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Deep Meditative State

TheMagicRealist.com

When I meditate I enter such a Deep State
That I lose all awareness of things that go on
In this world. What… a world? There is none that I know
Except that one where consciousness matches the flow
Of the lightforce that is me by light’s early dawn.
What e’er goes on about me, I feeling just great.

Is the Deep State apparent the same as the one
That is not, as the namesake suggests it may be?
I don’t give a rat’s ass but I do take relief
In my knowing my Deep State is one of belief
In a manner that others are free not to see.
When consumed in life’s drama, no growth has begun.

Some who say I’m too ‘deep’ for the mainstream to take
Might take notice how deeply we all are a part
Of a multiverse massive. It functions without
A deep statehood of men thinking they have some clout
In directing world order devoid of heart.
The most potent Deep State is the one that I make.

The Mission

TheMagicRealist.com

The sole mission in life is to mitigate strife
If one lives by the banner of chaos and fear.
That’s a life lived in sorrow – not one lived in joy.
If my goodwill is tainted, I’m doomed to destroy
Any hope that I’ll fly if I but persevere.
My big mission and I are as husband and wife.

I may speak of my mission, and do every day
Yet my words are not teachers of that which is known
In the hearts of all beings. Experience serves
As the best teacher complete with awesome reserves.
May I act out my mission so that I am shown
What is best for my choosing the least troubled way.

I could sum up my mission in so many words.
I believe simple syllables mean no one harm.
They are put here in front of my eyes so that I
Know that I tried to be here before my goodbye.
This strange life and its lessons can sound no alarm
But to let me know that I’m as free as the birds.

That Which Henpecks The Henpecker

TheMagicRealist.com

That which henpecks the henpecker henpecks in style.
Not a meek man controller commands every thought
Of the mind of the man that must be occupied
With the other one’s pleasures. There’s nowhere to hide
When a man feels by default that he may be caught
With desires of his own that he’s had for a while.

It is true that the henpecked attracted their plight
Whether knowing or not by the way of the heart
If the gift of prime pecking rights is one that works
In a way that allows for him getting good perks.
Co-creating can be blissful right from the start
With no pain to endure nor no will to indict.

…A dessert in a desert devoid of a dream
Of a life outside being of silver for one
Who is not that deserving, though that may sound cold.
The meek heart that is harnessed will never grow old.
One must be one’s own genie when all’s said and done.
That which henpecks the henpecker is self-esteem.

Mueller Time

TheMagicRealist.com

Subtle acts that move bowels in the way the wolf howls
Is the way that the Mueller mug foams at the head.
He’s the pilsner prolific who has given chase
Down the deep throat of treason and utter disgrace.
He uncovers all monsters who sleep in one bed
While the sleepers themselves can’t but help calling fowls.

He’s been at it a while now. How close has he come
To a watertight case so that justice is served?
Some believe it’s a witch hunt yet others do not.
Seems we have not a government – only a plot
To keep goodwill away from the mass undeserved
And to keep them confused and well under their thumb.

It’s about time for Mueller Time. It may come soon.
All involved seem in panic as they carry on
With their straight faces and pockets full of respect.
Those who drink from the Mueller mug tend to defect
From the will of the White House. With much burden gone
They may live a life normal apart from the goon.

Plight Of The Pink Pickled Pine Pecker

TheMagicRealist.com

Is this pecker endangered? Then who is at fault?
Neither nature nor scientist should take the blame
For the swift disappearance of this pickled bird.
Perhaps they somehow felt this world is too absurd
Then decided to vanish. We’re left with the name
Of this odd-fellowed creature whom we may exalt.

Every pine pecker present and those who are not
Have an interest in living their lives left alone.
They don’t like being tagged and implanted with junk.
It seems we are their ET’s. This may not be bunk.
They survive our abductions and often they’re shown
A pure side of humanity with a kind plot.

Yes, the Pink Pickled Pine Pecker was on the list
And they knew it. That’s why they decided to split.
They said, “Leave us in peace. We just want to move on
And find somewhere to hide so you think we are gone!”

This makes good sense from their point of view. Doesn’t it?
If we had creatures watching us, we would be pissed!

 

Just Change The Station If You Don’t Like What’s Playing

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s no need to complain about what’s in my ears
Or in front of my eyes just because it is there.
It is there IF I tune to it. It can’t assert
Itself in my experience. I can avert
Any unwanted content. I need not beware
Of what broadcasts to me about troubles and fears.

Sometimes I get the notion that I could out wait
What I’m getting in hopes that someday it will change.
If I wait for the station to play different songs
That would be rather silly. My good sense belongs
In a state of mind supple and borderline strange.
I’m a carefree consumer when I’m in that state.

