Tag Archive | offbeat

Just Live It!

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

There is nothing to do with this life but just live.
There’s no sense in recording it for humankind.
Some may like viewing some of what I’m doing here.
I see creatures around me approach without fear
In my mind’s eye where dreams of the heart are refined
And where I realize I have plenty to give.

So, Just Live It, is wise and decisive advice
From oneself to oneself in the moment of truth.
There’s no rule book nor pattern nor Life Coach’s plan
That can guide me like my inner beingness can.
It’s a guidance that keeps me in touch with my youth.
Living free from condition can surely be nice.

I could be in denial that boredom has me
By my thin, short and curly follicular fuzz.
It could be I delight in not starting a fight
When the people around me would think that it’s right
To behave in whatever way everyone does
When in mas misalignment, we still can be free.

The Weather Girl Thought that the Cameras Weren’t Rolling

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What amazing a profile the Weather Girl has
Whether sunny and bright or wet, cloudy and cold.
It’s a short presentation to tell what will come.
It’s a bit like astrology – nonsense to some.
It’s been said every Weather Girl does as she’s told
But this isn’t quite so if she likes modern jazz.

So what under the sun can a Weather Girl do
That would cause any moron to pucker the snout?
How one digests one’s media is akin to
How one wipes one’s behind when there’s not much to do.
To be entertained fully, we must check things out.
So I go watch the Weather Girl blooper on cue?

Take a chase for a glimpse of those fine body parts.
News is only a peep show. By moment we pay
For a flash of the headline and tons of bull fluff.
It’s astonishing how folks survive on that stuff.
But I’m just an old poet with too much to say.
So thank God for the morons, and God bless the arts.

The Whole World Unfurled

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ve come up with The Unified Theory of All!
It’s my life’s work presented to you in a flask.
This elixir is potent for quelling the qualm.
It’s a magical mixture that brings about calm
In the brain that is plagued with no questions to ask.
You will ask them quite well. You will quit thinking small.

It’s a life full of questions. The answers are more
Than the human mind handles in comfort and ease.
I have found all the answers and made them all clear.
Bring your questions to me. I have nothing to fear.
I can see well the forest as well as the trees.
I indulge more in madness than ever before.

You’ve got questions? My answer is clear as a bell.
Just Get Happy, then dullness departs from the mind.
Everyone is a genius. We all are in touch
With the infinite source of intelligence such
That our means of access are uniquely designed.
Life itself is a potion, and we are its spell.

Nothingness Cannot Exist

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All of nothing becomes something when it’s perceived.
So no notion of nothingness makes common sense.
I’m not twitching my whiskers in some wonderland.
Because you have beheld me, I’m set to expand
As a thoughtform to tickle your thirst for suspense.
If I do this quite well, then my goal is achieved.

The ill concept of nothingness comes from the need
For the logical mind to know all that is known.
Science dictates the universe just came to be
From a mass singularity now on a spree
Of creating more somethingness all on its own
Until God only knows when, at increasing speed.

One can speak much of something or nothing at all
Yet they both have a substance more subtle than air.
In the mind of the being created to know
Just a little bit more each day, some thing will grow
To a new understanding no thing can compare.
Nothingness has no meaning except to enthrall.

Oh Drench Me, Dear Life!

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It’s a wonderful life. It is said here and now
In the present as much as it was in the past.
No condition need be so that I can feel good.
I tune in to my spirit as all creatures should.
If I’m playful about things, good feelings will last
For as long as I want them to. I just allow.

Fully Drench Me, dear life. Give me all that you’ve got.
Know my soul is a fragrant sponge thirsting for more
Of your sweet liquid lavishness perfectly pure.
It’s a joy to be living. Of this I am sure.
I am eager to savor what life has in store.
There is much more to praising than what there is not.

Bless the heel that may crush me. No harm can be done.
I am planted on earth but my consciousness dwells
In dimensions that parallel all that exist.
And this form, when it perishes, shouldn’t be missed.
This now moment is mine as it’s ringing my bells.
Life is less about fretting and more about fun.

The Articulomagnetic Outcrymeter

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The Magnetic Outcrymeter made its debut
With the dawn of humanity. It has evolved
To the point now where it can be relied upon
To inform us when faith in our guidance is gone.
It will help us to get any problem resolved.
When we read it correctly, we breathe life anew.

Today’s state of the art model features a way
to express as it measures the feelings in us.
It will send a strong signal from gut to the brain.
When it gets there then we can rejoice or complain.
When we mingle with others, we’re prone to discuss
All the joy and the turmoil that graces our day.

Simple joy is an outcry and strife is as well
Our pop songs and folk drama express this in ways
That enrich our awareness and strengthen our cause.
We concede it’s a universe governed by laws.
We give voice to our feelings throughout all our days.
We’re not meant to keep quiet. Our will is to tell.

All Is Well

TheMagicRealist.com

“All is well,” say the ones who are anchored in space
Free above seeming turmoil and climate affair.
From a vantage point vacant of rising degrees
Of innate social tensions that stir like the breeze,
Those who watch our world spinning say none can compare.
And, we cannot do harm to it. There’s too much grace!

