Move Forward In Life

There’s a way to move forward. It’s all in the flow
With my fellow electrons throughout the highway.
Every run through the circuitry is a complete
Orchestration of happenings that will repeat
Pretty much in the same way. I’ll call it a day.
The path is made available for all to know.

But we can’t proceed backwards. That is not allowed
Because in time, AC is not what we perceive.
We think only in DC. Time has direction.
We can play with time in the mind and have some fun.
Our perceptions are stronger though. So, we believe
Moving forward at full current makes us all proud.

Often I lose direction, but not every day.
And whenever that happens, I’m called to assess
Which parts of my own circuitry are still alive
And which parts suffer burnout and tend to deprive
Me volition of voltage to manage my mess.
Living in simple series can be the right way.

There’s A Tune In My Tank

There’s a tune in my tank. I have no one to thank
But myself for believing that I know the way
To achieve my true resonance naturally.
It’s the best way for my mind and heart to agree.
When I’ve found the right frequency, I’ve much to say.
When I’m not tuned correctly, my mind draws a blank.

One divided by two pi times root of LC
Is the pace I keep up with without knowing how.
I need only know why. How means nothing to me.
The pure source that delivers is all that I see.
When the heart and the mind are both centered on now,
Then they act like a flywheel for source energy.

I can’t give my tuned tank circuit’s tuning control
To another. No one knows my tuner but me.
I can tune it away from what feels to be right.
But if I keep that up I will soon feel uptight.
I can practice my tuning most confidently
When I know that the tuner, indeed, is my soul.


One can speak kinds of nasty by number or face
Or by what makes the innards convulse for a blast.
One can sit side by side on the toilet with friends
Who, of like mind, are never caught wearing ‘depends.’
Stoolers would be for seniors who tend to outlast
Most their body parts, as if they’ve won a lost race.

I’d hang out at a Stoolers with those of my kind
Just to get a good dump on, and speak of it some.
There are those who would listen and tell me their tales
Of their challenges where constipation prevails…
Either that or of issues that make the mind numb.
Social Shitting, at present, may be hard to find.

I’m a stay-at-home shitter by nature, I guess.
Would I mind sharing details of intimacy
Among people who are always glad that I came?
I’d not mind crapping with them, but don’t know my name.
I’m for Stoolers, and some old folks might well agree
That a place for group crapping would mitigate stress.

Of Sanctity and Life

“Nuke the HELL out of life, but God, save those stem cells!”
If one thinks I’m a nut case, just look where I’m from.
I would not call one nigger who’s blacker than me
Unless done in endearment most positively.
One would think common sense would out weapon the norm.
That, it seems, is where I am – between parallels.

We’re a species of contrast all up in the face
As the web of technology quickens its crawl.
Worldwide media trigger most worldwide events.
We’re confounded with coverage at our expense.
Hair still stands on my neck when I hear someone’s drawl.
I’m a nut case as well as the whole human race!

I can’t fault human nature. I’m one of its kind.
What I can do is closely observe what takes place.
I’m a student of human behavior. As such
I delight in interpreting life very much.
And I do that quite well. I can always embrace
My well-cultured indifference and firm peace of mind.

Sympathy for The Butcher

Please allow him to introduce himself to you.
He’s a man who we hear from so once in a while.
He’s mild mannered most times and there seems nothing wrong.
Though he’s human he feels like he doesn’t belong.
As he nurtures that premise, his thoughts become vile.
When frustrated and helpless, what is there to do?

One could contact the Bureau of What’s Wrong With Me
If in fact they would have a solution for him
That would keep him connected to all human kind.
But that kind of solution is so hard to find.
He will tell us our futures and his are quite dim.
Could it be that no one gives him reason to be?

I will take life’s frustration and deep numbing rage
To a limit below where I start to see red.
I’m a butcher. We all are to some small degree.
When we realize how horrible butchers can be
We will cease disregarding. We’ll limit the spread
Of the butcher’s performance upon bloody stage.

How’s It Going Today?, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

Well, I got up this morning… The hedge needs a trim.
While I’m at it I might as well clean up that yard.
Though the leaves have not fallen yet they’re on their way.
In the meantime I’ll meditate, then start my day.
I know well how it’s going and life isn’t hard.
Things will work out as always. My future’s not dim.