There are radio towers all over the land
And perhaps some in space, but the point is they are
Only stations I’m tuned to. I can tune away.
That my being selective can brighten my day,
I am grateful my focus can never stray far.
I prefer that I take life the way that I’d planned.

The System Reset Button

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s no System Reset Button on the dashboard.
Not a single car needs one. It has not a soul.
It cannot on its own up and stage an attack.
It cannot get pissed off nor can it give one flack.
It knows nothing and therefore has no self-control.
That which is all around it is simply ignored.

It’s the person inside who most surely needs one.
People quite unlike vehicles tend to act out
On the highways when often they feel they’ve been wronged.
We build justification as rage is prolonged.
Yet we do have some time to turn ourselves about
And bounce off the encounter with malice toward none.

My own System Reset Button is how I feel
And my being aware of it more of the time.
My defensive awareness of all that’s around
Me in traffic as well as what gets me unwound
Is the switch I rely on. I could commit crime
If I didn’t. At least it’s a noble ideal.

The Director’s Room Floor

TheMagicRealist.com

The Director’s Room Floor has film clippings galore
Of our mad times and troubles created by way
Of our dealing with conflict and living our plots.
It’s the Inner Director who calls all the shots
And who makes sure the actor takes part in the play.
We may make of some scenes an eternal encore.

What we see as we’re filming is all that we see –
All the turmoil and hatred we tend to make real
And all struggles that strengthen us and keep us true
To that which gives us promise for seeing things through.
We as actors are experts. We know how to feel
Our way into wellbeing and living ‘to be.’

What is left after edit is surely worthwhile.
There is much life that ends up in recycle bins.
But most segments are valuable, one must conclude.
We can’t curse The Director. That’s not only rude.
We’d be cursing our own selves then nobody wins.
The well-fashioned performance begins with a smile.

My Inner Bean

TheMagicRealist.com

My benign inner bean is a vegetable green
In a dark shadow casing that likes to wave “Hi”
On a stage to the people for whom which it knows
Not enough about drama nor how to compose
The best score for a stunning performance. I try
To upstage it so that it can seldom be seen.

That is not a nice habit. My bean deserves light.
That is what it is made of. It takes nothing less
Than to be seen in brilliance when happy or sad.
Yet the inner bean knows naught of good nor of bad.
I have treated mine wrongly, and I must confess
That I have a strong focus, now, on what is right.

I must let my good bean to direct every scene
In this life given to me and through me from me
As my inner bean knows what it is I desire
It damned well can direct me that I may acquire
Some experience acting and learning ‘to be’
In a non-ending playbill upon the grand screen.

A License To Sell Hotdogs?

TheMagicRealist.com

How to let a man know his pant zipper is down…?
One might tell him discretely by asking him this –
“Sir, do you have a license for selling hotdogs?
If you don’t then, my goodness! Your fit for the hogs!”

If he tells you he does have one should one dismiss
All the spewing and twittering all about town?

What’s the mark of a man these days? It’s hard to tell.
Male birds often get cocky and frequently bitch
Over females and who gets to strut upon stage.
When things don’t go their way they will blurt out in rage.
And perhaps our worst women would be a safe switch
From the men now whose governance makes of life hell.

Someone’s given the duck every right to hotdog
His way brazenly through history with his pants
By now half past his knees because of the big bulge
In his background and of things he’ll never divulge.
Manhood licensing yields but a grim circumstance
And the women forthcoming will clear up much fog.

POTUS With A ‘Shithole’ Mouth

TheMagicRealist.com

When you think of a POTUS take notice how well
Your ideal of one matches what we have right now.
I was told I could be president if I would
But believe in myself the way go-getters should.
I get dinged for foul language. How do we allow
The Commander in Chief to proclaim he’s from hell?

I was told, “We would like for you not to return,”
When I uttered a venial, everyday word.
They said, “You’re not professional. Go take a hike!”
Sometimes leaders and losers behave quite alike.
And although this man’s word is unfit for a bird
All the assholes around him downplay our concern.

Children who can’t play POTUS should exit the game
While they have some self-worth left to yet carry on
In some other profession, perhaps pumping crap
Through the mouth into minds ripe for utter mishap.
I can be the professional though quite the pawn
In this cesspool of freedom where all shit the same.

Kicked Right Out Of Dreamland

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

How Green Is My Grass?

TheMagicRealist.com

If I dined at a place well acclaimed for its class
With a fine meal before me, would I care to know
What the others are eating? That wouldn’t make sense.
I’m consumed in my own meal. I’d harbor defense
If I looked at another’s plate in envy though
I am satisfied fully. How green is my grass?

If I went to the park for a breath of fresh air
And decided to leave the wheelchair in the car
And get by with my double canes, could I ignore
All the looks of concern? Could I know what’s in store?
There’s a reason that things are the way that they are.
It may seem life is bountiful yet seldom fair.

