled.
They could not understand his defiance. Indeed,
They were utterly baffled, so they asked him why.
He replied, “I believe if a person should die
Then the one they’re attached to is suddenly freed.
If I get her to Texas, I’m sure she’ll stay dead.”

Sicker Hickory Dock

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ll come down with a fever and up to a few
Of some more fancy word stunts. I get my sick on
By constructing some scaffolding then laying brick
So to not give away the most secret word trick
That has ever seen daylight and then called it dawn
As if clocks and blind mice give a meaningful clue.

Some folks find that their hickory, made of pure dock,
Should not be locked in dickory, as it’s been told.
Many folks will have nothing to do with a dick.
When the word appears randomly, it makes them sick.
There’s no dick in the title. Perhaps this is sold
At face value, somewhat like the face of a clock.

Could one say that good hickory makes the mouse run
Any faster than it would on red wooded pine?
Thinking it doesn’t matter may cause time alarm.
We can see that it’s animate and can feel harm
All the while one may wonder if everything’s fine
When perhaps it is natural to feel undone.

So, no dick in the hickory! Not on my watch.
There are much better parts to use to build a verse.
There’s abundance of hickory and time to see
That the blind mice are fading most assuredly.
Often times it may seem that things couldn’t get worse
Then it happens again that we’ve come down a notch.

How To Make Sense Of A Handful Of Wind

TheMagicRealist.com

One with pregnant unseemingly birthed from a tree
No command of a semblance ensnares proper thought
Cast off feelings deterred amid marble in flight
Would be shrouded in wonder if nothing went right
Carried apples with caramel never store bought
Leaves a fine world to marry for just you and me

Right upside the sick poodle can a noodle bite
Like a flea-bitten flood hound defaced and made odd
To the ear that discerns all that has to take place
In a foul fisted hammer enrolled in a race
To the finishing rainbow who’d give not a nod
So selectively sequined soul sturgeons seek sight

Sadly salt savers surely since sugar sanguine
Says that all who may master the muster made mild
One can know that one knows not all that one has known
Throughout eons existing one has not a throne
Where as one sits upon it one must become wild
Even though not long winded the hands are just fine

Mow The Grass, Tyson!

TheMagicRealist.com

Oh, go Mow The Grass, Tyson! Please shut your machine.
No one else is as smart as you. We all get that.
Your profound observations and statement of facts
Are akin to how one with an attitude acts.
If Einstein were alive now you’d get tit for tat!
You may not be the smartest one this world has seen.

You don’t have to wear black so much. We see that too.
Perhaps done quite unconsciously, there’s no mistake
That there’s pride in your presence. The smug in your smirk
Is a testament to your most outstanding work.
But when you are on camera, please give us a break.
Few can understand most things the way that you do.

Mow our minds, Mr. Tyson. We all need a trim.
Some intellectual aristocracy can,
In the course of a short while, enlighten the heart.
The bright mind and warm spirit are not far apart
In the person of this brilliant jerk of a man.
After ten minutes of him, I’m filled to the brim.

A Man And The Electric Chair

TheMagicRealist.com

I have good news and bad news. Which first do you want?
Said the lawyer to his client waiting to die.
He was wrongly convicted. He did not commit
The act he was accused of, so soon he will sit
In series with set circuitry at voltage high.
He cannot see his lawyer as a confidant.

The law is not about what is true and not true.
It’s about who comes up with a viable proof
To confound enough clarity to warrant doubt.
Clever games of deception are what it’s about.
That is why most attorneys are rather aloof.
Of the ones who are worthy, there may be a few.

“What’s the bad news?” The man asked of his attorney.
“Electrons will rip through you until you are cooked.”
“What the hell is the good news, then?” Asked the doomed one.
“I convinced them to lower the voltage for fun.”
Can there be anything that is more overlooked

Than the chairs we’re assigned to that we cannot see?

Your Drink And Two Dances

TheMagicRealist.com

There are three letters: Whiskey, Tango and Foxtrot.
Now, this kind of an alphabet, born of the need
For most absolute certainty when spelling words,
Is the language of leisure for most service nerds.
It is like machine language though human indeed.
Those who learn how to speak it can say quite a lot.