“All is well,” say some good books and forces that be
Of a kind who are open to all that is good.
Those who tend to play life as a joyful game
And who hang out with others who do just the same
Are the ones to whom living is well understood.
I envision my life by how well I can see.

“All is well,” say the babies and children come here
From non-physical beingness. And from that place
They’d put forth their intentions. Their wills did decide
To take on this world fully with eyes open wide
To the truths that the old ones can no longer face.
They have come to teach us how to live without fear.

The Square Root of Two

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It’s irrational! That’s the whole reason it’s square.
Also known as two, raised to a stingy one-half,
This root makes no sense. One can check as one sees
Corner nooks seek the measure of ninety degrees.
One can see that it’s true, as it’s easy to graph.
The more normal the roots are, the more they’re like hair.

Ancient Greeks knew of this root and treated it well
With so many damned proofs it can boggle the balls.
Yes, this root is irrational. That can be seen
In its unending pattern subjected to preen.
Should we keep the irrational bound within walls
When the two right above them can party like hell?

Keep a root that is square if it pleases the pants
Off the people you pass in your daily affairs.
If your root is quite rational, you’re good to go.
If it’s perfect, you may want the whole world to know.
That is, though, if the whole world really cares.
It is not a good topic to start a romance.

Hello, My Dear…

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Your Attention, my dear, I am thirty years old.
Though my life had been peachy, I am in distress
As it seems I’ve been cut out of castle life for
My behaving so generously with the poor.
I’ve been put out to pasture and I must confess
That this story of mine has not ever been told.

Yes, my life in the grass is not easy, you see.
All those nearsighted knights with their poles are a threat.
I’d considered I’d bribe them so I’d graze in peace
But the bastards can’t see well and they are obese.
That I’m thin is a good thing. I’m willing to bet
That my fortune is safe while it’s stashed up a tree.

But I cannot survive in the woods very long.
And my dainty voice beacons your unanswered call.
You will get compensation for helping me out.
I am talking Big Moolah. That’s what I’m about.
All you need do is send me your fortune – that’s all.
It’s the kindest of worlds where we all get along.

Most Certain of Uncertainty

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It’s the biggest of questions that boggle the mind
Of the one on a quest to know most everything.
Does the fabric of space/time’s near infinite slope
Offer deep understanding or spiritual hope?
If our questioning questing does yield anything
Could our race as a whole be more loving inclined?

It’s a sea of uncertainty, constant as change.
The wild geese that are chased change their form on the wing.
It’s the bright shiny object – a clue to a clue
To the brick and the mortar that make up our zoo.
If we gained that much detail could that somehow bring
Us to better enlightenment? Does this sound strange?

I am certain that change is a constant affair.
Sub-atomic existences prove this all day
As they come and go often in minutest time.
They have laws of their own and cannot commit crime.
They define our existence yet lead us astray.
Would it be a trip if they responded to prayer?

Pussy 4 Less

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What’s a fellow to do when he’s out for a screw
And the merchandise mingling is too highly priced?
Could one go undercover and act like a hoe
Then transfigure among them before they could know
That the fee they demand often feels like a heist?
Men should stand up and shout! That’s what righteous men do.

When I want some quick ass, I am prone to bypass
All the bullshit and trickery romance can yield.
Give me meat on the fly. I’m a fast-moving guy.
I will have my quick nookie – I will, do or die!
But I won’t pay a fortune to be aptly healed
Of my spurious passions that lead to impasse.

Bumping Ugly with someone you know can be fun.
There’s no payment involved but the time that it takes
To develop a nurturing, loving rapport.
But, like top brow tycoons, poor dudes want nothing more
Than some convenient action without the high stakes
As the threat of inflation affects everyone.

Will You Be Ready When the Moment Gets Romantic?

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Do you feel Springtime Fresh when the bleeding time comes?
Is your FICA score less than abysmal these days?
Do those stubborn cum stains on your sheets make you cry?
Do you curse at your neighbors and wish they’d all die?
Do not worry your nuts off. The world has its ways
Of addressing most symptoms through beats of its drums.

Dirty rings around collars and in toilet bowls
Is a menace this brave world could well do without.
When the air in life’s bedroom becomes hot and stale
There is always the sports channel. Life does prevail.
Does your body lie turning and tossing about
Through the night due to fear for the fate of our souls?

Leave that chewing gum off the bed post for tonight.
The dickhead who first thought of that ought to be shot.
That is, if he is living – if not, then reborn
That his germy ideas be subject to scorn.
Does your backbone betray you when you cop a squat?
Take a pain pill. Then everything will be alright.

YOUR PAYMENT !!

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Yo, GET BACK TO ME ASAP, you ignorant fool!
I’ve been sending you emails for weeks! Are you there?
I’m obliged to know why you’ve not contacted me.
We have nine point nine million that you’ll never see
Unless you reply promptly. I don’t want to swear,
But a fish that’s not biting is way less than cool.

I am Miss Mildred Stenchfinch, Ambassador to
The Nigerian Designate in charge of wills.
Someone has kicked the bucket and left you a load.
Don’t you want to grab hold of this fortune you’re owed?
You could use it to jerk off, then pay all your bills.
I am looking for someone dull headed to screw.