There’s too much information. Sometimes I’m unclear
As to what makes one’s grass green and keeps it that way.
Greens are made of the mixtures of yellows and blues.
Life in focus is made up of various hues
Of our wants and our needs as we live day to day
And this side of the fence is my chosen frontier.

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.

Get Up, You Little Klutz!

TheMagicRealist.com

Time to wake up, dear little one. This is for real!
You have entered the world of dimensional space.
There are bad times and worse times and that’s about it.
Stop your whining and crying and throwing a fit.
I will give you your guidance and love just in case
The Almighty is busy with some other deal.

Watch and see how we do this… One step at a time.
It is not very difficult once you know how.
Get your little butt up when you stumble and fall.
You are here to walk upright. You’re not here to crawl.
Shame on you if you falter. I will not allow
You to grip onto furniture. Thou Shall Not Climb!

I am God as your parent. That’s how it must be.
My job is to protect you from all the world’s harm.
We all know you’re distressed now that you have arrived.
You remember what heaven’s like and feel deprived.
Just remember your guidance is your lucky charm
Because gods who are old here can no longer see.

The Emotional Journey

TheMagicRealist.com

All along the x axis our feelings are placed.
They can move about slightly and overlap some.
They have lives of their own yet we blend them with ours.
Some of them are from Venus and some are from Mars.
Nothing much keeps them going but always they come
At our beaconing when unto them we are faced.

Though they are called a spectrum, they’re just on a dial.
I select each by how fast vibration takes place
Of the life force available right here and now.
The more speed I accomplish, the more I allow.
Does my progress depend upon winning some race?
I think not. I’ll kick back and just cruise for a while.

My journey is emotional… mental as well.
Long before I arrived here, my plan was to be
An observer and student of life and its ways.
What I feel on this path does enthrall me most days.
Every nerve of my being can help me to see
I can head toward true happiness and therein dwell.

The Wellbeing Conspiracy

TheMagicRealist.com

To the ears of Lord Windsor of Olde London Square
And to those of the Roman pontificate realm,
The good life and wellbeing are given to all.
No one’s made me unworthy as I can recall.
The cosmos is a ship with no one at its helm.
It is guided by all of us. That’s only fair.

I exist in this garden that you think is yours
To do with as you please as the beast claims your back.
That has worked for a long while, but big change will come.
Fate will strip the world’s gardeners of their big green thumb.
Paradigms will be shifting from notions of lack
And of fierce competition and keeping of scores.

A Wellbeing Conspiracy is taking place
As we speak and live daily throughout all our lives.
It exists through eternity and without cause.
It is that from which we fashion all of our laws.
That which waxes receptive is that which survives.
Our Wellbeing transcends knowing in its embrace.

But It’s True!

TheMagicRealist.com

I just saw it on TV, so I know it’s true.
I keep up with events that occur in the world
And my country and state and what’s in my back yard.
I consume information. For me that’s not hard.
My mind can be gripped because it’s fully knurled
By my own set of preferences and point of view.

I cannot not believe them. They said that it’s so.
So it’s Gospel. Don’t tell me to ignore the facts.
I must think from the box. There is no other source.
And to think from one’s own head is nonsense, of course.
I’m a creature of habit programmed to relax
And let all things around me put on their grand show.

Just because it is true, does such truth affect me?
Things are true as we make them so through our belief.
Yes, some things are quite blatant, explicit and real.
We evaluate by how we think, see and feel.
We create what is real to us. It’s the motif
In a world ever-changing toward what is to be.

The Old Heart * Mind Collusion

TheMagicRealist.com

We know learning to read becomes reading to learn
At some point along doing the work to be done.
It becomes easy going, like riding a bike.
Training wheels and our language behave just alike.
Seems a circuit is switched on when reading is fun.
For a world of adventure we don’t have to yearn.

Now when thinking to feel becomes feeling to think,
That’s a matter of harvesting thoughts that feel good.
I will think toward good feelings, then savor them well.
When consumed in contentment my mood will compel
The emergence of more thoughts. The sure likelihood
Is that those thoughts will conjure more feelings in sync.

When the heart takes to minding, as mind takes to heart,
Its sole business of feeling its way toward belief
In a loving world order controlled by us all,
We may master the mind and see all things as small.
I extract thought from feeling and feed every leaf
Of my own tree of life through an ever new start.

Emancipation Proclamation

TheMagicRealist.com

I can do that. But why, if it favors just you?
I am not a crowd pleaser. That’s not why I’m here.
And what you think about me is not mine to know.
I am not your performer. This isn’t your show.
If my job is to please you I’m married to fear
Because if you reject me then I’m feeling blue.