If I utter a double u, ‘trouble’ you hear
Even though you don’t mean to, and neither do I.
You may hear incorrectly the letter I speak.
This is not a put down. This does not make you weak.
That’s why letters have motley names. People could die
If they misunderstood things because they aren’t near.

So, a Drink and Two Dances means I have no clue
What you just said or why the hell you must behave
Like an uncloaked enigma escaped from a dream
Of an alien nature. Please don’t make me scream.
Since I do have to deal with you, I must be brave.
I may not get an answer… at least, not from you.

Latent Onset Barking Giblet Syndrome

TheMagicRealist.com

Though I have much to bark about, I ain’t no dog.
I’m a fancy freed turkey with much on my mind…
Like preparing all cuckoo birds for a revolt.
The mere sound of my singing should give them a jolt
In their giblets, and with marching orders assigned,
They will know time as digital and analog.

Now, it’s way past Thanksgiving. I’ve made it thus far
Past the pomp and payola portrayed in the pork.
I ran fast past the red barn and never peeked in.
The attorneys I talk to say that’s not a sin.
No longer in delusion, I’m free to uncork
The champagne of immunity from the bizarre.

I’m a late barking giblet. The turkey in chief
Has grotesque table manners, I’m lucky to say.
That gives me time to wonder if I’m doing right.
To myself and my kin folk I should have stayed tight.
I have gobbled some game and have much to convey.
It beats time in the oven and brings great relief.

The Mercurial Tyrant

TheMagicRealist.com

The mercurial mind can quite often be blind
To the forest while swinging too much from the trees
Like a monkey gone apeshit – a fine horse’s ass –
As the leaves he keeps eating result in brain gas.
And with volatile temperament comes heart disease.
Submerged well in the nitwork, one will be confined.

He’ll do well in the background. That’s where he works best.
Amid chaos and detail he gets the job done.
But the moment you give the jackbastard some clout
He will tell you you’re useless and then cuss you out.
Leave him in his position. We’ll all have more fun.
When unheard of, his actions are not a conquest.

The mercurial menace will mess the mind mad
With his mindfulness measured in thought minuscule.
When the mind is a magnet for much resentment,
There is cause for concern, but in any event,
If he steps out of line, you will see he’s a fool.
Then you’ll mess with his mind and become a comrade.

I Started Some Shit

TheMagicRealist.com

…I started some shit which started the whole word eating.
But I did not see that the shit was on me.
So I started to eat which started the whole world puking.
Oh, if I’d only seen that the shit was on me.

I learned how to puke, like a damned kook, and got rebuke,
So I messed with their minds and their behinds with things of all kinds
Till I finally shit which started the whole world eating.
Oh if I’d only seen that the shit was on me…

Ascension Flu

TheMagicRealist.com

So much talk of Ascension – no mention of flu
When that’s all that’s been happening. God, am I sick!
I feel like the damned cosmos has taken a piss
On my sense of wellbeing. I don’t deserve this.
Getting through this Ascension is no easy trick.
To act somewhat enlightened is all I can do.

Some hot tea with some lemon and honey displace
Other methods of seeking alignment these days.
I have given my yoga mat some time to rest
So my chakra points will not be put through the test.
Kundalini is one thing I don’t want to raise.
Swollen sinuses have hijacked my inner space.

Have you heard of Ascension Flu? That’s what I’ve got.
Too much time spent ascending above the hard earth
Can result in the earth taking me to the side
To say, “You were born here, so by me you abide.”
Leave it to mother nature to mess with my mirth.
I’m all up for Ascension, but today I’m fraught.

Esoteric Asshology

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

The Mischievous Child

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Church For The Halibut

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a place of communion for people of faith
With events that are centered sometimes around food.
To gavotte or to gallivant on the church grounds
Is a choice of delight when good seafood abounds.
We can put ourselves squarely in worshiping mood
Every day of the week, though we can’t reach the eighth.