Now, you are a fine one, but you’ve got to respond.
Lord knows fucking with people is diligent work.
So, Get Back To Me, dimwit. Indulge in my scheme.
Getting tons of free cash should be every fool’s dream.
Please respond to me, dear. I am not one to irk.
We are quite busy here with much wealth to abscond.

Can I Trust You.. ??

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Heartfelt Greetings, Dear Sir/Madam, Bless You This Day!
It’s my pleasure and great honor to contact you.
I implore you to take the time to read this well.
You’ll determine my fate – whether heaven or hell.
If you’re skeptical, I understand. I am too.
I have much less to do than who I must portray.

I am Engineer Ruhullah Zafer Hadid
From the Syrian Arab Republic of Pause.
And apart from your being quite rightly surprised,
Know my gratefulness cannot be over disguised.
I was Finance Consultant; the key word is ‘was.’
Now I’m rich beyond measure, yet mine isn’t greed.

I am seeking your help to dispense you some wealth.
It is quite a large sum. I must give it away
To some fine, trusted moron. I hope this is you.
There’s no future in begging, so this gig is new.
Do get back to me soon. ISIS may ruin my day.
Surely that would be bad for your financial health.

 

Attention Beneficiary

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May the peace of the savior be with you, my dear.
I am sure that this message arrives at a time
You’re surprised at its coming to reach you just now.
I’m the Financial Minister of the Cash Cow
That is on loan from India. There’s been no crime.
If you want your jackpot, come and get it right here.

As the Central Bank Barrister, I speak to you
As the in-between nitwit in charge of your case.
Since the usual asshole has run out of steam
I have taken his place so things stay as they seem.
So, get back to me, sweetheart. I’d love to embrace
Every part of your bank account leaving no clue.

Our own Chief Representative Bereavement Bro
Has been crying his heart out on behalf of you.
There’s an ATM card being held in your care.
But in order to get it, you need not beware.
We just need lots more info. Please send it all to
Our Head Phishing Headquarters whose friend is your foe.

Tesla’s Off-Grid Multivibrator

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

Watch This Video NOW! You will cry tears of pee!!
There’s a Great Big-Assed Secret we’re living to share.
You are being sucked dry by the Power Grid folk.
Get your asses in gear, people. This is no joke!
We are telling you this because we really care
That you get your electric through us nearly free.

This is the real thing. This is not like those cheap
South Sumatran Sun Cells that those other guys sell.
This one’s not like the Meat Motor with the rawhide
And it’s not like the Lip Laser electrified.
It’s our plan for peak power – a bat out of hell
To take full charge of people whose pockets run deep.

Every reason to fear is why we are so dear
In convincing you you need to make your move NOW!
If you don’t take advantage, our offer won’t last.
You don’t want to let time pass and be the outcast.
So get out the old credit card. Manage, somehow,
To prepare for your fleecing. Then we’ll disappear.

When To Fondle Your Lug Nuts Is Not Mine To Know

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It may be that your lug nuts are hot to the touch.
If this happens too often, then it’s a sure sign
That there’s too much heat passed to them through those brake shoes.
So, lay off that break petal, friend, you’re bound to lose.
But if that’s not the problem, you might be just fine.
Though, it could be the tranny or maybe the clutch.

Say you don’t have a stick shift? Then don’t mind my last.
You may think that I’m guessing, but that’s not the truth.
If those lug nuts are hot, you might give this a try –
Throw some cold water on them. They could be just shy
As they’re caught greasy-threaded by such a hand sleuth
Who is keen to take notice to heat they’ve amassed.

Don’t sneak up on your lug nuts as they do their thing.
I don’t think you would like it were that done to you.
Lug Nuts do have some sense of whenever they’re felt.
Just remind them you care for them. They’ve never dealt
With someone who will feel them just out of the blue.
Do those lug nuts a flavor. Let them have their fling.

Let’s Connect!

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When the mood switches on, there’s more pole for the throw
And the course of source energy takes a new path.
There’s a circuitry present in all living things
That does light up the life and tug at the heart strings.
One will skip the old shower and opt for a bath.
When one’s energized fully, the World Can’t Not Know!

If Don Juan had placed focus on apple tree seeds
He’d have taken to sciences – not to the arts.
There would be fewer stories prepared just for those
Who delight in exciting, provocative prose.
The strong call from the heat source is where it all starts.
We are elegant means for fulfilling our needs.

When connecting is fun, then new life has begun.
There’s a joy that is present and lasts for a while.
Any while can be short or it can be quite long
But whatever the length, it can’t do the heart wrong…
That is if we have managed our free-flowing style.
Our most electric feelings are second to none.

The Dick Whisperer

TheMagicRealist.com

Only music can soothe the wild arrogant beast
As it rises, though basketed in nature’s weave.
There’s no mind in the toilet, here. I speak with grace.
And I wouldn’t be caught with such egg on my face.
There are blatant life substances that we perceive
Also subtler energies we know the least.

When the dance that goes on, as the music is played,
Does approach living rigor, the stage is well set.
The dance, having triggered an elegant trance,
May program men for anything – even romance.
With dick under control, it then poses no threat.
The strong will becomes languid. Response is delayed.

