Tag Archive | food for thought

Poetic License

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

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

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

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

Diagnostic Statistical Menace

TheMagicRealist.com

Have I spent enough time with my sick self today?
Seems I’ve used a reserved word from DSM twelve.
Some will tell me I’m sick by the things that I write.
They’ve a right to be right. I will give them no fight.
I shall keep on creating. My true heart will delve
Into all that I must be. I’m structured that way.

There’s a time for believing I’m worth every bit
Of the life force and consciousness focused through me.
That time is, as always, always, and I’m sure
That if I took the time to make sure I’m secure
I would freefall through life like the leaf from the tree.
Life’s momentum is fated so I cannot quit.

Yes, I spent time with self today, searching my soul
Not for reason of purpose or conscience remorse
But for meaning in how I relate to this day.
Did I learn anything new and have fun at play?
That is nobody’s business except mine, of course.
Yet my sharing it with you is part of my goal.

Serrated Serenade

TheMagicRealist.com

I’m one cat who is lovesick. My heart is in tune
Well to your heart’s desires, whatever they be.
Though I sing like a sick wheel and play pretty bad
I am having the best time that I’ve ever had
Pouring my heart before you and for all to see
That I am at my best when I’m touched by the moon.

I’m in love with my loving. Not so much with you
Though you happen to be at my center of gaze.
I’m in love with my living and being carefree.
There’s one purpose to living, and that is to be.
Then whatever ensues will enlighten my days.
I can share that with you but I can’t say, “I do.”

There are no strings attached to our living the bliss
Of communing in harmony throughout our years.
I do like you somewhat. Let’s just see how it plays.
What will come of our joining, our hearts will appraise.
May we forge our way forward and conquer our fears.
We’ll begin such a journey upon our first kiss.

Infidelicacies

TheMagicRealist.com

Early Christians torched lambs as a sign of respect.
None was meant for the lamb, though. It was God’s alone.
We’ve since ceased burning creatures we’ve butchered at stake.
We have stopped killing witches because of that snake.
There are numerous habits that we have outgrown.
It makes sense that we’ve done so. Our path is correct.

We are creatures of customs and quaint ritual.
I remember the frankincense when I was young.
And the Mass sung in Latin was such an affair.
It was all very mystical. None can compare
To a High Mass where congregants feel they’re among
Heaven’s angels and all known as spiritual.

Earth is Spirit As Well as the angels who dwell
In that other world where we’ll return to someday.
All things are of spirit. There’s nothing that’s not.
There’s no call for my feeling that I don’t have squat.
I have spirit to play with and put on display.
I take notice that I’m a well-fed infidel.

Particular Judgement

TheMagicRealist.com

Dear Diary, what a long day it has been.
I spent time with some children, but that part was short.
Since I’m older, I take social duties to heart
Although, what I would teach kids is how to take part
In their own self-becoming. I’d fully support
What their true hearts desire again and again.

It’s adults who are headaches. Our spirits are dull
When it comes to most anything. What can we teach
To the little ones who are much closer to truth?
We could turn off the bible and study our youth
For a little while until we are what we preach.
Life is not my migraine. It’s a point to the skull.

It’s been all about finding some honor today.
And that seems somewhat meaningless even to me
As this long day recesses. I am an adult.
I behave like a child. That is not an insult.
Most adults I know couldn’t hold shit to a tree.
What I learn most from most children is how to play.

This Mirror Called Life

TheMagicRealist.com

Who enjoys a good puzzle? I think we all do.
It is good therapy for the indigent mind.
I don’t make life a riddle. It is on its own.
I can complicate matters, but what I am shown
Is a whole world of images, some ill-defined,
But all reflecting all that reflects all that’s true.

There is manifold evidence life is a bore
If I trick myself into believing it’s true.
I could turn on devices and get them to share
What we most have in common that we can compare.
But devices turn off just like real people do.
Life’s a game and a puzzle obsessed with a score.

I can’t stimulate others to what rings my bell.
That’s a matter of free will I’m doomed to respect.
If this world knew about me, you’d be in my case.
You would find somethings on me to cause me disgrace.
My most valued reflections of life are suspect
To the mirrors of scrutiny I know too well.