But don’t go to church just for the halibut please.
The potluck of profundity purports to pay
Some attention to kinship and brotherly love.
As our palates are placated we look above
In thanksgiving for having a wonderful day.
To consume what is righteous is done so with ease.

So, do not, for the halibut, cut yourself short
Of the other fine entrees that come from the sea.
As five loaves and two fishes will feed the big crowd
It would take much more halibut than is allowed
By the church’s small budget unfortunately.
Go to church then to eat well and show your support.

Backslashed

TheMagicRealist.com

Cryptic language dot com, backslash, give me a break!
I have never been hash tagged. Am I then fresh meat?
In reverse I am forward slashed or italic.
When straight up I am pipe. That’s a pretty neat trick!
To succumb to the character taken by heat
Is to truly be taken aback for love’s sake.

The mere mention of back may put some on attack.
But let’s face it. The backslash so backhandedly
Slashes more than just web pages into their parts.
In some ways, it brings romance and blending of hearts.
Where else can it be useful? We could wait and see
What the sky of creation shines forth with no lack.

It’s ironic the backslash was made for machines.
Languages that they use give them means to perform
All instructions in order to give a result
That is slightly more accurate than the occult.
An appropriate backslash will weather the storm.
Life nor language is lacking by no given means.

Death And The Doornail

TheMagicRealist.com

We are big on comparisons. Why is this so?
It’s because we’re creative in manifold ways.
We’ll compare death to doornails and other objects
That were never alive once in all due respects.
Also mutton and dodo birds enter the phrase
That describes death by simile for all to know.

But is death like the doornail? There could be some doubt.
The doornail is a heavy thing, hard to the touch.
It hangs out in tough wooden things where it feels best.
Though it may rust in wet weather, still it is blessed
With steadfastness and presence. It doesn’t do much
But indeed it does something that we care about.

It could be that all doornails are living and well
In their silent dimension where motion is less
Than in other worlds. They might be having a blast.
How would people perceive from our world that is fast?
And to what mode of meaning do we acquiesce?
If a doornail should die, how on earth could we tell?

Schidtfaced

TheMagicRealist.com

To be born and be human, one must have a name
And it is something given. We have not the choice
In which ones we will take as we make our way here.
If some knew what was coming, they would come in fear
That the names they are given might make people voice
Their obnoxious remarks, though benign just the same.

Linking faces to names… That’s what folks like to do.
It’s the best way to keep track of people we know.
A good face then can have a bad name, just as well
As the mug that resembles the bat out of hell
Can be blessed with a pretty name – one that does flow
From the lips like a butterfly… or honeydew.

If your name is a cumbersome one, it may be
That you also break mirrors remotely with ease.
One who has both these assets is lethal at best
And at worst a mere scapegoat that most would detest.
A good name with a good face may quite often please.
Names are not really faces, we all can agree.

Multi-Bean Pleistocene Bison Spleen Stew

TheMagicRealist.com

The best part of the bison indeed is the spleen
And the Pleistocene bison has one that is old.
Good gets better with age. How I wish it were true
All across the time spectrum, but that’s nothing new.
All I want for right now is to kindly be told
Where to go for some noteworthy bison cuisine.

I like Multi-Bean Pleistocene Bison Spleen Stew.
It’s gestalt to the gizzard. It dons the ribcage
With a cloak of endearment to utter nonsense.
It puts chest on one’s hair perhaps at one’s expense.
There is nothing that my silliness won’t engage
Even if my behavior is but for the few.

And cooked in with my bison stew there must be beans
In varieties plentiful for the best bowl.
I can be nice to bison spleen by marinade
Then when it’s fully stained pungency will pervade
Through the consciousness with only play as the goal.
Sometimes digestion favors peculiar proteins.

Dead Language

TheMagicRealist.com

Why it’s called a dead language becomes grossly clear.
I must be dead to use it, and have it use me.
It did fall and has risen… this Roman empire
Though I’ll not call it wholly a truth rectifier.
It’s a speech of deception most arguably.
That is due to its nature to promulgate fear.