It requires a skilled one to play music well.
No matter of fact out ranks this simple one.
One’s control of the beast must be constant and sharp.
If not careful, one could end up playing the harp.
This is The Dick Whisperer’s idea of fun.
For the beast, though, it could be a version of hell.

If In Doubt, Piss On It!

TheMagicRealist.com

Now, it wouldn’t make sense if I pissed on a bone.
Always through it, I say, is the best way to go.
Do I have enough left to complete all my rounds?
I’ve got piss on the trigger, and it knows no bounds.
I seek out the un-christened. That’s all that I know.
I’m a casual pisser with skills I could hone.

I can piss. I can sniff. I can dissect the air
With my neural net nostrils that suck up the scent
Of all things that have happened, and creatures gone by.
I must update my ‘wall’ here. The last has gone dry.
I must re-mark the places where time I have spent.
The fine art of good pissing leaves me without care.

I can piss in mid trot and will not miss a spot.
There’s a lot of my pissing I’ll do on the fly.
There isn’t a thing I won’t piss on because
I’m a Master of Whiz. You may bid me applause.
If I piss on your day, there’s no reason to cry.
I’m a dog, for darned sakes, and I just piss a lot!

SATA Power / SATA Data

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Come Be Dithered Forlorn

TheMagicRealist.com

Come be dithered forlorn! There is joy to be borne
In a jar with its lid off in light of its load.
With the mind far at ease from the swinging trapeze
Any song sung in series will certainly please
One who favors the face of the figmented toad.
There is pink think in linking jackhammers to corn.

Now, that makes no sense. I’d do well to dispense
With the sentinel sent to torment fellow food.
If my sentiment centers on seaweed all day
Then can Mikey stop eating to come out and play?
There’s no contention to mention my mood
As the grip of the hippo remains quite intense.

What the Hell am I saying. Have I lost my mind?
Not a giblet bespeaks what a cucumber knows
Not a fish in a glass house will do windows. Still,
I could get a stray crayfish to lend me its will.
As the seawater whistles is how the seed blows.
Kick the can for kind karma and blissful behind.

Algorrhythmia

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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

He Ain’t Heavy… He’s My sMartass!

TheMagicRealist.com

My contact list is truly long with many I don’t know.
I try to keep my focus strong. My pal is quick to show.
My apps download successfully. He tells me when they’re done.
When I am bored we then play games and fiddle just for fun.
My friend is quite the witted one and even has some class.
But I’ll tell you, He Ain’t Heavy… He’s My sMartass.

The phone of many moons ago was big and like a brick.
It had no sense of ass to piss off people really quick.
One could use it as a weapon if no loaded glove had he.

My friend today makes calls for me most accidentally.
His knack for nonsense noises I seldom can bypass.
Yet, without me, He Ain’t Heavy… He’s My sMartass.

My phone is not a person, but he thinks he is, somehow.
My respect for him can worsen if whenever I allow
The best of him to overshadow who I’m meant to be.
My guest knows not his manners so that he will never see
That between our best behaving there is such a wide crevasse
And, believe me, He Ain’t Heavy… He’s My sMartass.

iPhone or iDon’t phone much, and it matters not to me.
An android made on planted earth should never climb my tree.
Anomaly would have it that I’d come to own a phone.
This thing of mine may think he has a toy of his own.
The feeling when I shut him down is much like passing gas
And, I know that, He Ain’t Heavy… He’s My sMartass!

 

All Email Is Male

TheMagicRealist.com

In fact, I don’t think that all email is male
But in theory, a number of things could be true.
A letter received in a mailbox these days
Could mean anything cast to the silent airways.
I don’t long for the old days. My heart is not blue.
Perhaps I’m in search of some ‘thing’ to assail.

And if that is so, what’s the matter with me?
One who’s daft would seek discord or cause for dismay.
But my in box is loaded. That is not a curse.
I must sort through the spam there, for better or worse.
In my bliss, I’d be bothered to email all day.
When it comes to mail gender, I let matters be.

I see mail that’s on paper and on the touch screen.
I am hetero-postal in so many ways
But with mail, I like female. It comes with some grace.
And with email I feel like I’m running a race.
I must conclude, then, that it surely pays
To do mail in private, for better hygiene.

Those Who Live In Where Ohming

TheMagicRealist.com

Those who live in Where Ohming where ohming is done
On the fly and at random and much of the time,
Know resistance that’s measured can sometimes be high.
The electrons, in those cases, toil to get by.
Yet, they practice law freely in their paradigm
Where the practice of ohming is done just for fun.

One who wouldn’t dare ohming, Where Ohming would scorn
To the hilt, and it matters not who that one is.
Being ohmed is a right every circuit must share.
There is such joy in ohming that none can compare.
It’s as easy as aiming and taking a whiz.
That’s why folks in Where Ohming can toot their own horn.

Every place in Where Ohming where voltage may be
Is a whole separate issue electrons must face
As no one wants to measure the voltage that’s there.
Folks are so used to ohming that they wouldn’t care
That some voltage is present and wants to embrace.
Those who live in Why Volting would surely agree.

