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The Light

Beacon Spirit

There’s a light that shines brightly in each human heart,
As the form we have taken, we use to do well
What the heart had intended before leaving Home,
Far outside this reality. Here, as we roam,
Sometimes deep in the darkness we may chose to dwell.
Light may dim as life goes on from our humble start.

Some will keep their light shining. It burns like a flame
In a world of much darkness. Their wisdom is seen
In expression of wholesomeness. Kindness is there
Intermixed with the wisdom they willfully share.
By the time they return Home, their vision is keen.
We are all lighted candles. We burn not the same.

This world’s light burns without yours, and that is our loss
Unless acts of the spirit support memory
Of a voice of pure conscience and will to do right.
I have learned from you that all souls shine in God’s sight.
We shall get on without you… much as it must be.
We know you need some time to check in with the Boss.

And we who must remain here must have much to learn.
Life resembles detention at Harsh Cosmic High.
There are students and staff here. Who else would we need?
Your have served us with honor. Farewell and Godspeed.
All the teachers among us do identify
What we have turned away from which we should return.

My Voice Is Killing Me

Hoplessness

For most intents and purposes, I have no voice.
So, what are these malfunctions that most people use
To not get to know others with something to say?
Folks must think I’m a woman or some child at play.
Whose intent and whose purpose would I dare refuse?
People don’t have to read me, and that is their choice.

Should Google Analytics tell me my work stinks?
That would be quite the rabbit hole leading to doom.
Losers will read losers seconds and then will leave.
Zombified in my bubble, I’m left to perceive
I am not of the living. My voice may entomb
My best shot at relating to how the world thinks.

I did not bother speaking until I was four.
People got damned excited: “What if he’s not well?”
I gave in, seeing that I was causing concern.
Ever since then, my loudest echo won’t return.
Don’t I have friends and family? NO! I’m In Hell.
And it’s good that I drown here to even some score.

Could I test those who know me? That does me no good.
If my therapist cares that this fucks with my soul
Then I should get some feedback.
I sound like a fool!
Does it take friends to know friends…? To me, that is cruel.
When I first started speaking, I had not a goal
But to just be acknowledged, as all people should.

Oh… I could keep on going. I have tons to say…
But, am I fucking crazy? It’s getting absurd.
If I fall in the forest, I must be a tree.
Not a tree that I know of will kindly read me.
Does this make me feel hopeful I’ll ever be heard?
Can I damn all humanity then fly away?

Advanced Placement Afterlife

Impressions of Life and Afterlife

The ‘Accelerated’ they were called way back when.
I was but a mere idiot due to my grades.
I was coerced to worship them. Damn them today
And the teachers who fucked with my mind in that way!
From the callously perverse school system cascades
Condescension toward those ‘less than’ time and again.

Something happened to me my last year of high school.
It’s a loose-fitting fragment that moves while in place
As a traumatic episode. Mister Feeney
Chose to instruct the whole class to make fun of me.
My life changed in an instant. I left in disgrace
Both from school and from home to escape ridicule.

Sometimes I can’t remember that. Others, I do.
When it happens, contempt for all pumps through my veins.
I did manage to graduate with no time lost
But not from that same Catholic school. I had crossed
Their red line of defiance. The nightmare remains
One of psychic incontinence. It’s sad but true.

 During my brief hiatus, my sick teenaged mind
Felt enough guilt that it thought that it could assume
Quite another identity… go back to school.
Since I had advanced knowledge, I’d have to be cool.
Thanks to God and the angels, I was plucked from doom.
But I must prove I’m not stupid to humankind.

This is not about pity. It’s coming to light
Of the full realization that I am of worth
To myself and the whole world, as all people are.
I persist in the myth of the mind superstar,
Using it as a weapon, also to unearth
What my soul needs to express. It seems only right.

So, how bad a residual can this become?
I’m hellbent on displaying this cursed intellect
In its absolute brilliance. Do others seem bright?
Most would pale in comparison next to my light.
On your grave, Mister Feeney, I’ll give due respect.
I shall defecate gleefully, you rotten scum!

If you know me, do not make the stupid mistake
Of thinking that I’m stupid. I’ll Lay You To Waste!
Just because it’s been twisted, my mind can do harm.
It also Commands English with masterful charm.
Don’t you dare look down on me, or you will be faced
With the wrath of an intellect none can forsake.