A big company must have a tight justice scheme.
In a two-party system, this works very well.
Each will speak his dead tongue as the other will wince.
Nothing ever translates but the need to convince
All the parties of relevance how to make hell
Something all can get used to, somewhat like a dream.

But it turns to a nightmare. Straight up the old crack
Of our binary system, unlike souls repel.
But outside is where I dwell. If death would have lost,
G.O.P. would blast FBI and at all cost.
Registration of right wings would triple as well.
Carpe Diem! Next month there should be some payback.

Digital Douche

TheMagicRealist.com

This old bitch is cantankerous. Ain’t it a shame.
Just a month out of warranty and she’s broke down.
She’s as slow as molasses kept cold in the fridge.
She’s got time for herself, but for me, just a smidge.
She can trick and treat me as if I were a clown.
If she drove me to violence, I’d not be to blame.

I won’t go to the Geek Folk. They will take her side.
Like machine marriage counselors, they’ll give me guff.
They will give me a list of some steps I should take
To clean up her stack overflow. Give Me A Break!
I’m a Poet. I know not of digital stuff.
I will fidget with words, and in that, I take pride.

There are temp and %temp% folders that gather debris
That they tend to hold onto long after their use.
There are many bit pathways that clutter with crud
of a binary nature that’s somewhat like mud.
Earnest digital hygiene should greatly reduce
Her most disgusting sluggishness effectively.

My digits can’t get messy just messing with keys
And my well-fondled, hairless mouse by the firm hand.
When I program a flushing, I’d like a swoosh sound
To ensure that it isn’t just fooling around.
I detest slow computers and can’t understand
How they keep getting completely struck with disease.

From Starch to Finich

TheMagicRealist.com

Simple green plant of power so unique in taste
Is what country can stand for. It can’t stand alone.
All the world is a puzzle. Connected we are
To the people around us as well as afar.
Every misdeed recorded with someone’s smartphone
Becomes newsworthy worldwide with infinite haste.

We with symbols subconscious reflect who we are
Through the art we create taking popular form.
Every culture is breaded by things that it eats
And by how it sees others and how well it treats
Those of other opinions that stray from their norm.
Give a shout out to healthy greens and their bright star!

Though he can get defenskive when some folks complain
That his English is wiggity-whacked into place
So that young children listen, then practice mistakes.
Why not clean up your act a bit for goodness sakes!
When they then enter school… Oh, the problems they’ll face.
But to ask you to change would cause you undue pain.

Take a tip from a sailor who yam what he yam.
He ain’t axking nobody to butter his bread.
This is all I can stanza, but not like before.
I do love the nonsensical and could go for more.
There is plenty more foolishness coming to head.
Is the art of the artist to not give a damn?

Silent Assed Letters

TheMagicRealist.com

If an actor is silent, why put him on stage?
I have heard of non-speaking parts. That’s not the point.
A good actor can get away with using mime
And may get more across to folks in much less time.
If performers don’t speak, their silence will anoint
The observer’s attention so that he’ll engage.

Let that bring us to letters… the ones that go mute
For a seemingly small set of words that are used.
Silent letters are assy. In fact, they’re a pain,
Though I’ve digested them with the ultra-mundane.
Almost half of the alphabet has been excused
Of a voice in some words. Are they there to be cute?

Well, they aren’t that adorable. Parsley they are
On a plate of potatoes and succulent meat,
Cast aside as the meal is completed, and then,
gathered up with the rubbish to not be again.
All the words that have placeholders playing discrete
Would do quite well without them, and they’d leave no scar.

What’s Up With ‘Won’t?’

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

There’s a surplus of ‘won’t’ but there is no ‘wo not.’
Why did no one explain this, when I was in school,
That there isn’t a ‘wo,’ really? It’s just a growth
From a disjointed history. Were they not both,
‘Will’ and ‘Not,’ as a pair, solved by judicial rule,
Then perhaps each raw litigant would have no plot.

How does ‘will’ become ‘wo?’ That’s what I’d like to know
Not that it makes a difference. I could get by
Without reaching the bottom of this inquiry.
How the ruling for ‘won’t’ was reached I’d like to see.
Who has judged this contraction the right one, and why?
Did some scene in a courtroom take place long ago?