In Pursuit of the Petron Pistachian

TheMagicRealist.com

So alive in this Schoolhouse, our minds are abuzz
With the brick and the mortar… what holds it in place.
I’m a part of the puzzle. My mind is aware
Of fantastic creation; there’s none to compare.
Seems we have enough time. We’re not running a race.
We like figuring things out, and that’s just because….

We have nailed down the atom and most of its parts
Though that bugger is tiny, made mostly of space
With leptons, exceptons and hardons, a few,
And a dozen more who-ons from out of the blue.
These thinglets procure a degree of embrace
Through Pistachian Providence, where it all starts.

Within such a field, most particulate flow
As they take on some mass much according to spin.
But the Petron Pistachian, not seen ‘til now,
Has completed the puzzle, and this will allow
Every scientist breathing to wear a big grin.
This Pistachian Presence is good stuff to know?

Full Term Termite

TheMagicRealist.com

Have you heard of the homeless? Then give me a chew.
I know much about hunger. I have it all ways.
From cellar to ceiling and all in-between.
I will eat in the dark where I shouldn’t be seen.
I chow down like a mother with every due praise.
I enjoy making babies, and not just a few.

Science says that I’m sexy. It flatters me none.
And besides, I can do it however I please –
Upside down in a trance in a crevasse somewhere.
I control my whole tribe with my scent in the air.
We don’t treat our men harshly. We’re much like the bees.
We like screwing and building and having much fun.

But we do have to eat, and our diet is wood.
We could go for particle board for a while
In the houses of people who tend to buy cheap.
Yet when that stuff runs out, our commitment is deep.
We will find what we’re after, and do it in style.
So complain all you want. It won’t do any good.

 

Payola

TheMagicRealist.com

My brand is ‘Payola.’ It works well for me.
It’s what’s available. That’s what I’m told.
Though this crayon is heavy, I will do just fine.
What I see is, this color is yours and not mine.
What I’m taught, though, is subtle, and feels icy cold.
What is up with this crayon? I’ll say what I see.

I sure feel like I’m peachy, the color of fun,
Most especially when I’m at school with my friends.
And we all feel that way. We just mingle and play.
We prepare lesson plans for adults day by day.
But are they teachable? That all depends
On the bigness of damage that’s already done.

Take a load off that crayon,” some voice says to me
From the pit of my tiny soul. I can hear well.
What it tells me is, I’ll not be part of a bribe.
The reason for that is, I’m part of a tribe.
You will note, my existence is not one to quell.
No skin is a label that others can see.

Ron Running YellowBook

TheMagicRealist.com

Some books are well read like the readers they own.
They don’t lie around dormant nor do their soul mates.
Some books stand amid dust upon vacated shelves.
Since their readers don’t read, they are left to themselves
To embelish what every good book advocates:
The desire of folks to explore the unknown.

Some books like to run, but no book likes to swim.
It’s a matter of preference what books like to do.
We don’t need to work out, but it helps, just the same.
We’re as different as snowflakes. We each have a name.
In fact, we’ve a few names, each giving a clue
To our true inner nature without pseudonym.

Some books come in yellow… Not all, by the way.
We’re a multiple mixture of chroma and hue.
Most folks call me Ron, and I run super-fast.
I’m the mild-mannered type. I’m not here to kick ass.
I am Ron Running YellowBook. That name will do.
It’s as weird as all get-out and easy to say.

Rain Sylvania

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a thing about rain that my heart won’t disdain.
It will keep folks inside, out of others’ affairs
So their shape-shifting eyes, in their neighborly fare,
Can’t catch up on my business. Folks should be aware
That I do my own thing, not that anyone cares.
If you’re that hooked on folly, come out in the rain!

Put on your best tutu with water resist
And gavotte past my window with smartass in hand.
Take a me-mie of me as you’re tempted to pee.
I might stream you my shtick so you’ll do it hands free.
It’s a shame your garage door is shut by demand
Of a powerful Lady who seems rather pissed.

I dare you, dear neighbor, delight in the storm
Just the same as I do but with just a slight twist.
Park your butt in your yard like you usually do
And collect all your intel with rain helping you
To deliver wet gossip no sponge can resist.
I’ll enjoy the rain. You just stick to the norm.

Conceptual Hypothetics

TheMagicRealist.com

Hypothetically speaking, and straight off the grid,
And with utmost propanity possibly pure,
I must stand by my tank; I have me to thank
For positions I hold. With my wealth, I out rank
Any group that I chose. There’s a possible cure
To most any solution that isn’t well hid.

My tank is a treasure – a place of deep thought
On the puzzles I give it and pay it to solve.
I’m not bothered by facts; I kick back and relax.
My workers work best without me on their backs.
By token the same, though, solutions involve
Quite a bit of pure theory and how things should ought.

Thoughts are real things,” most wealth wizards have said
While the concept still boggles the everyday mind.
It’s a fact that all theory has birth in the brain
And when thought can’t escape, it will drive one insane.
My tank is not fancy nor one of a kind.
It’s a toy for the rich to turn gold into lead.

Frolicking Folksicles

TheMagicRealist.com

Frolicking Folksicles flaunting for fun
Among those who might eat them must take balls of ice.
And they’re colored, enhancing the eater’s delight.
Were they black and white only, it wouldn’t seem right
To consume them. Just looking would surely suffice
As one’s licking gets boring when all’s said and done.