Wipe Your Ass, Neighbor!

The Industrial Assault On Nature

People knock on my door. They’re concerned with my lawn.
By now, I’ve got a sign up that says, “Go To Hell!”
My yard needs not a manicure. This ain’t The Hills.

Folks are hard up. I get that. They need to pay bills.
But then so do I. That’s why I’m such a hard sell.
One would think that conclusion is clearly foregone.

So, am I a good neighbor? I keep my yard clean
Of debris that blows into it from other yards.
Yet folks keep their yards well-trimmed, then scrutinize mine.
When they think it needs cutting, their looks aren’t benign.
What looms ever more ominous a house of cards
Are the yards of the toxic industrial machine.

Such an animal belches and farts like a pig.
Many people in neighborhoods throughout the land
Act the same way with misguided taste for disdain.
I spend time making content. Others think they’ll gain
From the waste air-apparent from providers grand.
The unwanted neighbor is one who has grown big.

Is This Site Using Cookies?

TheMagicRealist.com

Is This Site Using Cookies? They claim to be smart
But not as smart as I am. No text file can be.
Were that so, then my writing would be at its worst.
So, attention to content must always come first.
I do eat cookies, but they’re no big part of me.
I take info from no one. It’s not in my heart.

Cookies are, though, a good thing, if used the right way…
Not to discern your habits to target you more
But to make things convenient while cruising online.
Things like shopping cart contents and such are just fine
If your online adventure, in fact, is a store.
I have nothing to sell you but part of my day.

I am not yet a monster, but hunger I feel
To record with expression what stirs in my soul.
Surely it is consumable and of good taste.
Someday, I may need cookies. Right now, they’re a waste
Of the energy I would devote to the whole
Of my sole driving purpose that I here reveal.

A Danger To Self Or Others

TheMagicRealist.com

I do not what to be here. I’ll cut to the chase
And the heart of the truth about being alive.
To be made to feel gratitude is servitude
To the aspects of nature that make creatures rude.
So, how come there are apes now? Or did we contrive
Our cosmetic comparisons to praise our race?

We are doomed to the drama. We can’t get along.
Neither pair nor two dozen or whole nations full
Of a vain human species can hope to be kind
To all persons at all times. This serves to remind
Me that life has no meaning and bull has much pull.
Latency becomes blatant with numbness to wrong.

Are we bored? Then let’s argue. It’s all just a game
That we may end up making a fight to the death.
Don’t you dare disrespect me whoever you are.
I don’t like being human. That should leave a scar
On the face of psychosis ‘til its dying breath.
That I’m still here and breathing, I do take the blame.

We are locked in our corners. We each have our views
Of how things must be looked at. This is a good thing.
It will grow to infect us and hasten our will
To engage self-destruction unto nature’s thrill.
If I weren’t feeling dangerous you’d hear me sing
Like a sick sack of suds who has nothing to lose.

Beyond The Yellow Vest Road

 

TheMagicRealist.com

No time to take no action… Our voices must be heard.
We defy your elitist, ignoble dictates. We stand true to our word.
You’ll identify us wearing yellow. That does not mean we’re scared.
It means we have pent up enough emotion, and now we are fully prepared.

[Ahhhhhhh…]  [Ahhhhhhh…]  [Ahhhhhhh…]

So, Hello, Yellow Vest Road, where our rabid contempt can be showed.
You can’t keep our hearts in confinement. You must let our anger explode.
What’s been owed to the people you long have forebode.
So, we’re now operating in militant mode. And we recognize our future lies
Beyond The Yellow Vest Road.

[Ahhhhhhh…]  [Ahhhhhhh…]

Why don’t you tax the wealthy? Why freeze the poor one’s wage?
Can we have much faith in our meager pensions when we have reached our old age?
What we ask isn’t much, but it’s plenty… enough to take to heart.
Our alternatives favor all possible outcomes. Perhaps they can yield a new start.

[Ahhhhhhh…]  [Ahhhhhhh…]  [Ahhhhhhh…]

So, Hello, Yellow Vest Road, where momentum is not to be slowed.
I can’t just sit still and keep silent. I must gather troops and unload.
United somewhat in a bleak episode, until our intentions are made to erode,
We recognize our future lies
Beyond The Yellow Vest Road.