I am God. So are You, as are all living things.
We have taken on form to give contrast a play.
As we do we define and express what we need.
As we help one another we cancel out greed.
We confront psychic crisis with public display
Of our loving and caring and all that it brings.

I should get some more weed killer while I’m about.
There’s a while before summer ends. I should be wise.
I can keep my yard clean. That is all I can do
Until I’m in the best place to offer what’s true.
How it’s going for me is a clever disguise
To embellish my own chaos rather than doubt.

Expelled From Explanatia, 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.

The Amassing of Nature’s Arms

So, this thing about ISIS… Their orders come from
A great force whom they know not nor that they are charged
With the duty or ridding the earth of its trash.
Their mission: To Make Mankind Smolder in Ash.
It could have to do with the penis enlarged
As the rape aspect feeds the desire to cum.

Many species have war. They wipe each other out.
But they harbor no lame excuse like people do.
They just tear at each other until there’s no more.
We have much to learn about studying war
From the beasts and the insects, to name but a few.
Humankind is no master. There should be no doubt.

Nature has many allies, among them, mankind.
And we’re stupid enough to ignore that it’s true.
We exterminate much of our kind on our own.
Yet with deadly diseases, we’re extinction prone.
I’m not one of the many, nor one of the few.
I’m one focused observer by nature’s design.

From Cotton Field to Prison

Why Black Men are in prison is no mystery.
No sociological study is needed.
No well-crafted survey can capture the pain
Of the Bitches who put them there. Could I refrain
From the use of brute force when my sense is not headed?
This drama is played out throughout history.

Sour notes can be read. They don’t have to be sung.
And to feign utter silence is way below par.
You say you want everything from your black man?
Any fool with a brain would have picked up and ran!
Why depend on some man to define who you are?
You treat him like a wasp then ask why he has stung.

Why not give up such talents as rolling your eyes
And that trick sliding head thing you’ve practiced so well?
It takes courage to deal with that knot in your face.
This is not about color and not about race.
It is easy to put any good man through hell.
Does it make any sense to applaud his demise?

Happy Forth!

Happy Forth! There’s a path to the dawn’s early light
From the twilight now smoke-filled in lands near and far.
The white plague is my nemesis. So is my race.
I attract rolling eyes from wherever I place
My attention. And my door will not be ajar.
I’ll be locked down and safe with my shutters closed tight.

Happy Forth! Carry onward, delirious fools!
Make your sudden loud noises mean what they’re worth.
Your bright blasted colors I won’t see tonight.
Been there-done that, my fellows, and I have the right
To block out all that mankind has done for this earth.
We’ve become nature’s enemies – not her best tools.

Let the frigging land breathe again! Now, that’s a thought.
Clear the air of sick news bites that fray at the nerves.
It’s our hate-spangled manner that’s destined to wave.
We could make the state tanner and then self-enslave.
In the end I recall that all living deserves
Every chance to diminish whatever is sought.

Just a Jimmy

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 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 time is done, I will move swiftly towards
The Beginning again where I once began.

The Floor of the Dumpster

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.


How long do I keep up this foolish façade
Of believing I’m worth what was offered to me?
I took a big gamble thus ruining my life
In pretending I’m healthy enough for a wife.
I continue to screw up as people can see.
Thought I’d followed the program, but things turned out odd.

How does fate keep the terrorist from finding me?
There are those who are worth more. Had they had the chance
To grow old with their loved ones as worthy folks may
I’d be that much closer to my judgment day.
Life’s puzzle has proved such a strange circumstance.
There’s a reason for ISIS that I clearly see.

That I blither my ass off, can anyone know?
I can piss in pitch darkness and other things well.
If my stream should strike something at least I would know
That there is something out there. That might help me grow.
I did want isolation while burning in hell.
I’ll admit I’m a fuck-up. That’s not a hard blow.

Not another frog’s out there. No one knows I croak.
I was let loose to blunder my way through my days.
Easily I hurt others on my reckless path.
What procedure could probe at the heart of my wrath?
It’s one tough black sheep syndrome. I’ll get through this maze.
I’m one well-tempered asshole. It seems that’s no joke.

Happy Birthday, Dear Violet

Happy Birthday, Dear Violet. This one is for you.
It’s a long time in coming, but here it is now.
For a fine girl who’s practical, fun and at ease…
Who brings pleasure and comfort to all whom she sees,
I would give you myself if indeed I knew how.
But perhaps I can manage with words just a few.