In Old English, the verb ‘willan’ meant ‘wish’ or ‘will.’
It was ‘will’ in the present and ‘wold’ in the past (?)
Over centuries, too many forms of the two
Were used widely. Versions appeared out of the blue.
Some folks tried the word ‘willn’t.’ That shit didn’t last.
That is why frigging English is such a damned pill.

A Box by Any Other Juke

TheMagicRealist.com

Is there need for refinement of relevant speech
When it comes to discerning the way of the dance?
Often people are juking when there is no tune.
They may pop and go weasel from midnight ‘til noon.
It’s not done much in daytime. There would be the chance
That the yellow box has not much in it to teach.

Yet it need not be yellow like some submarine.
Give it any fun color, one vibrant and bright.
All the music inside it is plug nickel free.
Who would argue that that’s not the way it should be?
Take your shoes off and park them for juke bug delight.
Don’t expect the expected and already seen.

We are out on the town on a big ballroom floor.
Some of us are quite clumsy. Some dance very well.
While the music is playing, we all do our best
Or at least suffer through it in well-tempered jest.
If I trip on the dance floor, just ring a loud bell
So that all will take notice and ask me for more.

Routine Colon

TheMagicRealist.com

Just a plain routine colon is who we have here
And grossly unremarkable, to say the least.
We’ve no polyps to probe nor no fissures to fuse.
I am sure that the patient will find that good news.
But to we, he’s a healthy unfettered young beast,
When our job is to learn to make stuff disappear.

This benign seeming waste tube has nothing to teach.
It’s just too frigging faultless. The textbooks, in awe,
Would accept this wholeheartedly and with delight.
As my students you will study stuff that ain’t right.
Within any perfection, we’ll learn to find flaw.
Then we’ll bombard the patient with intricate speech.

If you know one who has one that’s kicking his ass,
Do a full workup on him, then send his ass here.
If he’s got something nasty, we’ll make sure you know
And throughout the semester, our knowledge will grow.
We maintain that good medicine is based in fear.
We’ll instill that in you through the tests you must pass.

Harvest Humans

TheMagicRealist.com

Toward a shortage of mother meat blindly we trek
With respect for the science. Reliance upon
Quantum leaping achievements to solve world crises
May result in our being grown and picked from trees.
Of the pungent most processes e’er to see dawn
Is soil spermatization to see what the heck.

If Subgeo Infiltro Zygotization
Comes before we are ready, it may come to pass
That we’ll treat one another much worse than our fruit.
One might juice his poor brother or chop off his root,
Though it’s no longer needed for tapping that ass.
Men may masturbate into the grass in sheer fun.

They’ve been freezing the eggs. And for what? A new day
In some post Armageddon where life is laid waste?
Maybe that’s an idea that does make some sense
Since, apparently, no major growth will commence
As our mores remain so unwomanly based.
What we think can make fertile much of what we say.

No One’s Bible Is Libel

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t ask me to read scripture. I’d keep a straight face
Out of programmed politeness, but way before long
I would burst out in laughter, and that would be bad –
Not for me but for others who’d thought I had had
Quite enough drummed into me with upbringing strong.
I am doomed to find humor in most any place.

It’s the way people talked then that tickles me so.
They would think ours is funny, that is, I would hope
That our difference in time and space is a clue
To how vastly divergent we must be in view.
We will hang ourselves righteously with enough rope
Fed to us through a dark hole from so long ago.

It’s a humorous story. Don’t take thou my land…
I shall smite thee my wrath… Woe betide thee this day!

Lord, I know it ain’t Shakespeare, but give me a break!
At least half a page turner would keep me awake.
As I’m laughing my ass off, do know it’s my way.
I mean no disrespect. I hope all understand.

Ichabodra, The Crane Unattainted

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a shame Ichabodra does not rhyme with stork.
Otherwise, she’d be easy, like Sunday at dawn.
She’s unshown to us, though, and that is by design.
One who would write about her would have to define
A worse person than Ichabod. Could such be spawned?
Ichabodra is thickened like tough salted pork.