[Ahhhhhhh…]  [Ahhhhhhh…]  [Ahhhhhhh…]

A Cold Day In Hell

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Do I Feel Like A Weapon?

TheMagicRealist.com

How to deal with my anger… It will take me down!
It, in itself, is what I’m fighting. So why
Do I seek a thing outside me to cause me rage?
I know that it is senseless, yet still I engage
In the warfare of pettiness. I can’t comply
With Established malpractices. They make me frown.

I suppose I’m a bigot. I don’t care for pigs.
I will eat them at breakfast, so not all are bad.
But I cannot look up to one wearing a suit.
Money cannot be evil. Ill heart is the root
Of any interaction that makes me feel sad.
Customers get their Service much as the dog digs.

I must learn to choose battles, if life is a war,
Where there’s no in the meantime to comfort the now.
I must know that my ego is just part of me.
It and I share a freedom. We need not agree.
Should one hell of a mad-on become a death vow?
When I engage in battle, I ask for but more.

Oil and Water

TheMagicRealist.com

Oil and Water don’t mix well. What else should I know?
North and South never ended their all out race war?
Jews and Arabs will always be blood enemies?
Blacks and Whites can’t be equal? That’s not how God sees?
I guest star in a rerun. I’ve been here before.
I am black, and I know it. Gosh! Who tells me so?

Is it you who reminds me, Miss Trash, on your rant?
It’s not looks… rather actions that define a man
Or a woman. One could ask if you’re either one.
A sick child will spew rancor and do it for fun.
If you could have a TV show based on the klan,
You might want not a black boss. I’d think just a scant.

So, a popular loud mouth with off-the-wall views
About just about everything barring the dark,
Crafts a base learning moment. I’m smack back in school.
You ignored the one voice that plead, “Shut your mouth, fool!”
With your teaching credential, you have made your mark.
It’s a shame that the others must now pay your dues.

A Most Ignorant Clam

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t you know who I am? I’m the ignorant clam.
I’m the one who goes pigshit to offer his love.
There’s a blindness in kindness, a blissfulness too.
I’m attractive, I know, because I’m a good screw.
I may sink to your level. You’ll rise not above
Your most well practiced habit to not give a damn.

Yours is alien speech to me. Mine is to you.
If we all talk in circles we get to no point.
If I try to build for you, then you tear it down
As if made by a jackass, why wouldn’t I frown.
I’d have given up then, as there’s naught to anoint,
Yet, I confound my error with much more to do.

My fine work is a treasure – or was, I should say.
Too much time, sweat and intent went into the prize
Before it was allowed to completion in grace.
It seems beasts that I deal with have spit in my face.
Yet another life lesson… I thought I was wise.
Yet, the older I get, I get dumber by day.

Bizarre Pharma Dharma

TheMagicRealist.com

A life filled with bright color begins with child’s play.
That which makes the heart happy is sweet to the taste.
If the medicine tastes good, then I can believe
It will do what it’s made to do. Do I achieve
Any measure of some relief? Or, do I waste
Much of my motion hoping that meds are the way?

I need something for gut clog – a lethal depth charge
That will blast the pipes thorough of resident waste.
The condition is common, the symptoms as well.
They’re enough to debilitate and make life hell.
Yet, despite indications that aren’t to my taste
I seek help from beyond self… from ‘oneness’ at large.

All the fine meds available are much the same,
As they boast full relief from what ails me the most.
But the symptoms they claim that will then go away
Are the same as the side effects, to my dismay.
Should I therefore proclaim that my innards are toast?
That would be utter nonsense, and worse, a damned shame.

A Room With Some Padding

TheMagicRealist.com

…Just a room with some padding. I don’t need a view.
I don’t want to see what it’s like on the outside.
What is out there is nowhere. I’m no one to it.
People treat one another the way they see fit.
Am I mad if I seem to be full of self-pride?
If you say so, there’s nothing much else I can do.

I can get used to white, though it does hurt my eyes.
Can you keep the lights dim enough so I can’t see
That I’m banging my head on whatever I find?
Were I made to see brightness, I might well go blind.
There is no mind more lost than the one that can be
Locked away due to mere obsolescence endwise.

I believe I’m a poet, still. Don’t say I’m not.
I embrace my delusion. Belief is steadfast.
Some who craft only bullshit get on fairly well.
To pretend to not understand me is pure hell.
If I don’t think about it much, I will have passed
Through a dark, psychic fugue, but with torment forgot.