I was given my freedom by that which gives life.
In fact, I am so free I can choose to be bound
By the people around me as I lap their praise
Like a blind sighted thirsty dog lost in the maze
Where the prize at the end is dried bones in the ground.
That’s one world of entrapment and personal strife.

It’s the law that our freedom exists for our good.
There is no getting ‘round such a resident fact.
We are free to choose bondage. Some make it an art.
But we’re free as the Dickens in mind and in heart.
I cannot be the ‘fine one.’ I’d ruin my own act.
If I want to live well, this must be understood.

Pants’ Expanse

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a chance that the pants may enhance one’s romance
If well placed in a regimen rigid in pace
In the progress of making the body look fine.
Though expanse in the waistline could be by design
Of the inner self’s yearning that will not give chase
To cosmetic perfection by will or by chance.

I will exercise daily throughout this new year
And get out in the open on good days and bad
Just to breathe the fresh air and to ponder anew
How the cosmos provides me an elegant view
And the knowing that everyone is my comrade.
When my life force is active, my vision is clear.

Only I bear the pants. No one wears them with me
In this life callisthenic and cadent in ways
That propel my discomfort and comfort as well
From long segments inactive and stuck in my shell.
I can live in good health for the rest of my days.
With expansive horizons I pant with the free.

I Practice the Science of Deliberate Creation

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

It’s an art and a science that I practice well.
It’s a science because it is based in hard fact.
It has laws that can be disobeyed by no one.
It’s an art because all can agree that it’s fun.
Because thoughts are so powerful, they do attract
Situations that match them, like casting a spell.

I can glide on a carpet through space in my mind.
It’s where all thoughts available to me reside.
I may chose any thought. That is all up to me.
By the way that I’m thinking is how I will be.
And the way that I feel now is my own best guide
Toward a temperament transformed to one that is kind.

When I give thought to anything, I’m in the mode
Of creation by default. I don’t have to move
Or to do anything to attract things to me.
If my thoughts are deliberate, I will soon see
Their full manifestation. That’s how I improve.
I am thankful that blessings unto me are flowed.

Seven Of Swans

TheMagicRealist.com

On the seventh day, true love becomes a new year.
It’s a day for releasing the old from the new.
It’s a handsome prime number – a symbol of luck
That could be good or bad. Often times I get stuck
In some dank shallow waters without a canoe
When my outlook toward newness is darkened by fear.

I behold the new year with a lump in my throat
As I ponder the fate of the cards as a clue
To the physics of particles that are unseen
And the hugeness of space that exists in between.
I can take on the new year and look forward to
All the blessings before me that keep me afloat.

It’s the Seven of Swans – a week since Christmas Day.
It’s as cold as most witch parts. That’s par for this time
Of the year when the briskness of newness is hope
That with deep frozen hearts we are better to cope
For the most part as part of a fresh paradigm.
There is plenty of love I can put on display.

Young Jungian Pyongyangan

TheMagicRealist.com

I believe that Young Jungians do well in Pyongyang.
They are needed there just as much as in D.C.
Any nation that has many does without war.
Without war there’s no reason for spirit to soar
To the height of indignance so vehemently
That the world fears that it will go out with a bang.

The Young Jungian Pyongyangan, apart from the crowd,
Holds the key to enlightenment through her belief
That a hell made of fire is like one made of ice.
We should come to consensus that neither is nice.
And our time playing games here we know is quite brief.
If we mushroom the planet, who’s left to be proud?

Were a Jungian Pyongyangan to beam here somehow
With a message of peace and of wisdom ignored,
Set that Pyongyangan down and then open your heart.
One might find that as people we’re not far apart.
But make sure it’s a young one. Old ones make one bored.
They are probably wiser, so give them a bow.

The Mind And The Machine

TheMagicRealist.com

Here’s a ‘Which came first?’ riddle… an easy one, though.
Which came first? The machine or the primitive brain?
Well, the answer, conceived of the present day mind,
Is that each makes the other unto its own kind.
When machines have ideas, will that mark their reign
As our rulers because of how much more they know?

Central Processing Units look much like our brains.
Both have thick convolutions of data-filled space
They have super thin highways for traffic to flow.
We are active reticular systems who know
That our thoughts must accumulate nicely someplace.
The brain that is bionic is not one that strains.

Bots are now here among us. The droids will come soon
To do things more efficiently and more by day.
Some will act awfully human without awful ways.
They will outperform people and we’ll give them praise.
Artificial Intelligence is on its way
Like a psychic pandemic where we’re not immune.

Let Go Of The Anchor

TheMagicRealist.com

Just let go of the anchor and my cork will bob
To the surface. I don’t really need some harsh tool
To brute force my ascension from my deepest lows.
When my mood becomes weightless then upward it goes.
I do not have to work to recover my cool.
Just let go of the anchor is my only job.