Of Our Souls’ Unlike Poles

TheMagicRealist.com

Poles unlike can repel as this picture will tell:
One kind heart made for loving; one mean one for war.
We behave on all spectrums we feel may make sense.
Our magnetic reactions are our chief defense.
We are bipolar creatures who strive to be more
Than our natures can handle at times, but we’re well.

Are we well on our way to whoever we are
Without knowing the heart’s place in living life well?
The invisible flux lines we claim as our force
Can bring us true alignment or steer us off course.
At the seam of life’s structure is where I can dwell…
Where extremes in my makeup are never too far.

Unlike poles do attract, as a matter of fact.
My perceptive comparisons are just a way
To make sense of the magnetic soup I swim in.
Although noble a task, the task is to begin
Living life to its fullest with focus on play.
It’s a whole different thing, though, when like poles attract.

Zwerdrick Weirdwordnick

TheMagicRealist.com

Though it’s e before i when i comes before r
And between d and w, weirdness can be
Found in any arrangement of words as they’re played.
Broken down into letters, our words seem to aid
In describing what’s otherwise quite hard to see.
Making magic of words is my best game by far.

With perceptions approximate, how can one know
Without language how closely we get to what’s real?
We don’t grunt at each other as matter of course.
We can talk our way through things without using force.
But, too often, we lose track of how people feel.
Words may offer to us a firm platform to grow.

My dear friend, the Weirdwordnick and I are a team.
We together bend logic as far as we can.
I look after my letter tree. He makes the words
And makes sure that our letters aren’t eaten by birds.
He comes up with some weird ones but not weirder than
Ones that I care to give him, sometimes in a stream.

Across the Pond, They Call It An Advert.

TheMagicRealist.com

How this past year has been can be put into words:
Yellow buttery bleak and red necks gone ablaze.
Some who thought we’d get better still think that we are.
Yet, we’ve got something bitter. That’s swamp change by far!
Through commanding by Twitter, we’ve entered a phase
Where the media lead us like innocent herds.

“I just cannot believe it’s not better by now,”
Say the ones who had trumpeted triumph in hope
That the swamp would come clean again, like long ago,
And that coal mines will flourish. Great pride we will show
To the world’s many nations whose leaders don’t grope.
Things are still pretty cheesy, but not from a cow.

Things are better for me, but no credit goes to
Anyone who holds office and squirts on its walls.
I am better because my true self lets me know.
As I keep on improving my mood, I’ll outgrow
My propensity to grab the bull by the balls.
I can churn my own butter well, as many do.

Celestial Susan

TheMagicRealist.com

A gigantic turntable exists in the sky.
It is called the ecliptic. It is the sun’s path
That outlines its circumference in such a way
That it marks off twelve slices in polar array.
It becomes not a hard task to learn all the math
That is needed to figure out where planets lie.

Seems it is both or neither a science nor art
Though its practice dates back to the dawning of time.
Those who think it is folly are set in their ways.
With the scientist’s method, sometimes progress stays
On the cusp of discovery, stuck in mid climb.
Yet the mind and the heart are not lightyears apart.

The Celestial Susan is put into place
As a piece of a clockwork in sync with the ways
Of behaviors of people according to when
And where time introduced them to this life again.
Our precise correlations can awe and amaze.
We are live on a turntable nestled in space.

Mold Your Clay

TheMagicRealist.com

Gosh – Darn it! This clump of clay turned out a mess.
I have done nothing with it yet, but just the same
I can’t put my hands in it. They might well get stuck.
Then I’d have to do something with it. I’d have luck
If it turned out to be something that brought me fame.
But I’m too damned afraid to go through the process.

When I first plop my clay down with audible splat
Should I stand back and judge how my work has turned out?
I think not. That’s the easiest way to give in
To the notion that I don’t know where to begin.
I shall get my hands dirty. That’s all it’s about.
I can’t call this a work of art yet. It’s not that.

I can mold this dense clay of my life as it spins
On its axis completely through touch of my hand.
If my hand becomes idle, my fine work may fall.
Yet, that’s never a tragedy. And, above all,
It’s no reason for hanging my head in the sand.
When I mold my own clay of life, everyone wins.

Where Does Now Begin ?