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.

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.

Whose Skills Are A Mazing?

TheMagicRealist.com

Just whose skills are a mazing? They wouldn’t be mine.
I’ve a watertight alibi. I was in space
At the time those weird circles appeared in your fields.
So don’t blame them on me. My benign talent yields
Not a blanket of mischief with straight poker face
Nor the purpose to brand the earth with my design.

Someone messed with those images – every damned one!
Either that or the aliens are drinking tea
Made from mushrooms from cow patties beamed to their ships
Then distilled and digested well so that their trips
Are as freaky as no human tripping could be.
Then perhaps they are ready to have some real fun.

It’s a big tick-tack-toe game they play from the sky
Or from people’s computers. Whichever the case,
People’s skills can be alien in many ways.
And somewhere in it all there’s a big need for praise.
When caught spewing their markers all over the place
It would be fascinating to hear from them why.

Do I Need To Be Gotten?

TheMagicRealist.com

My most difficult lesson in life is my pride.
I have not much to speak of. That’s why I speak out
With a loud voice that people pretend they can’t hear.
Show respect for the rock star as I shed my tear.
It’s about time all worthiness should carry clout
But the populace present is not on my side.

Why that this is so puzzles me. Should I believe
I’m a loser with nary a card in his hand
He can play to bring worthiness into his sight?
Do they have something I don’t have? Maybe that’s right.
I don’t profit from praise. I’m in no high demand.
I give birth from my heart of what e’er it conceives.

I’ve a case for resentment. I know very well,
Though, that spending my life force in pity and gloom
Will enhance my declining and speed up its pace.
It’s been all about Facebook and winning some race.
All my work I will have self-inscribed in my tomb.
I’d be happy to take a long break from this hell!

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.

Some Advice For Young Poets

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a reason I didn’t start speaking ‘til four,
As my family began to think something was wrong.
I just needed more time. Language didn’t seem quite
Like something to take lightly. That didn’t seem right.
I was rushed into speaking so I’d get along
With society’s programs and culture and more.

Perhaps I took enough time to learn language well
Long before I would stutter and make some mistakes.
My perfectionist attitude slowed down my pace.
Had I known living life well amounts to a race
I would not have been tricked into playing high stakes
In a game I know nothing of. I am in hell!

I would want future poets to see I made sense
On some level, despite my most retrograde mind.
Have your way with my style and do call it your own.
Do Not tell them it’s mine because my life is blown.
Anything attached to my name is ill-assigned.
Make a carcass of my work and at my expense.

 

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.

Interlaced Video

TheMagicRealist.com

I am radio active. I am a half-life
And a wavelength that’s shorter than my eyes can know.
I am half here… half not here for each moment passed.
Some converge into now, and I wish those would last.
I’m an incomplete being most moments although
Every moment’s reception is sharp as a knife.

This is not Dress Rehearsal. I’m rarely on stage
And my act is not drama, for that can be judged.
I believe in this half-life I live here and now
And I chose it wholeheartedly so I’d allow
Ample room for becoming. But I haven’t budged
Since believing I’m measured by some other’s gauge.

It’s a half-life for me. I won’t get it all done.
A complete fully functioning being I’m not.
I prepare for the next life. This life is not all
Life that I’ll ever live. That would be living small.
As my world sees right through me, I could be forgot.
I’m at home with my half-life. It’s better than none.

A Cozy Corner in Hell

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

Not a flame do I see through the walls that bind me
To my own belief systems and to my ideals.
No sensation of heat do I feel at this time.
It’s been creeping up slowly – a gradual climb.
Yet the only thing that could be fast on my heels
Is whatever I’m running from, were I not free.

There is no constant sameness of torment I feel.
But if I chose to feel some, my walls would agree.
They would burn away quickly and leave me exposed
To the flames I had feared and had kept my mind closed.
Life has given me purpose to burn and to be
A well-tempered perceiver of that which is real.

A comfortable room that does not have a view
Of the torment and peril apparently so
Is my space of recluse as I sort my hell out.
Do I fancy self-torture? There should be great doubt.
I seek solace in knowing what most others know…
That the hell that’s apparent cannot be so true.