You take care of yourself. I can see that it’s so
In your determination to do what is right.
Behaving appropriately is a skill.
For some folks it takes quite a bit of hard will.
I remember the night when we had a great fight.
You’re a teacher of passion, I want you to know.

There isn’t a day that goes by without you
On my mind, in my heart, in some part of the day.
And my words are packed loosely in cumbersome verse.
Seems our lives were a play where I didn’t rehearse.
To the child who is grown now, I just want to say
I would be less without you, and that’s nothing new.

Eternity’s Portal

My future cannot be about what is past.
The two are like apples and lug nuts to me.
Of course, I’m the same then as now, in a way,
But by growing, we’re distant, as night is by day.
If I live in right NOW, I can very well see
That this moment is powerful, but it won’t last…

…As, the next moment, powerful… fast on the heels
Of the previous one, will take form in the mind.
Not a thing that has happened pertains to right now.
It’s a cumbersome paradigm shift, given how
Our programming goes against how we’re designed.
One should pay better listening to how one feels…

…Every day, every second… from this moment on,
If I keep my now current, I’ll be as I am.
I’ll continue to think and to speak of what’s now
And then come to know that I’ve not changed, somehow.
Fresh new thoughts for today is a worthy program.
Through Eternity’s Portal I am ever drawn.

Don’t Fuck With Me, Nigger!

Pump-a-Boooom! Pump-a-Boooom! What a plague to describe!
That rumble is distant yet headed this way.
There’s no denying that message is Force
And it’s done to disrupt my wellbeing, of course.
It’s on me to unravel this sick nigger play
And it baffles me so that we’re of the same tribe.

That Boooom becomes rattle, sustained to the max
As it draws ever closer, disturbing my space.
It’s riveting shock waves rip right through my heart.
You have mouths full of venom. I DO NOT take part
In the trashing of woman and verbal disgrace.
Pull your pants up, sound weapon; it’s time to relax.

When war comes to me, I don’t see it as race.
We are all sorely human, obsessed with our ways
Of extruding our phlegm from our psychotic clouds.
If you want your dick sucked, then go find the right crowds.
I’ve no need for your nodules of nebulous haze.
Get your pimping assed homies to cum in your face.

I don’t care who you’re talking to, boy. It ain’t me!
Keep your Noise to yourself and don’t shove me around.
I’ve a hair up my own; I don’t need yours as well.
There’s a place for your talent: With Poets In Hell.
I would hang you myself or else keep you well bound.
Am I proud we are brothers? I’d rather be Free.

A Visit From the Distant Past

Just a while before Christmas and what’s to be said?
Should one write down all matter expelled from one’s head?
No stockings are hung; there’s no chimney here.
It’s not really by choice, yet perhaps I don’t care.
Christmas time is for sports and for people and stuff.
It is not time for assholes who’ve not loved enough.
Am I really a loner? Well, let me just check…
Some friendlies on Facebook… no hick on my neck.
…A few cordial neighbors who smile when I say
Merry Christmas.” If that’s all, it’s better that way.
Dope man called me today; hadn’t talked in a while.
He was lonely… just wanted to hear a real smile.
…A few spicy boomers who meet for a brawl
Most Tuesdays, yet for them, I’m always on call.
…And this site that I keep like a mildewed mad hatter
May someday reveal what the hell was the matter
That nature allowed such a creature as me
To express in a way maybe few people see
As verse that is worthy of scant inhalation
Among those acquainted with thought transmigration.
Now, the story here (There should be one, I know.),
Is that of another who lived long ago
The son of a duo who knew only good
They raised him up rightly as all parents should
Yet, much wiser than man, he knew well all along
That the kingdom within guides the soul with its song.
His humble birth quite embedded in love…
His whole life is brilliant with light from above…
When caught in dilemma, I’m not proud to pray
And don’t care if others don’t see it that way.
As for cute Christmas cards and the business and bustle
To meet the clock’s tick in the mind like a muscle –
I don’t do that no more and I can’t recall last
I broke bread with my family for fear of the past
Seeping in where it does not or will not feel good
So, this cycle, again, I’m a howl in the wood.
How would Jesus have acted were he my big brother?
What a question to ask! With that said, here’s another:
Now seated in glory in heaven above
Can he show me the way of unspeakable love
In such a way when I sit down to write
I take note of this special silent night?
I have plenty to speak with no shame in the way.
Am I foolish for some of the things that I say?
Judge ye not, or be judged, is the way of the Cloth
It’s a paradox, though, like a flame to the moth
Where in judgment a writer has right to expound
On whatever infiltrates and feeds common ground.
So, enough of this nonsense; by now I’m quite bored.
I know that because I oft’ bore our dear Lord
With incessant pleading for help with my writing.
His humor and wisdom is ever inviting.
This practice is hot chicken soup for the heart
As I sit alone, cozy… not really apart
From all people worldwide and throughout all dimension,
To learn how to love is my greatest intention.