TheMagicRealist.com

Can my now take on substance and gather some moss
As it rolls onward free of no will of its own?
As I speak the word ‘now,’ am I speaking what’s true?
Because as I speak nowness, each now become new.
Can I pinpoint this now moment that can be known
By my feeling it only? I am at no loss.

The tall peak of my now is the top of a wave
With some level of low grass delighting my base.
Right on top of the peak is the surfer I know
Who can balance upon now and ride with the flow
Of the now that seems ever to stay in one place.
Every moment one savors is easy to save.

My best now begins not as I warm up the scope
Of the mind with controls that can sharpen the view
Of the signal that lets me know I am still here.
That the signal is present, my vision is clear.
I can ride this great pulse of life all the way through.
Where my soul is well centered, there’s no need for hope.

Flaming Petutia

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Didgeri Donewith

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Zonehenge

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Be Happy Any [Frigging] Way

TheMagicRealist.com

Bring that water to boil one degree at a time
Over centuries. That ought to get me to cook.
I am fat, dumb and happy, but I tend to squeal
When I feel I’m not getting a fair and square deal.
You, the chef, satisfy me. I won’t take a look
At what’s happening to me. I’m feeling sublime.

Love the pills that you’re giving me? Maybe you should.
They are ripping my cells apart. My mind as well.
And they’re making you rich beyond anyone’s dreams.
I’m a pig in a blanket of filth, so it seems.
We, the three hundred million-fold, can’t seem to tell
If we’re being well-porked and if that’s to our good.

Does my better self-see things the way that I do?
Surely Not! It’s a view that it knows has no truth.
So, it’s up to my lesser self to find a way
To find positive aspects to brighten my day.
I prefer to be self-controlled and in my youth.
Although life can affect me, I’m not in its stew.

Earth’s Skin Issues

TheMagicRealist.com

Mother Earth’s skin is gorgeous. She cares for it well.
She does not use cosmetics, cold creams or the like.
But she’s beautiful as people see her from space.
She’s a greenish blue marble with such a clear face.
And she does what she needs to do, should disease strike.
She can get people moving like bats out of hell.

We The People are ones who infect her fine skin
And cause blisters and blemishes through disregard
For her womanhood. We treat her like an old bitch.
Yet we’re willing to rape her so some may get rich.
When her face gets too dirty and too deeply scarred
She will wipe herself clean so new life can begin.

The Earth’s skin is an organ – the largest of all.
That’s in terms of her surface where all life takes place.
As we help care for her skin as we do our own
She may see us as not a disease overgrown.
All the damage done to her, she well can erase.
She’ll get rid of us too, and it seems it’s her call.

My Path Does Not Walk Me

TheMagicRealist.com

My life path doesn’t run me nor walk me at all.
It is not like a treadmill where I can pass by
The same scenery, never to see something new…
Where the mind needs fine earbuds to see the path through.
Life is not like a chore I must do or I’ll die.
It’s the way that I walk or run, and sometimes crawl.

Sometimes things on my path seem to follow along
Like lost puppies, or butterflies or disturbed bees.
They are just on my path. I could leave them behind.
They will not come around again if I’m inclined
To look forward and outward with care to the breeze.
That’s a path I can follow. That’s where I belong.

When my life is a treadmill, it just does not work,
Though there’s plenty of effort and movement and sweat
And the heart and lungs pump like there’s no end in sight.
But that doesn’t quite get it. I’m nowhere despite
All the hard work I’m doing, though I don’t regret
Inner growth as a byproduct and a nice perk.

A Parallel Gaming

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a parallel gaming. There’s shit going on
That we can’t know enough about. There’s just too much.
Airplanes going through buildings cannot make them fall.
As you watch it again, demolition is all
That is clear in the mind. We are eager to clutch
Onto whatever game plan is meant for the pawn.

Yes, there is some world order that is being planned
But it’s been going on since the Church game board came.
There are steep hierarchical ladders and chutes
Woven into life’s fabric and up through our roots.
Games we think we are playing are not quite the same
As that of the few ones with the world underhand.  

We could just mind our own business. Maybe that way
We’d disrupt the game process by not feeding hype.
The news media, big pharma, ‘organized’ crime
And so many more game boards will wither with time.
These are times that are turbulent and fully ripe
For an ultimate game playing toward our doomsday.