Octal Antics For Hex Romantics

TheMagicRealist.com

Erudite is the errant one well on the way
To a system of numbering cast from the norm.
A translational piece of the puzzle fulfills
All the needs of machines with their digital wills.
It’s the binary linguist who must outperform
Any functional program machines must obey.

It’s that ‘there-or-not’ language machines speak so well.
On and Off is a concept that’s novel and sleek.
Ones and Zeroes are alphabet soup to be fed
To the processor where they are carefully read.
Bits of data through systems is somewhat unique.
But those numbers get cumbersome, as one can tell.

That’s the reason for Octal… And Hex, by the way.
Both these systems can translate big numbers to small.
Just a hand full of symbols – so easy to read.
And machines understand them so they will succeed
In performing efficiently for one and all.
Hex and Octal are systems that are here to stay.

A Clear and Present Past

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

Could the end be much nearer than we had conceived?
Will it come and go quickly to someday return?
History does repeat itself just as our lies
That become bitter truths when oft’ one of us dies.
I know something of hate. I can’t say that I yearn
To feel that way most always. I’d be self-deceived.

It just takes so much energy to fuel a fight
That is destined to drain all my resources fast
As the day I was born with bright light in my eyes.
If that light stood for white, I’d secure my demise.
As the tainted tin soldier commands from the past
His platoon that are present commune by torch light.

I could play that game well. I have seen it before
And I took down good notes that I’d never forget.
But it seems I’ve forgotten them. Ain’t that a shame.
I could ad lib my hatred and beef up the blame.
But I realize my discord will turn to regret
In the long run. I value my peace of mind more.

Expelled From Explanatia

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

I don’t have to explain a damned thing anymore!
Not a soul needs to hear it, and neither do I.
I’m resigned to a spacecraft en route to a star.
I know not where I’m going. I know that it’s far.
When I get there, my shortcomings will not apply.
It will be what I’ve dreamed of and waited long for.

I don’t have to explain away ways that I’d been
Nor my reasons for having been such an asshole.
If I try to address a momentum that’s strong
I will come out the loser before very long.
I have no frigging business assuming the role
Of the fatted black sheep led to slaughter again.

I am free of my focus on family life things
And on ignorant bastards who fart in my face,
I create a fine mess when I don’t even try.
I have given up fussing and wondering why
I deserve any measure of God’s loving grace.
So, I will just accept it and see what life brings.

The Reunion

Solar Eclipse

The Reunion is come in a short march of days.
It’s not something I dread. I know what to expect.
Or do I? There isn’t a thing to be done
To undo the momentum already begun.
I have conjured scenarios hard to reject
All because I’ve been human and ill in my ways.

I was strung out on crack during much of the time
I performed my bad deeds – quite oblivious to
The reality present and outside my skin.
Like a turtle in quicksand, my life took a spin.
Though, that’s not the excuse that I’m prepared to spew.
I have sinned against family. That wall I must climb.

Or, maybe I shouldn’t go near that great wall
That I know has been built because I’d done the same.
Only hurt people hurt people. This I have learned
At the sole cost of others whose lives I have burned.
I’ve forgiven myself, yet I’m tainted with shame.
I’ll just play it by ear. That’s my safest call.

Just a Jimmy

TheMagicRealist.com

Does the FBI know me? I speak enough mind
And I don’t care who sees it nor if they exist.
In a world of my own, did I plan it this way?
There may be not a world where one hears what I say.
I am often heartbroken and frequently pissed.
Are there others like me? Am I one of a kind?

I’m the jimmy – the one that will fiddle with things.
On occasion, I get some to work as they did.
There’s a voice deep within me that clearly cries out.
There’s a great deal more to me. Why should there be doubt?
I have nurtured this wee voice since I was a kid.
Since I’m old now, I’m ready to trade it for wings.

Just a jimmy – a lowlife – a half-assed half man
Who took no one’s advice nor did reap their rewards.
Now, not even in wisdom of age can I find
Someone else who is like me – someone of like mind.
When my brief time is done, I will move swiftly towards
The Beginning not winning where I once began.

The Floor of the Dumpster

TheMagicRealist.com

What then of this Billowing Hatred in me
That is too far away from the peace that I seek?
I despise every human this sick world has spawned
And that does include me. Seems a new day has dawned.
I could get used to battle. I pine for the bleak.
I don’t care that I’m troubled. I could kill with glee.