The Crepes of Rasp

Bless my mouth with a stew of red raspberry goo
Wrapped in manna delight straight from heaven’s front door.
Ain’t no preachin’ for me lessin it’s ‘bout eatin’.
With them crepes on my mind, I ain’t up for no meetin’.
My purpose in life is to taste and explore
All them fancy concoctions like better folk do.

I’m beholdin’ to berries just like simple birds.
The rasper the better; the tarter the taste.
Folks is tribal; I’m liable to invite disdain.
I keep my dream silent to avoid the pain
Of other folks lookin’ and judgin’ in haste.
My desire is scripture; its crust are my words.

Folks is raisin’ up Cain? That don’t bother me none.
I’m accustomed to tastin’ the salt in the earth.
Maybe I ain’t like you. A croissant will not due.
My craving erupted not out of the blue.
With a raspberry crepe I’m a man of great worth.
I’m a crepe rapin’ raspberry scone of a gun!

Daughters of My World

The Flower of Nature and God intertwined,
The stem of her peace ‘of the masculine thorned.
The war’s none of savvy against master minds.
It’s one of protrusion’s dysfunctional kinds.
Dear daughter of mine, had we all been forewarned
Would your freedom in safety be better defined?

I know not Islam, yet were I to believe
That kids in their twenties killing others their age
Has something at all to do with you
My faith in religion would unravel anew.
You are sacred, young one – my heart’s silent rampage…
Your heart filled with wonder where grace doth conceive

My religion is cool… My back yard’s somewhat safe
But assault on your pureness of point of view
Sends a hellish cold chill up my spine as well.
Were my own teen distressed, in my heart she doth dwell
And, I’d much rather learn about Islam from you
Than from elders or young men embroiled in chafe.

Flag of France

The Roofs That Maurys Build

I’ll admit, Massa Povich, I’m caught right off guard
In waiting room hostage, eyes locked on a screen
Such excitement and drama, a pinch of delight
Big Baboonish Behavior Barks the Brightest Stage Light
Your Black Rats in a cage are now everywhere seen
Their lives cast in turmoil; their hearts deeply scarred

What the Hell are you doing, you fucking Bastard?
You married a Bitch whom now no one will trust.
Is she blabbing your secrets to folks who don’t care?
If she shits in your face, then just have an affair.
Leave Black Lives Alone, there are worthier lusts!
But, alas, there’s that financial gain you’ll have mastered

You come off quite well faking love and compassion
While mining for gold in the sewers of strife
But some of us know what you really are
That’ll do it for me. I’m exhausted thus far
Having strayed off course and lost trusting in life
Caught up in backlash is not really my fashion

If through Mother Goose or by Nigger Noose
The roof that you build caps a nation secure
In its image of Black folks as troubled and tainted
Old man, that ain’t me! I’ll make sure you’re acquainted
With Blackness Paternal not about to endure
Just keeping my mouth shut amid your abuse

From a Prince to a pauper – a Knight to a pawn
I’ll tell you for sure that the seed that you sow
Will grow to a dark jungle deep on your mind
The shame of it is you’re not one of a kind
Do thank me, you scum bag, for stooping so low
As to borrow your face to blow my nose on!

To Beat A Dead Fly

Dear fly came by
Wasn’t much on its mind
It just snuck in to visit a while
Perhaps to assess the funk in my style
Or maybe just to unwind
And cop a sigh

Dear fool am I
Engulfed in my madness
Tizzied about and engaged in my Thing
Sharpening what my focus might bring
I often find gladness
In what I try

You’re cool, dear fly
But please don’t get in my face
Don’t buzz nowhere near me; the sound causes terror.
Yet I know that’s my menses; with you there’s no error.
Mind your own business and keep your place.
Avoid my eye!