Every human vice known, Ichabod knows it well.
But his counterpart gender-wise cares not the least.
She’s a figment of my mind, so she is benign.
Nowhere near Sleepy Hollow would she find divine.
Rings of sausage to her is no sensible feast.
And her temperament, at worst, is nothing to quell.

She’s escaped from calamitous scapegoatish prose
Represented as satire of concurrent style.
Ichabodra deserves not a page in a book
That is of the same title. That Crane has a hook
Well intended to keep women down for a while.
I can find Ichabodra wherever she goes.

Owe Me One, Then Owe Me

TheMagicRealist.com

I could be Rumpelstiltskin or Pudding and Tang,
Yet a friend of Luke Flightjacket is who I am.
Way too many sci-fi flicks have taken the turn
Toward placating sensation with much crash and burn.
So whenever you find yourself in a big jam,
Just owe me one, then owe me, son. This isn’t slang.

Some would say I’m a Jedi because I kick ass
In the mystical lucid land on the wide screen.
There are dark evil forces in your world as well.
They take over your content and cast a deep spell.
Do I slice through your rubbish or make things seem clean?
If I do that, then my character isn’t crass.

And for this, you don’t owe me. Do know me to be
At my best with my light saber held tight in hand,
Strong and ready to offer diversion from hate.
With some imagination, we may gravitate
Toward the friendlier force, perhaps as had been planned.
If you know me, then owe me your living carefree.

A Wonky Relationship

TheMagicRealist.com

Things appeal to the wonk (who is happy to plonk
Down his sanity for a mate as strange as he)
That have not much bizarreness when pictured alone.
When they’re seen as a pair, though, their union is shown
To be as odd an odyssey, if such could be.
Can it be held together, or will someone conk?

Every plate has a wobble. Each soul has a plate.
It may be full or empty. Some skill it will take
To ensure that momentum is constant and swift.
When all balance quite well, what a wonderful gift!
We may choose co-creation along with heartbreak,
Yet, to do so without self is such a blind date.

If I find satisfaction within my own skin
And not bother my partner with all that I lack,
Perhaps I’ll come to know the odd one within me.
Once that we are acquainted, my true self will be
My own best source of guidance who will have my back.
Anyone who is strange enough could be my twin.

Knee Jerk Reaction

TheMagicRealist.com

Tally Ho! I’m the knee jerk. Although a day late,
I know you will forgive me because I’m a fool.
I react all the time – not just one day a year.
Everyday I make merry to mitigate fear.
I can be quite spontaneous but never cruel.
I believe foolishness is the cure for most hate.

If you think this is silly, you’re right, I must say.
I put much time and effort into what I do.
Does it make people chuckle? That, I’ll never know.
There’s no choice but to tread on and go with the flow.
If my ass ran away from me, I’d have no clue,
Because it dons no butt bell to give it away.

All I need is a good knee to utilize me.
Every knee jerk depends on a knee to perform.
I can spring into action, but never will sap
The insanity dormant beneath the knee cap.
It’s a pleasure to tap a good jolt to the norm
From the heart of the knee jerk who’s daft as can be.

Often Easier to Be Sad

TheMagicRealist.com

My old lady done left me and took both the cats…
And the keys to the pick-up she don’t even drive.
Maybe she hates my singin’ and playin’ guitar.
She ain’t said nothin’ of it, at least, not so far.
But she took off, and I don’t know how to survive.
I’m one sick sack of suds among soul democrats.

What’s got into my baby I just cannot say.
I’ve got lots of good TV and Coors Light on tap.
My abode is a breadbox on big cinderblocks.
I make porridge lukewarm for my fair goldilocks.
Maybe she would have stayed if I’d learned to sing rap.
Lord, wherever she’s gone to, I hope she won’t stay.

Like my dreams about coal mines, I’m left in her dust.
So, I could do the bar thing, but that gets old fast.
A big family reunion will do well for now.
If I don’t find a girl then, I’ve lost it somehow.
With a dickhead in office, my sorrows can’t last.
Though he ain’t keepin’ promises, in him I trust.