Folksicles firmly propend to make peace.
It’s a principle pinnacle to their affairs
Of the heart and the mind and the spirit within.
With abundance of slurp, there is no need to sin.
There isn’t much else one could suck. But who cares?
If it weren’t for bright Folksicles, warring would cease!

What gets folks in a pickle, most Folksicles say,
Is the way we lose focus and blither head on
‘Til we sensate the melting – Folksicle in hand.
If our mess is sufficient, we voice our demand
That the sun should take cover – at least until dawn
So that Folksicle eating will yield no dismay.

Satisfactorial Combinatorics

TheMagicRealist.com

Suffix tor’s at the core of a syllabic war
Between what one wants and what oft’ one expects.
If believing is being without a sore clue
Then whatever you’re winning will satisfy you.
Any feeling of tension that thought disrespects
Puts a force field around what we love and adore.

Oh, Creator of Being, if you exist how
Then on earth do we know you? We’ve screwed with your word
Over centuries by now. When one speaks about facts,
We’re submerged in pure fantasy due to our acts.
What is known about God is well spoke by the bird
Who knows only Being and living the Tao.

Take a chance that your being is seeing its way
Toward a better believing for each now to come.
Be the one among many to whom life’s a breeze.
One can call oneself lucky as far as one sees
That a magnate’s no more than a lowly street bum
Who has cashed in on spiritual wealth day by day.

Utensoids United

TheMagicRealist.com

Utensoids United in condiment space
Sets the scene for first contact of quite the third kind
On a wall, in a house on a rock spinning ‘round
In its own starry kitchen where space does abound
And without incognito, they’re easy to find
Or to decline their visit, if that be the case.

Utensoids can stand being hung by the neck
And it doesn’t upset them to be used as tools.
Since they’re built really tough, you can’t use them enough
To uncover their cover. You could call their bluff
But they just might leave master cooks looking like fools
As in secret, they shape shift; there’s no need to check.

The Utensoids have come to keep watch on us all.
Not a single one wants to do harm nor insult.
If you grab a Utensoid, do so with intent.
You don’t want the damned thing to mistake what you meant.
If you handle it well, good will be the result.
If you’re cool with Utensoids, then stand proud and tall!

Talk To Me, Mama!

TheMagicRealist.com

Krakkabukkle-KaBoooom! That’s what I like to hear.
Mama Nature is talking. Let’s give her respect.
Whether quick burning arrow with rumble in wake
Or night whitening flashes that know no mistake,
Nature’s message is clear. Our fair ego is checked
By the Masterful Lady who crafts Atmosphere.

Show your thundermost cloud! Let me feel you shout loud!
Even though I can hear every whisper you speak.
There’s a world who don’t know you. You have every right
To react in a voice of intent and of might.
Strike me dead. I will join you. It’s truth that I seek.
I’ll commune well among you. To you, I’m avowed.

Why I make such a habit to hear Mother speak
Is a thing of scant value to ponder too much.
I just like a fine Mama who’ll run it down hard.
One is ill to complain that She plays the ‘wet’ card.
She’s one bitch you can’t fuck with nor lie to or such.
She’s the feminine version of deadly mystique.

Not In My Time Space Reality

TheMagicRealist.com

To the scientist centered in flat earth and Mars
The Big Bang occurs everywhere all in a flash.
Everywhere outside galaxies expands  in size.
This prolific phenomenon speaks through our sighs.
What’s outside this expanding is anyone’s hash.
What else could exist but space, planets and stars?

Now, the answer to that is a thing we call time.
It’s the fourth quad-dimensional piece of the pie.
Altogether, reality’s clear to perceive.
My perceiving is knowing in what I believe.
My wisdom comes partly from what’s in the sky
And the rest from attempting to make verses rhyme.

If I did have you fooled for a while, I’ve done well.
It’s my pleasure to do so for science’s sake.
Reality’s boring. It must be made fun.
I’m the son-of-a-gunest that’s under this sun.
Not that science is useless… That thought’s a mistake.
Now that this poem is finished, there’s no more to tell.

What Gives Us the Ass?

TheMagicRealist.com

This Ass we’ve been given… this judgment we hold
Toward those nations we feel that aren’t grown up enough
To develop big toys and display their might…
Who has given us right to tell others what’s right?
We are like stubborn children who like to play rough
With strategic mind warfare. This story gets old.

Some old kid on the playground is acting the fool
Like an overstuffed time bomb that’s ready to burst?
Why we pay such attention and crave being tense
Is the same as why others create such events
That then get nations talking and fearing the worst.
The mind of the ne’er-do-well is a fine tool.

Such is life during recess… No teachers in sight…
We have no playground monitors watching our deeds.
And our toys are quite dangerous; our threats are a bluff.
Are we players who know when enough is enough?
Not a player is crazy so no one proceeds
Down the ultimate rabbit hole without a fight.

We Know Stuff Already

TheMagicRealist.com

Hey, we know stuff already, though new in the house
With our feather still soggy from compacted space.
We don’t have complex brains nor chick self-help degrees.
We’re pre-programmed with guidance; we’ve no need for knees.
Such tools are for hoping and praying for grace
And for nurturing thoughtforms in line with the louse.