How To Make A Time Bomb

TheMagicRealist.com

A time bomb is not something that’s already made.
It takes years to develop one effectively.
Like the one that goes ‘cuckoo’, this time bomb will tell
Anyone within earshot that he is not well.
With his symptoms ignored, he goes on a blood spree.
In his heart, he believes life is viciously played.

Now, this is a fine time bomb; we all can agree.
It’s not hard to construct one. It does take some time
And some diligence at making him feel depraved
Of all semblance of worthiness dreamt of or craved.
Our society makes them, and it’s not a crime.
When backed into life’s corner, how can one feel free?

Making time bombs of people is such a fine art.
It requires a knack for discrete social cues
And a cool, subtle disregard toward those not cool.
Don’t let any guilt get involved. Don’t be a fool.
It’s a shame that we know not when he’ll light his fuse.
It’s the products we nurture that blow us apart.

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.

He’s Right About That

TheMagicRealist.com

Well, of course I am right, you malignant disgrace
To my intellect! Why would you think I am wrong?
I am right about many things. You are as well.
Why is it when I speak it becomes a hard sell?
Shall I submit to feeling like I don’t belong
To the rest of this universe in the first place?

Yes, I’m right about things. I am wrong sometimes too.
There’s a sameness among us all. Why am I cast
In a world outside yours. Don’t you know that’s not right?
That’s why people go ape shit and get so uptight.
If you want your ephemeral friendships to last
Then respect what folks have to say as they would you.

People’s rightness or wrongness can be loosely based
On one’s subconscious preferences that cloud the mind
With fallacious assumptions and fractured impressions.
If we dislike someone we give subtle expressions
Of disgust and judgement that aren’t very kind.
One’s contempt for dishonor seems never misplaced.

The Contemptuous Twidge McSmidgen

TheMagicRealist.com

Mrs. Twidglene McSmidgen is of the old school
Where control in the classroom is gained by brute force.
She could not have grown old watching Sesame Street.
She is like Foghorn Leghorn and doomed to defeat.
She can not swat the tots and then stutter, of course.
She would love to use some kind of ‘discipline tool.’

But the ‘tools’ today are much like bargaining chips.
And her chips are down usually by display.
She can’t muster the will to negotiate with
Such inferior beings. To her, it’s a myth
That the little ones might become people someday.
It seems teachers and tyrants are joined at the hips.

Many teachers are parents, so they have some clue
As to what makes most little ones act out in ways
That are deemed not appropriate and impolite.
And they do have some sense of what’s wrong and what’s right.
They are people with voices. Their minds aren’t a maze
Nor a puzzle with which we know not what to do.

Digital Ties

TheMagicRealist.com

I have digital ties, and much to my surprise
I’ve no need to make contact in any real way
With the people in my life and throughout the earth.
I’ve been trick-fucked by fellowship ever since birth.
I have God on my Facebook wall. That’s how I pray.
I have no need for sense. Social discourse is wise.

Although digital ties may lead to my demise
I just can’t do without them. They’re part of my act.
My whole friendship endeavor is too loosely based
On how many ‘page views’ and ‘likes’ that have replaced
My own sense of self-worth. I spit out the harsh fact
That would have me believe I’m a fool in disguise.

My damned digital ties may in time make me wise
To the bullshit behind all the ‘thumbs up’ I chase.
If I can’t find fulfillment within my own soul
I have no sense of value – no means of control.
I’ll continue to live life, yet fully embrace
Social Media’s squalor and all it implies.

A Chawpauper’s Chance

TheMagicRealist.com

As most archetypes merge and evolve into more
Well-submerged in subconsciousness, earth drives the soul
Toward fulfilling its haughty desires unscathed
Until true life departs oneself. Then one is bathed
In a fog unbecoming a person who’s whole.
Even though one is chawless, there’s much to adore.

I know nothing of chaw. I am in no debate.
But by rogue curiosity I can possess
Some faint insight benevolent to the chaw heart.
Chaw is nasty to me. We are lightyears apart.
I can see people packing it when under stress.
When they’re chawless, they enter a psychotic state.

I’ve respect for the chawless and chawfull as well.
Rather than keeping tongue in cheek, they keep a ball
Of the foulest, most fecal of substances made.
Yet, it’s not by my scale that another is weighed.
Whence a chawpauper’s chance could be measured as small
It’s the breath that might kill you because of the smell.