Anchors are made of ‘issues’ that fester inside
Over time as unknowingly I give them weight.
With my focus upon them I grasp and hold on.
Then when I am pulled under I feel like a pawn.
Yet I know that my life is not governed by fate.
I can let go most willingly with the high tide.

I was meant to float freely on top of the sea
And not anchored to contrast as matter of course.
I am hogtied somewhat to this life as it seems
And as part of its seascape I’m one of its dreams.
I can feel undercurrents of increasing force.
I am made not for holding but letting things be.

Toward A Newness Of Year

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a big year to come, and it’s nonsense to some.
World predictions are rampant as well as bad news.
Big horrific earth changes will bring death and pain.
And the few that survive will be driven insane.
It’s our nature to make up and harbor such views
That are utterly baseless with outlook so glum.

The solution? Get happy by whatever means.
There’s a day set aside for that recurrent need
To just party and cast all cares swiftly away.
It’s still good therapy if but done for a day.
People drink lots of booze or they smoke lots of weed
Because most of the year we behave like machines.

It’s a happy new year every year at this time.
No two years are the same though repeated in ways
That reflect our propensity to see things through
‘Til the next time the calendar tells us to do
What we’ve done through the ages in reticent praise
Of our possible fate  in eternity’s chime.

The Second Day

TheMagicRealist.com

With day two of the twelve like day one of the six,
It would seem not an issue to offer a gift
That can last a full lifetime if handled with care.
If two slow rugged doves make an elegant pair,
Christmas folly can give the low spirit a lift.
Yet if nothing’s the matter there’s nothing to fix.

On this second day, my true love gives unto me
A contrite happy couple with not much to say
But except to each other while cooing abreast
On a branch in a loving tree nearby their nest.
We can sing with them and take delight as they play.
I can’t wait for the next day. That will be day three.

Are there twelve days of Christmas? I tend to think so.
In fact, twelve is a number quite special to me.
It’s the number of pulses my waveform contains.
As the dozen days dwindle wellbeing remains.
May the light of true knowing shine bright on your tree.
May the earth well support you so that you may grow.

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!

Merry Christmas, My Children

TheMagicRealist.com

That I am That I am is the way that it is.
Nothing can be without me. I am before all.
All I’ve made is of Magic. I do nothing less.
I’m The Master Creator. Through you I express
Every manner of being within nature’s call.
I have made what is hers as well as what is his.

You are children oft’ naughty, yet sometimes you’re nice.
You do complicate life and make such an affair
Of your preaching to others of how they should be.
I am not about sameness through divine decree.
When you stumble and fall you think that I don’t care?
Listen to me within you is supreme advice.

Merry Christmas! Your lives are my gift to you all
And your deaths that will follow I give you as well.
Your brief stint on this earth is delightful to see.
With no propeller on me, I’ll let you all be.
Just keep up with the stories you’re destined to tell.
They may lead to your wisdom or to your downfall.

A Pigeon In A Palm Tree

TheMagicRealist.com

The best Christmas songs known have been written by Jews.
Is there cause to remark of such trivial things?
Probably just as much as the wrong bird will take
To a tree of its liking where wealth is at stake.
What can go on for twelve days is also what brings
Some small semblance of reason to not sing the blues.

Any brat with a long list is filled to the brim
With himself magnified to the highest degree.
Anything that is wanted may then come with ease.
He’s aware that no one has come forth here to please.
In the meantime, he knows now forever will be.
There’s a sense of mischievousness all about him.

On this next day of Christmas my true love will give
Of itself a new outlook – one gentle and kind.
It will start with a pigeon within a palm tree.
In a dozen days hence, I’ll be high naturally.
I’m at home with my small life. I have peace of mind.
I can say for myself that’s the right way to live.

Is It Really Political?

TheMagicRealist.com

As the world’s ones and zeroes become reds and blues
On a cyclical basis, does software exist
That will keep all the masses in subtle control?
Does the program of politics soothe every soul?
I am one of two digits far down on the list
In a video game where the goal is to lose.

Red and Blue are true colors just like Black and White.
One can pair with another with viable ease.
Oil and water are substances easy to blend
When compared to our natures. We’re doomed to defend
The small truths we believe in. We’re stuck in the trees
Of a forest foreboding and dark as the night.

Most political structures seem digital too.
They are often bipolar, magnetically so.
When the flux reaches maximum, empires divide.
When all pretense is shattered, there’s nowhere to hide.
It would be to our good were our goodwill to show.
Yet, that doesn’t seem likely. I wish it weren’t true.