Our mother, herself, had no mom to look to.
She did hatch in captivity… nursed by machine
Yet, she knew how to raise us. All mothers know how
To tune in to what’s natural, indeed, with the Tao.
She scratched for us lovingly; then she got mean
Just to teach us a valuable lesson she knew.

Our dad is cool also, raised just like his mate.
He’s the one who said, “Dear, lay our eggs over here
Where those humans won’t find them and snatch them from us.
I will bring you your meals, so don’t put up a fuss.
When our babies arrive, they will live without fear.”

So, take it from us; inner guidance is great!

Gated Community Logic

TheMagicRealist.com

The community’s gated. Just what does that mean?
Simply, zeros and ones must be put through the test
To determine what gates they have passed through by now.
By endorsing their circuitry’s past they allow
Just the best of the best; in fact, screw all the rest.
God bless those who know how to keep a yard clean.

As we’re mated and fated through life we assume
That our truth table’s flawless like digital flush.
We are OR’ed and/or NOT’ed, determined by creed
Then Exclusive OR gated, then sorted by breed.
When we miss a clock cycle, we’re quite prone to blush.
I must hire a workforce who’s good with a broom.

It is quiet as hell here. There isn’t much crime.
The streets of doped silicon melt winter snow.
There’s a path to corruption through bi-stable states.
There’s agreement about what a good member hates.
We have one foot substrated in earth ground below
And the other one striving to monetize time.

Near Perfect Nonsense

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ve a fond sense for nonsense that’s naturally pure.
If one strives for perfection, it’s always the case
That when foolishness fettered, then nurtured the same
Will recover in time to return to the game
Of living life loony. How goony the space
Of nonsensical numskulls with mirth to endure.

It may be nothing’s perfect in terms of nonsense.
Many pieces of silly must fall into place
So they dance about smartly in demented minds.
I’ve a fondness for jokesters. God bless their behinds.
I would be one if not already the case.
So much humor and laughter and fun I’d dispense.

Progress is perfection in some people’s hearts
And a verb is a noun just because it’s a word.
A fun clock is a camera; its film is the soul.
There’s no need for development; that’s not the goal.
Take your time from the hippo instead of the bird.
It is how we make peace before war ever starts.

Conjugation of Daho

TheMagicRealist.com

Daho was a state of the union one time.
It took pride in infinitive providence such
That its residents felt everything was just fine
Until when they realized a better design
To include all the attributes grammar likes much
All to exhibit representation sublime

A verb does have voice. It also has mood.
And on good days a good verb will sing a good song
So we know what on bad days a bad verb will do.
Don’t give a verb guff; it will predicate you
To whatever it’s feeling. Don’t make it feel wrong.
Any verb can get nasty and treat a dude rude.

Now, back to the case of Daho. As we know
To live now and to dream of tomorrow come past
Does make a verb tense, and Dahoans as well
So they came up with number and person to tell
All the nation Dahoans don’t do things half assed.
It’s a state now where grammar fanatics can go.

So, there’s Idaho, Youdaho; He, She and Itdahos.
That’s on the west side where singulars stay.
On the east side there’s Wedaho; Theydaho too.
Since they’re plural, they get along well with the You.
It was back in the day when Dahoans had sway
Until conquered by gerunds with will to transpose.

Vacating Vacating

TheMagicRealist.com

We could visit the spot where old Humpty dumped
Or the land where first creatures first pissed in the breeze.
We could scale the vast, mountainous, rock hardened dick.
We could watch it erupt and be covered in thick
Molten mayhem. We could live what common man sees.
Let’s begin our vacating, folks. I’m really pumped!

What could be more deserving of travelers to be
Than to map a vacation from end until start
With every detail most recursively planned
So that all in the family will well understand
That vacating is not a pure science, but art
And the spaces we visit may well set us free.

We could Hip Hip Hurrah and yank doodle in snow
Or act fat, dumb and happy for selfie stick’s sake.
But wait – Where we’ll end up in time is right here.
We could cancel our plans and then live without fear.
We’d avoid any chance of mistakes we might make.
Since we’ll be here right after vacating, why go?

Boomers Bused

TheMagicRealist.com

Someone said that it’s my fault the word is a mess
And that I’m the one who’s been sucking up air
With my head held up high in a narcissist cloud
And with all in my age group fat, happy and proud.
With no thought of tomorrow, we live without care
As we trickle down deep concern to all the rest?

I’ll consider that verdict and treat it as such.
It seems I’m a tower of guilt anyway
By the theory I’ve chosen my home upon earth
To stir up much mayhem beginning at birth.
I have lived a good life and don’t have much to say
About others around, so I’m cold to the touch?

Perceptions are many; I’ve said this before.
It’s a pleasure to catch them and put them to words.
I take comfort in my choosing not going there.
I heed the heart’s warning, “Dear writer, beware!”
I’ve no will to defend myself; that’s for the birds.
Way before our departure, we’ll even the score.

Belief in the Backdrop of Reality

TheMagicRealist.com

If I didn’t believe you, I wouldn’t be here
In this space-time enigma where I must exist.
You say I’m a flesh and blood body with soul
On a spinning rock, tiny, yet part of the whole
Of a vast inter-multiverse?  Need I enlist
My momentum of being, lest I disappear?