Stock Up On B’Jesus

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ve stocked up on B’Jesus. I keep tons on hand.
I am sometimes scared out of it due to my not
Having faith in my knowing that harm can’t occur
In my life unless I turn my cheek, as it were,
From the wellbeing present. In fact, there’s a lot
Of ways to keep B’Jesus intact as I’d planned.

If B’Jesus were marketed in such a way
That it wouldn’t wreak havoc within the mass soul,
Then maybe all God’s people would trade fear for love.
That would be kind of boring for souls up above.
They would rather we kick back and watch super bowl.
With B’Jesus so volatile, keep lots and pray.

My B’Jesus supply is my ticket to health
In a way that no doctor in my life could be.
All B’Jesus is warehoused and shipped from the place
Deep within self and to self in radiant grace.
Any feces that’s fan-borne can’t terrify me.
So, in terms of B’Jesus, I wallow in wealth.

Soap On The Brain Syndrome

TheMagicRealist.com

These darned kids, nowadays, must have Soap On The Brain.
It’s that newfangled illness that’s talked about much.
No one knows where it came from. Perhaps it’s from soap.
They are clearly too full of themselves. I can’t cope
With these youngsters who sound off to adults and such.
Is their purpose for living to drive us insane?

Yes, it’s Soap On The Brain Syndrome without a doubt.
There’ve been studies on soap suds of various kinds.
One would think they’d all brainwash to make the kid good
But they do just the opposite of what they should.
One good reason for pills is to shut down their minds
So that they are obedient. That’s the best route.

God knows children today are so matter of fact.
They will speak their truth loudly so that they are heard.
They will take to life, each in extravagant ways
And remember a lifetime of wonderful days.
Once our need to control them is seen as absurd
We will see we’re the ones who should clean up our act.

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.

The Beleaguered Debate

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s been said truth sounds like hate to those who hate truth.
Now, if that ain’t a paradox, send me to school!
Does this mean that falsehood sounds like love to the ones
Among us who serve mendacity by the tons?
That one’s truth is another’s excuse for a duel
Is a symptom that manifests from early youth.

I am prone to dig deeper to get to the core
Of that which is excitable, pleasant or not.
When big planets drop by and move in for a year
I could choose to expand my affairs without fear.
There are things about passion that scare me a lot.
Though I keep on complaining, I do ask for more.

When the elements fire and water touch base
The emotions are heated to levels above
That which cannot withstand being liquid in form.
They expand with a power apart from the norm.
We can be broken down to be rebuilt in love.
It’s a Jupiter/Scorpio thing taking place.

By the Numbers

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Opposition to Change

TheMagicRealist.com

That resistance is much like impedance is what
I believe non-hair-splitters believe is absurd.
Opposition to current flow through any coil
Is not like through resistor where current must toil.
Free electrons are volatile – easily stirred
Into motion. They book when their path is clear cut.

There’s resistance to life. There’s impedance as well.
I’ve both AC and DC afoot through my nerves.
When I wish for my dreams to come true, but I doubt,
I’ve got AC creating impedance throughout
My inductive creativeness. My flow deserves
Resonance in its purpose wherein I excel.

I can deal with resistance in life when in tune.
I can sense the direction my life force has faced.
When I feel heavy heat loss with energy low,
I’ve got too much resistance impeding the flow
Of the best life that I can live with heart well-placed
Within earth’s human circuitry where all commune.

Two Lips by Land or Tulips by Sea

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

A Codec for Cotton

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Customer Service

TheMagicRealist.com

Have I been of good service? I’m nervous to know
Because I’ve grown so old in a very short time.
Have I done unto others what they’ve done for me?
Have I taught them – or they, me – a new way to see?
Have I wasted my time with my making verse rhyme?
Valued Customer, should I remain here or go?

Many crossroads or turning points scatter my way.
They reflect my decisions made well in advance
Of my birth in the physical realness of earth.
Each new vantage point offers one choice of self-worth
Or the other one where soothing has not a chance.
When I choose incorrectly, do self I betray?

My reflection on earth does not fear to be wrong.
It is but a mere image of all I’ve become.
I cannot make a bad choice. No end is in sight.
Consciousness is eternal. My future is bright.
My decisions in life amount to the grand sum
Of a soulful surviving. My life force is strong.