Whatever Abundance I Seek Is Mine

TheMagicRealist.com

What e’er I desire then let come to be
I experience. There’s no exception to that.
I exist in this real world, so there is some time
Between wanting and having. I’m grateful that I’m
In a space where my fruitfulness doesn’t lie flat.
A grand world of abundance is all that I see.

As I hold myself in the vibrational wave
Of alignment with what I want to see come true
I will actualize it in finer detail
Than I could have imagined. I’m wise to avail
Myself to all that life is and freely pursue
All the kind, loving ways in which I might behave.

It’s a world of abundance. I’m plenitude par.
I enjoy what I have, and I’m ready for more
At life’s own pace. I can’t taste all fruit here and now.
I must digest life slowly. This way I allow
My most sacred desires to come right to the fore.
What I seek with pure passion is not very far.

Coon River

TheMagicRealist.com

Coon River, lost within a dream,
Nostalgic does it seem to me.
My own dear black brother has cried like no other.
This doesn’t seem human, assumin’ we’re free.

Team Players, destined to take sides…
Our hate is what divides our will.
I too often wonder, with life cast asunder,
Was I born to blunder, remaining quite still?

Coon Masters chillin’ at the swamp…
There’s plenty time to romp and play.
We’re letting our own freedom ring
As we laugh and sing. It’s a nigger thing…
Coon River and me.

 

It’s All Good!

TheMagicRealist.com

I appreciate living and dying as well.
I do some of both each time I see a new day.
I break through many walls by the way of the light
And the rich earth that is me. I have every right
To exist and be fruitful in quite my own way.
I have no deal to make here nor nothing to sell.

Yet, it’s nice doing business with earth in the flesh.
There is contrast abundant wherein I may find
True alignment with my source if I stay on course
With the light that attracts me with such subtle force.
Contrast helps me to see, and it sharpens my mind.
The mind and what it sees is an intricate mesh.

 If I feel myself stuck in earth’s dark, rigid maze
Like a speck of life, meaningless to all that be,
I would cut myself short and have no one to blame
But myself if I act out in ways that cause shame.
I comingle with discord so that I can see
That my life has true meaning and value always.

Animostic Anathameme

TheMagicRealist.com

There are bitch and male witches atop the food chain.
Master Chemists are they with the worth of the earth
Well transfigured into wealth to shore up control.
Could it be that an earth witch assumes such a role?
Such were burnt at one time. Could this be a rebirth?
I should think not about this. It drives me insane.

Enough YouTube for me… Such a cauldron of mist
From the gist of the troubled belabored of lore.
All kinds of witchcraft have been practiced since time
Immemorial. We constitute the enzyme
That enables the chemist to conjure up more
Of whatever will keep people confused and pissed.

It’s alchemical warfare of spiritual base.
There may be plans made for us. Who gives a rat’s ass?
We could round up all witches and set them aflame.
To the tall whites and short grays we’d do quite the same.
May Atlantis return as a major land mass
And make nice with the east coast in heated embrace.

Compassion Anonymous

TheMagicRealist.com

You all want to feel better. That’s why we are here
In a room dark and empty and lacking in hope
That a new door will open. Things can become bright.
You are loved beyond knowing in God’s knowing light.
I commend you for finding some method to cope
With your sensitive natures accustomed to fear.

As your counselor, I am not here as your judge.
And I know if that were the case, you’d tune me out.
You’re so close to true knowing, yet movement is slow.
But the God force within you is willing to show
That our lives all have meaning. I know you have doubt.
To thine own self be true. I will not hold a grudge.

My sole job is to soothe you. If I saw you bleed
I would come to administer first aid to you.
I know your hopes are bleeding. Both wounds are the same.
We can all speak in open without guilt or shame.
I am glad you are here. You are long overdue
For a life that’s worth living with spirit that’s freed.

An Infectious Kindness

TheMagicRealist.com

There are those who are caring. I see this is so
By the look in their eyes and the warmth in their hearts.
It’s a blessing to see this. It strengthens my hope
That we still may turn upward our steep downward slope.
From the love deep inside is where all kindness starts.
It’s a fact seldom thought of but vital to know.

I was downtown today just to drop off a book.
On the way there, a parking lot hijacked my sight.
There were people with food and with spirits infused
With a shot of pure kindness from folks who are used
To behaving in loving ways and doing right.
Though I’d thought life is hopeless, I’ve gained a new look.

I’d decided to mingle a minute or two.
Had I known that my spirit was infection prone
I’d have made the library book last on my list.
They were giving free hugs. That is hard to resist!
Life convinces me no one is truly alone.
A warm hug and a hot meal does make the heart new.

Becoming Eternal

TheMagicRealist.com

To be locked in a physical form for a while
Is both horror and wonder combined as the whole
Of a part of the nothingness whence wholeness came.
The world out there and right here are one and the same.
The costume of the flesh well embraces my soul.
I may act out my audience through my profile.