All sounds good in theory….

Tomorrow I’ll love unconditionally.

[Don’t give energy to what you don’t want.]

Behind the 8-Ball Echo the Drawl

Pay attention when I'm talkin' to ya, boy. This bat - I say, this bat don't come from a cave.

Whatcha doin’ there, boy? Turn around; let me see.
I need to make sure you’re not up to no good.
Do it nice and slow like you do everything.
Any quick move – I just might take a swing.
I’m the bird on patrol in your neighborhood.
Don’t forget who’s watchin’ ya, boy. It’s me!

My job is to keep your kind under control.
Though don’t quote me on that. When I stutter you can.
But if I were you, I’d just keep my mouth shut.
Your complainin’s what’s keepin’ your race in a rut.
Don’t talk back to me, boy. Don’t you understand?
It’s my big mouth and ego who’s on patrol.

There’s no way I’m puttin’ my life on the line.
If you so much as flinch wrong, you’re goin’ to jail.
My patrol car is runnin,’ and my lights I’ll keep blinkin,’
All the better to get your black asses to thinkin’
If you whoop ass with me, my wrath will prevail,
And if you end up dyin,’ with that, I’m just fine.

There’s no problem with race in my neck of the woods.
I keep a tight watch on black life that I see.
After all, black lives matter. Ain’t that what y’all say?
To me, that means screwing you day after day.
If I go to jail, in no time I’ll be free
To resume my pursuing young black men with hoods.

Lives Matter.

The Magic Realist

We The People of this treasured land
Are a union most perfect in so many ways…
Domestically Tranquil With Justice For All
Was the initial intent which then became law.
Our Pot, as it melts, though, sets some necks ablaze
To the point where they speak with a gun in their hand

 So, this Matter of Lives comes up once and again.
After feeling such sorrow, does it hurt more to know
That Lives have no color except that of you?
We know whose don’t matter. The point is, what’s new?
In morbid nostalgia, do we echo our woe,
Thus empowering haters to gain a new friend?

 Human Nature’s a Bitch! Don’t you know that it’s true?
Our forefathers knew this, hence, their slickness well-penned:
To evolve a system of blue and of red
Wherein gene-rooted schisms that result in bloodshed
Yield Correctness Political and the right to pretend
That we’re the one nation who has but a clue.

Thanks for the Updates, Dr. Bill.

You're a Borg of a Pill, Mr. Bill!

What is the deal here, Dr. Bill?
I’m sitting here doing my usual thing
Then all of a sudden your commandment appears.
With work not completed, I’m up to my ears.
Now, you tell me I’m finished, as if you’re some king?
Up your Thrill, Dr. Bill! Why be such a Pill?

My work has value, and yours did as well.
You’ve done some great things most keen and world class.
But you fall short of proving you’re human, to me,
Except for this fetish for updates I see.
Their randomness of occurrence is a kick in the ass.
If you updated the devil, he’d evacuate hell!

And just what are all these updates for?
This brand new computer still runs like a snail
Well after it shits, showers and shaves.
Is your intent to make us all digital slaves?
Your interrupts, sir, are beyond the pale.
If they did any good, would you then give us more?

Well, Dr. Bill, here’s an update for you.
Throughout your infusion of binary grace

I’ve been writing about how this all makes me feel.
I’ve learned to separate virtual from real.
Within every nuisance, there is truth to embrace.
Thanks, Dr. Bill. Now I bid you adieu.

I Focus…

Focal Vision

…in ways most others care not
I am labeled ‘autistic,’ but what’s in a stamp?
Seems we’re all but chess pieces played on a board
The name of each piece reflects how worth is scored
Yet each has the guidance to come out a champ
By allowing “The Player” to call each shot.

I focus because it’s the way that I am
I can’t see the board; I’m consumed in each square
The number of possible games to be played
Exceeds that of electrons all ever made
There’s no doubt to my purpose; I am sent here to share
Yet another strategy unique to each jam.