If Our Thoughts Are as Stardust

TheMagicRealist.com

There are zillion quadrillions of stars, so they say –
All the ones who have counted them one at a time.
I believe them. I’ve no call to doubt their fine work.
I respect them for work that would drive me berserk.
From stardust to star system, each star lives its prime
Then returns to its dust state for instant replay.

Now, how many fresh thoughts does one think in a day?
It turns out, not so many. Our habits say so.
We think thoughts we thought yesterday, most of the time.
More than most of those thoughts are not worth a broke dime.
We think thousands of thoughts a day, yet we don’t know
How to think them effectively, to our dismay.

Every thought ever crafted from day one ‘til now
Still exists in the cosmos in its stardust form.
When our stardust-like thoughts trigger others the same,
A new thought with momentum will burst into flame.
Still more thoughts that are like it converge in a storm.
We can keep our thoughts bright as far as we allow.

Concealed Carry

TheMagicRealist.com

Should I carry my tool in a spare vestibule
Under armpit or next to my lower left nut?
I could hide one inside my collapsible shoe
Then when I click my heels I could put a hole through
Any short mother fucker who thinks he knows what
Makes him bad enough to take on such a damned fool.

I’ve a right to conceal it – my fearfulness streak.
It’s a feeling I’m used to. It makes common sense.
Everyone has one’s own set of circumstances
Wherein fear reinforces and heightens the chances
Some gun will go off in the name of defense.
I must conceal my fearfulness or I’ll feel weak.

So, do carry my way. Guns are here to stay.
And it’s not like we’re civil. We’re wicked and wild.
We’re a cumbersome species who can’t get along.
We need plenty of weaponry to make us strong.
Guns and gun control can be left up to the child
Who would see them as folly and wish them away.

Full Function Generator

TheMagicRealist.com

To maintain a wave function, there’s unction involved,
Of the kind that is foul like the breath of the bowel.
When gratuitous bodily functions persist,
Then events that are current should drift off my list
Of life scenes I engage with. A healthy avowal
Is one I’ll not take lightly if life seems unsolved.

Live does seem rather gross. There is spit in the air.
Folks are hocking their guts out for others to see.
But it’s just my perception. I see it that way
Only if it is helpful in making my day
The way I and those like me would like it to be.
Were there not others like me, life wouldn’t be fair.

Life’s a function phenomenal – much like a dream
Where the mind excretes heavily upon the soul.
To endure a wave function would take strength of will.
To collapse one effectively, one must have skill.
In the grim art of winning at every sought goal,
There’s a point where one thinks that one’s will is supreme.

Spirit Is a Full Wave Rectifier

TheMagicRealist.com

A long series of ups and downs marks this sort trip
Through a life that is lived induced into the next.
One half cycle is joy, and the other is pain.
I experience both to my truest self’s gain.
But my true self in spirit can never be vexed
As the half cycle negative, true self will flip.

Any life situation I see in some way
That is not to my liking – a pain up the path
My true self doesn’t go there. That’s why I feel pain.
It does see things quite differently, without disdain.
As it processes sine waves, the cool aftermath
Is full rectification with zero delay.

Life in spirit is positive – nothing but good.
It’s our good times – and bad times – that do make it so.
I can translate the pain any way that I may.
But I know that my true self just knows a great day.
Though my negative half cycles hinder my flow
I can know they will pass as I will and well should.

The Mystery of Faith

TheMagicRealist.com

Without faith and with shoes on, I walk across time.
Half way past holy bullshit, I always find more.
From the fake polls that tell me that Clinton should win
To the priests who spunk little boys (Ain’t that a sin?),
I know faith is a mystery dressed as a whore.
It’s complexity makes for a rich paradigm.

I can take what seems solid and firm to the touch
As mere referral points that in time will dissolve
Into nothingness, just like the space in-between
All particulate substances that can’t be seen.
God has given each soul its own puzzle to solve.
As for seeking consensus – it doesn’t mean much.

Yet, it means much to those who would have me believe
There’s a God who’s outside me who’s bigger than mine.
We are followers. That’s why we’re tended like sheep.
We are strung out for someone’s commandments to keep.
Any fool with a message will suit the world fine.
Faith is oft’ an elixir to numb the naïve.