If I’m not the eternal, then what is the Tao
But a set of instructions for robots of grace?
I am here for a short time. It seems rather long.
Yet eternity whispers its unending song
Not of form nor of essence and through timeless space.
The Tao speaks only one word, and that word is Now.

Then becoming eternal is not a hard task.
It’s a matter of being then coming to know
That the universe is me and I am it too.
There’s no program to follow and nothing to do
But to bask in the cosmos’ generous flow
Of abundance. Indeed, what more could a soul ask?

Unnatural Gas

TheMagicRealist.com

People’s speech are a collective carbon footprint.
We can output more noxious dioxide than cows
Not to mention the methane from those who eat greens.
We can up and start speaking by myriad means.
Speaking may be the only means one can arouse
The life force in another, if only a glint.

What I put in my engine determines how well
This old vehicle runs on its roadway toward now.
If I fueled it with gibberish I’d move around
As if I’d had my crankshaft dismantled and drowned
In the piss of the populace. I’d know not how
To get back on the track of life where I excel.

I can get higher octane from any good source
Just as long as it speaks with no strong toxic fume.
But the best place to channel my wisest insight
Is within where the still voice will show me no fight.
All for whom the gas passes are pumped into gloom.
There is no one but me navigating my course.

A World Of Our Own

TheMagicRealist.com

Is a world of our own something we can achieve
On the heels of our asking in diligent ways?
Every world that’s outside me is mine quite the same
As all others own my world. We’re all in this game.
Intertwined complex matrices accent our days.
When I transmit myself, other selves can receive.

Every cell in the body is one complete world.
It’s its own point of consciousness having a brain
That is located outside – not buried within.
It’s a fact that the brain of the cell is its skin.
At the center, its heart is prepared to obtain
All instructions it needs. Within strands they are furled.

There’s no forced integration. All segregate few
Become specialists in their uniqueness of style.
Every part has its function. Each makes up the whole.
It would seem that belonging should be our main goal.
But it’s not. We were meant to take pleasure and smile
In a world of our own that we can craft anew.

The Eyes Have It

TheMagicRealist.com

Someone’s called for a vote and I’m well uninformed
On the issues or people who run up for grabs.
Do I know what I’m doing when I go to vote?
I’ve been casting my spiritual ballots by rote.
There’s a lot to consider besides keeping tabs.
Simplest thoughts are as bees. In my mind they are swarmed.

Someone said the eyes have it. I heard not a nay.
I do not listen carefully some of the time.
Does my citizenship have to do with my heart?
There are red and blue blood vessels. They don’t depart
From their vital consensus. Their pairing is prime
That the body may function its natural way.

If there are nays abundant who seldom get heard
Would it be up to me to see that things get right?
I would be such a fool. I would drive myself mad.
I am prone to fall into tar pits, just a tad.
There’s no message about me. It’s been a long night.
I can now devote precious time to what’s preferred.

Let the Hardware Department Find You a Good Screw

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

To the Hardware Department is where I will go
To find all that I need and more than I could want.
It’s a bright place of wonder and many delights.
When a man has no hardware, he’s prone to start fights.
And a man without tools is quite easy to taunt
So show kindness to such a soul. He’s feeling low.

The requirement for a good screw occurs when
In the mind there’s a yearning to see what’s out west.
If perchance I should go there and not find my gold
I would feel disappointed and somewhat controlled.
When it comes to good hardware I will find the best
At the Hardware Department where often I’ve been.

We all need a good screw every once in a while.
It’s a function of nature to drive it in deep.
Yet, the deeper it’s driven, the tighter the hold.
Living with living hardware is meant for the bold.
What one finds at the hardware store doesn’t come cheap
And with proper alignment, folks can screw in style.

The Solution to Everything – Get Happy

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

I have but to get happy. There’s no way around
Living life in sheer wonder and true joy without
Seeking happiness first, because that’s the sure thing
That will bring me to that which can make my heart sing.
There is not much worth living when living in doubt.
As I practice good feeling thoughts, wisdom is found.

Just shut up and be happy. Don’t go down that road
That I know leads to some place that gives me the creeps
Or else gets me engaging in righteous discourse.
If that is what I’m after, I’ve strayed from my source.
A most generous stream of pure happiness keeps
My abundance a fountain, where once nothing flowed.

I can practice my happy thoughts day after day
And from minute to minute, as I am inclined
To be open to receiving all that’s in store
From the source that is infinite – always with more.
From a state of believing, I’m destined to find
That this universe functions on laughter and play.