I pretend that I like people. It’s not my way.
It’s a means of survival. I couldn’t get by
Without having to deal with some half-human swine.
Human kind is my insect. This should be a sign
That I should be well listened to. Wanna know why?
I would kill in a heartbeat. That Would make my day.

What has made me the Beast? One’s Black Bitch with a wig
And with eyes that speak volumes with each practiced roll.
Have I cast enough pearls to the pigs in my way?
Do I forge a path forward through utter dismay?
I must do what I can to take back my control.
I am God Damned Pissed Off, and I will not renege.

SATA Power / SATA Data

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a way to hook hard drives and soft drives as well
As the Compact Disk Doer that does its own thing.
These things need some power and also a way
To exchange ones and zeroes in step day by day.
They require two cables and each one will bring
Its own manner of meaning where function will dwell.

If they lose SATA power then data get sour
And flat-line as powerless data must do.
It’s a fact SATA power will never devour.
DC voltage is low with demeanor not dour.
Such power will do the job with just a few
Standard voltages from a fixed place in the tower.

SATA Data connects all disk drives to their mother –
That board that has children all over the place.
Mothers can’t talk to drives that don’t have SATA Data.
The frigging computer’s not worth a peseta!
It is clear that these cables are ones to embrace
And it’s easy as heck to tell one from the other.

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.

Smart Assed Robin

TheMagicRealist.com

I watched a robin after
an early morning rain
others dug for worms… bugs
this lucky one nabbed a baby
snake.  Such a battle so
long the bird has won
head sheared off
tucked away sound
the bird stares at me
another while
as if to say
“Yeah, I ate the son of a bitch; what’s it to ya?”

Congratulations, It’s a Thing!

TheMagicRealist.com

The mind and the hand form a monster today.
It is one of a multiple birth that occurred
Over the half past fifty some hours.
With nipples erect never mind baby showers.
This infant is from one’s own consciousness spurred
By way of the will in the wake of the way.

Those Broncos did win though I wasn’t aware.
I was heavy in labor creating a thing
To offer me love so that I in return
Will show it some pride for which it does yearn.
So here and now I do make its heart sing
By posting its form over digitized air.

So, it’s not all that much; it’s a base with some taste
In its choice of color and flexible arms.
I just added a lamp and a switch on for size.
Who’d have thought I was pregnant? Gee, what a surprise!
This new baby of mine is a gem as it charms
The small boy in me who’s yet practiced and paced.

The Body In Motion

TheMagicRealist.com

A body in motion continues to move
Through time and through space with the greatest of ease.
Any force it encounters along its way
Will disturb its trajectory for interplay
Of forces combining with each other’s seize.
This law is simple and not much to prove.

A body forced will traverse a straight line.
The more force applied, the more movement is caused
Toward the same direction, in direct relation
And inverse to body mass by calculation.
If this law weren’t obeyed, then our lives would be paused.
When forced, we’d stay put as if tied fast with twine.

For every action that’s ever committed
An equal and opposite act is in place.
The forces in life are all found grouped in pairs.
The mirror, thus mirrored, in wonder one stares.
When all opposition surrenders in grace
In another dimension we’ll all be admitted.

Resistance Is NOT Futile!

TheMagicRealist.com

Haystacks of resistance adrift on my bench
Like bugs with antennae but nothing more
Except sharp colored bands that determine their value.
They’d make for cool jewelry, that is if they’d allow you.
They can handle most any electronic chore,
But they’re scattered all over; my head’s in a clench.

When I got them a year ago, should I have known
That these creatures could wonder all over the place?
Now I’m finding these buggers concealed in my skivvies.
They’re no threat like The Borg, still that gives me the chivvies!
Some semblance of order might resolve this case.
I must not be disturbed; I must unplug the phone.

My vision for color’s the same as before
But sometimes their markings are hard to read
There’s a site where I go and just click on the color
Of each band, but if they fade and do appear duller
I’ll then enter its value and it does its deed.
This task will be easy. Satisfaction’s in store!

With meter and test leads poised to my avail
I’ll get them all measured and properly labeled.
They’ll be easy to store and a pleasure to find,
And I’ll no longer have this small mess on my mind.
My scattered resistance is no longer tabled
My sense of accomplishment’s beyond the pale.

TheMagicRealist.com