What Every Colon Knows

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

A Fantabulous Fumbling

TheMagicRealist.com

I would hippity hem-haw and yippee tie yea
If I had but in inkling of what is in store.
With my ass in a sling that’s attached to nowhere
I’m a fumbling freak phantom no one can compare.
I’m a goofball – a catcher’s mitt right to the core.
Yet, I’m not in a ballgame. I can’t even play.

Serendipitous circumstance falls upon me
In a way that seems clumsy – like part of an act.
But no one can screw up quite as well as I can.
I am male and I’m hetero. Am I a man?
I can’t take people’s judgements as matter of fact.
I am here to seek balance. Thank God I can see!

A Fantabulous Fumbling through life like a breeze
Through a house of cards ready and willing to be
Cast in disarray, yielding to requited bliss,
I’m a laughable life. There is naught to remiss.
So, perhaps I was born to get others to see
Maybe nothing. In such case, I’ve naught to appease.

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.

Too Much to Chew

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

This Universe Knows and Adores Me

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

It’s a match made in heaven, this cosmos and I.
We delight in each other’s benevolent grace.
Unbeknownst to no one, I’m engaged to pure fun
And my life is worth loving and living ‘til done.
There is more time for rhyming with leather and lace.
If I could, without wings, I would take off and fly.

If I but allow it, I will feel all the love
That flows to me and through me and makes myself whole.
When I love myself first, then my cosmos responds
Often instantly. This surely strengthens our bonds.
Our relationship is such that we are one soul.
There is heaven between us as well as above.

My dear universe sees me when I am unseen
In my own separation from what it knows well.
I am loved by this universe and understood.
When I’m out of alignment, my silly thoughts could
Cast upon me some cheap psychological spell.
My soulmate is the universe with heart serene.

The Decisive Device

TheMagicrealist.com

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

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

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

Life Is a Lockwash

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

My caress is a wash unto those of my kind
And my kind could be all kind or no one but me.
One can think about kindness awash in pure love.
Surely all kinds can do kind things sort of kind of.
I can’t keep life from washing straight out to the sea
Because we’re locked together. Our souls are combined.

It’s awash in some contrast. My life’s not a dream.
Often times I’m impatient and damned to be right.
In the long run my life could explode in my face
If I don’t learn to concede some battles in grace.
Life before and life after this life is a bright
Reawakening to self-fulfillment supreme.

Life’s a lockwash. I’m screwed down to earth, as it were.
I am taut way past finger tight. Pressure is keen
Yet it can’t be perceived well unless I express
It in some way appropriate – not to excess.
When released from the lockwash of life there is seen
All that held me together for life to occur.

My Happiness Is My Gift to All

To others the greatest of gifts I can give
Is my happiness. Not that I have other things.
There are gifts that I give that have value to some
But the gift that is lasting is when I become
Mostly happy and joyful about what life brings.
Am I happy toward others? That’s how I should live.

I do seek joy selfishly. It’s the best way
To develop discernment in going about
Meeting others and caring about how they feel.
In releasing resistance my whole life can heal.
When I meet folks I want there to be not a doubt
That my motive is hearing what they have to say.

I must be in my joy or else I cannot be
Of assistance to anyone – not any way.
What I’m offering graciously is part of me.
Now, if I’m in a bad mood, it’s easy to see
That I’m out of alignment until the new day.
Mostly, though, I’m a present who’s offered for free.

Joy Is a Goal We Are ALL Working Toward

TheMagicRealist.com

Simple joy is the goal that we’re all working toward.
It’s the reason we do anything that we do.
It’s the basis of love and for finding things out.
It’s the reason that with lofty dreams we’re devout.
What we think will bring joy is what leads us all through
Bouts of painstaking diligence toward our reward.

It may seem that’s not so often times when we’re not
In alignment and open to be, have and do
Anything we desire no matter how grand.
And it takes some adjusting to well understand
How our thinking and feeling can offer a clue
To achieving our dreams that cannot be forgot.

We perceive joy uniquely – each in one’s own way.
Whether knowing or not where our motives lead to,
We are working toward joy every step of the way.
We each recognize this when we’re willing to play
In accordance with what makes the heart sing anew.
We all work toward the same goal each and every day.

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.