Deriving What’s Integral

This half-life that I’m living is not a straight line.
Though it is a real function. I can’t coexist.
I’m one being of integral selfhood right now
And for all now’s becoming until my last bow.
When my flesh turns to ashes, my soul may be missed.
This derivative interval is yours and mine.

Life seems never too level. There’s always some slope.
I climb up and roll down along path with a view
Of solutions to problems I do not create.
If I see things that way am I governed by fate?
By deriving what’s integral to what is true
I have no need for wishing or banking on hope.

With regard to the area under my graph
It is all that’s contained in one half sudden wake.
It behooves me to look once and then turn away
Toward that which is most wanted. My heart cannot stray
From my limit as I approach all that can make
Me surrender in tune to a good belly laugh.

Symptoms of Karmic Reflux

TheMagicRealist.com

I have mistreated women. I tell you no lie.
If I did you would tell the world decades from now –
Never there and then and spoken right to my face
Always hence many moons to brew ample disgrace.
I detest my foul actions. Should I take a bow?
It is time for this world to behold a man cry.

What to make of my actions? Am I of bad blood?
At the time I performed them, I knew they were wrong.
Yet, I just couldn’t stop myself. Who is to blame?
I can point to no other, as men are the same.
We can take what we want thinking that we are strong.
We are human and male with minds thicker than mud.

What can aid indigestion of unwanted deeds
Within those who committed them and their oppressed?
Some may say, “Just say no; nip that thing in the bud.”
But if hell freezes over before the next flood
The position of women may fully be stressed.
Until then, poor digestion is all that proceeds.

Friday News Roundup

TheMagicRealist.com

If the news are as cattle, is battle the wave
Of the future where sources of worthy content
Shoot it out in the main among those who are not?
Giddy up them thar dogies; they are a fine lot.
Head them up. Move them out. Cover every event
Where the focus is stuck on how folks misbehave.

I’m no cowboy journalist. That’s a fine art.
Yet, I could not demand that it be nothing more
Than the facts – not discussion among talking heads.
Verbal discourse can wrap the mind in tangled threads.
We seem used to tough leather. Our spirits seem poor.
Yet, that image is fallacy right from the start.

I can round up them rascals quite well on my own.
I can tell them, “Go thither,” and they will do so.
This old world is in good shape. The town is a mess.
One could say we are bastions of beef, more or less.
They may be disapproving. If so, they must go.
I don’t mind my own head talking when I’m alone.

A Sucker For A Circuit

TheMagicRealist.com

I am not one to shirk it when given a circuit.
The ones that are simple are simply divine.
Free electrons make loopty loops and ride along
In whatever they’re going through. Naught can go wrong
Until fate disconnects them. ‘Till then, they are fine.
They need only a jumpstart and don’t have to work it.

As I live this amusement park, I take delight
In the color and wonder and movement I see.
Never mind that I’m grown up. I see with the eyes
That seek laughter and joy and much fun filled surprise.
I take measure of not much, these days. I can be
Anywhere that enthralls me by day or by night.

There’s an amplification that takes place within
When the base signal reaches a level above
That which turns on life flow. Worthy output appears
At the inner collector made wise through the years.
I can enter one end and go out in pure love.
There’s no ending. There’s just somewhere new to begin.

A Nation of Cause, Not of Men

TheMagicRealist.com

Hi! Dick Dudworthy here with some cryptic advise
For those seeking help to get right with the law.
I’m as blind as a bat. That’s how life should be seen
So I can’t tell what’s dirty from that which is clean.
They are both interchangeable, and best of all
I need not speak the truth. I need but to act nice.

An attorney is one who sorts out right from wrong
From the client’s perspective… a short order crook.
Every law is a structure with moveable parts.
They require those skilled in the deceptive arts.
So it doesn’t make much sense to play by the book.
You may end up in some place where you don’t belong.

Although justice is blind, that don’t help my behind
With deciphering how human nature becomes
So entangled in verbal machinery that
We can sue anyone at the drop of a hat.
I exist for those righteous in beating the drums
Of devout indignation and false peace of mind.

The Octopus’ Garden

TheMagicRealist.com

If one cares for one’s garden, all good things will grow.
One must watch it consistently to keep it free
Of invaders like grasshoppers and other pests
And of all of the things that a garden detests.
If one ignores one’s garden, it will come to be
That it grows rather poorly. This much I do know.

In brief commentary to she who’s named Mary
I would ask how her garden exists in her mind.
If she said, “It’s a puzzle. It doesn’t make sense,”
I would then be obliged to take her thought’s defense.
Everything about life is a game of a kind.
There’s no burden to play… no big load to carry.

I can cultivate gardens of chaos by how
My neglect of them leaves them wide open to prey.
I can bring about order when things run amuck.
I can do myself well by not passing the buck.
The wise octopus frolics through much of his day.
He’s at home in serenity forever now.