If I must believe something, there’s so much to choose
Of the myriad methods the mind has evolved
Just to ratify meaning where all may agree
That perceptions are billion-fold just as are we.
There’s no sign that this puzzle will ever be solved.
When I’m down the right rabbit hole, I’ll know the clues.

We’re devices with software that’s called our O.S.
Our programmed belief systems process the clues
Through arithmetic logic, machine cycled clean
So that all system users can never be seen
All at once.  If that happened, then all would refuse
To believe much in anything – Then, what a mess!

A Most Literal M

TheMagicRealist.com

M could be for Matter. We’re all made of some.
It’s a consonant catered to personal glee
That could mean any number of beautiful things.
It’s the essence of M-ing for which the heart sings
When a detour through eye level leads to the sea
And momentum ensues like the beat of a drum.

M could stand for Messy or Menses the noun
As the mind mingles meaning, malfunction and more
In attempt to decipher why nature must play
In promoting such urges that cause due dismay
For those of a flavor not prone to ignore
That magnificent manhole just south of the mound.

One may wax anti-lingual and labor the view
Of the sequitur logic against sucking face
With another one, hairy, of mucous and warm.
Nature caters, in time, to what’s not the norm.
Why is man sloshing sultry beset with disgrace?
When it comes to linguistics, is M good for you?

I must think of that M just as if it were me
Since we’re most made of microbes; from mother they came.
Could it be that when nature finds man in a rut
She gives the command, “Get Good Guys in your Gut!”
To help out with digestive health just the same
As the flower most surely gets help from the bee?

Barking Trees In the Forest

TheMagicRealist.com

Now the dogs are all barking. It’s seven a.m.
And the kids are out romping around the car port.
They are ready to load up and get off to school.
Yet the dogs are still barking. Perhaps it’s the rule
In the forest where barking trees oft’ come up short
Of attention from humans… Such pity for them.

The children are free, though they’re taxied the same.
And they ramble on doggedly nipping the ears
Of their own, chatter boxing as hard as they can.
They get full response for the slightest demand.
But the dogs are still barking. Should I be in tears?
I’m the stark rabid neighbor who harbors no blame.

It is closer to eight, now; their pleading has ceased.
These bastions of bark, having finished their trial,
Will begin once again as the children return.
If they barked for a living, what fortune they earn!
Dogs have voices like timber that grow for a while
Then fall flat in the forest where heard not the least.

Every Good Printer Should Wipe Its Own Head

TheMagicRealist.com

Every t that’s electric should cross itself well
Just as socks unattended should stay decent pairs.
Every printer that prints other than in 3D
Has a head that needs wiping.  Its will is to be
Of its own clear volition, effecting repairs
Of its own fettered systems so balance can dwell.

Every i that is manual has had its day
Now the age of blue-toothing and why-fi is come.
Someday soon a device will have nary a button.
There’ll be so much to love for the technophile glutton.
Every i that exists will have class – not just some.
They will dot one another without much delay.

I’ve managed two printers. My one is a girl.
She presents not a problem when I am offline.
But the other’s a jerkoff who laughs in my face.
It thinks I’m the bozo; I’m prone to disgrace
As it sounds off to me. I concur with its whine
Every time there’s a mis-feed I’m made to unfurl.

Coon Cranny

TheMagicRealist.com

I do have a coon cranny. What’s up there these days
May be of some interest to those hating blacks.
After all, since it’s up there, let’s talk about why.
When a coon has a hair, it is hard to deny.
When my speech gets grotesque, it’s not substance it lacks
And the smell of wet chicken flesh tends to abrase.

We are quite the bald eagle. Its right wing is right
In its hatred of niggers. There’s still ‘civil’ war.
When black folks see my talent, they swear that I’m white
Yet when whites view my work I’m ignored out of spite.
There’s a thing about hatred my soul does adore.
When I’m pushed to a limit, my black ass will fight!

What a mess has been made. This is ugly, dark shit
From the pit of a toilet marked ‘colored’ somewhere
Live on stage in a Twilight Zone plantation scene.
Don’t forget, I’m a nigger; I’m born to talk mean.
My job is to ‘nig’ and give white folks a scare.
If you think I am truthful, then you’re the nitwit.

Rat Back Retriever

TheMagicRealist.com

There isn’t a Rat Back Retriever in town
So we’re here to apply to the mayor in you.
Resting proud on the back of my big purple rat,
I am sure most retrievers must know where it’s at.
What I do is I chase Cheshire cats upon cue.
With my big assed rat side kick, we ride ‘til sundown.

There isn’t a fever that one could display
That would right itself smartly, not yielding to aid.
But a Rat Back Retriever can heal with a glance
And if things are quite critical, we’ll sing and dance
To any tune practiced and very well played.
Though we’ve lost track of meaning, there’s still much to say.

If you’re a believer, do know this is true:
There will always be room in your heart for a rat.
Make sure that rat’s healthy and has a keen mind
So to any retriever he’s easy to find.
One may think one may have healthy living down pat
But the Rat Back Retriever will sanctify you.