But maybe I’m here to just be a fool
I don’t really play chess; the fact is I suck
If given a choice between chess and some hay
I’d be chewing my cud for the rest of the day
This analogy flattens as if by a truck
Lest I make of it an exquisite tool

Since autism grants me a narrower view
I look at the Game from the inside out
I am privileged to honor each perfect square
And to thank it for letting me spend some time there
There’s no reason to worry. I have no cause to doubt
That the next move is certain, fresh and new.

Spurious Spatial Speculation

Spurious Spatial Speculation

The body is an unmanned probe
Remotely controlled by the realest self
Made from the substance of what is explored
It encounters another so as not to get bored
Expressive of meaning like a book on a shelf
But paper thin like an onion skinned robe

The body makes sense of alien ground
It does so engaging the self that is ‘local
That self is the ego. Its purpose, in fact,
Is to translate the true self with intent intact
Within range the command module then becomes vocal
Relishing in new terrain it has found

Since there’s no one inside – just a window to Home
We lock onto signals that traverse our space
When Eye meets with Eye a connection is made
In Heaven with counterparts proud and well-played
We flood here en masse to partake of this place
With robotic abandon we are destined to roam

So, where in this puzzle does ‘Houston’ fit in?
Is Mission Control where we go when we die?
To some, it’s a mystery; to others, a known
Yet it matters to ego whose true colors are shown
When caught loving earth life and flying high
Despite this world’s gravity as it wears others thin.

Esoteric Electronics Essentials

Reality is vibration perceived
Not something to face or to work into place
Vibration is made through thought that is focused
Not through random hopes that flea like the locust
And as thought gains momentum at steady pace
Within space and time all things are received

 Magic is perceived vibration
It completes the circuit of what is real
Like a radio tuned to a certain sound
Will ignore all others that surely abound.
With antenna and tuner, we each know how to ‘feel’
Our way to a better situation.

 What is is what was the moment it’s been.
The ‘carrot of time’ matches rhythm of gait.
Yet, there’s wonder in life as connection is made
To a Source of our choosing wherein Meaning’s conveyed.
To know how one feels is to set one’s path straight.
With such knowing, each cycle begins again.

Tomorrow I’ll Mow the Lawn

The Magic Realist

I’ve been here near a while by now…
New hermit crab whom neighbors peek.
The grass is getting pretty high.
What reason have I to be shy?
Is it their hearts I dare to seek?
Then, do mine own I disavow!

 If I should venture outside my door
Will eyes swoop like birds of prey…
To examine this carriage and semblance of soul?
Will my life then be shown to the world in its whole…
With all my secrets hung out for display?
I really don’t know what is in store.

This lesson lifelong whom I fully indulge
Seems childish and basic from point of view
I only know that, suffice it be,
An irrational poise comes over me
To dream of accruing such revenue
That the world behold as my worth I divulge.

Don’t It Make My Black Hole Blue

The Magic Realist

Strange cyan hue surrounding the black hole in Andromeda
Such odd and extraordinary phenomena
For more than a decade no one had a clue
And don’t it make my black hole blue

The blue light comes from a disk of hot young stars
Pancake shaped and swirling like racing cars
My massive singularity it does eschew
And don’t it make my black hole blue

Thanks to the Hubble and its imaging ways
Thanks to the watchers, and their unceasing gaze
My existence is confirmed. There’s no guessing now.
The birthing of stars one cannot disavow.

With the mass of 140 million suns
I keep a watchful eye on my blue little ones
But what else can such a big mother do
And don’t it make my black hole blue

Don’t it make my black hole…
Impervious to flack hole…
Don’t it make my black hole blue

Hid-Thish Me Not

The Magic Realist

Since last half past Fall
And deep within
I ponder what there may be to know
To stop sneezes bandied to and fro.
Is it a sin
To detest them all?

 Hermetically hithered in psychic mist
The itching olfactory ceiling is felt,
Then orgasmic release of one’s germ revenue.
The sound that is uttered is a phlegm filled A’choo!”
Whence just moments prior, within sickness dwelt.
At least cover your mouth, I must insist!

 A’choo!” then, is standard
Among most
Though benign variations span worldwide
By syllabic profusion, they all coincide –
All a toast
To sickness meandered

 When I went to the doctor, I got my shot.
While waiting I met with a sniffling soul
When I said “Hello,” he said “Hid-thish… How are you?”
‘Twas obvious this fellow’d come down with the flu.
I’m back home by now, and I’m feeling quite whole
So hold on to your germs, and ‘hid-thish me not!