Tag Archive | offbeat

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.

System Resets

TheMagicRealist.com

I see this new day as a positive thing.
It’s a brand-new beginning. It’s never too late
To embrace the new day and to nourish it well.
Today can’t be yesterday if now you dwell
In the now where your power and focus are great.
It’s my pleasure to ponder what this day may bring.

Our today and tomorrow can be different from
Our yesterday, journaled so well in the heart
If only we focus on what’s up today.
Letting go of what’s happened will clear a pathway
Toward giving your living a healthy new start.
Every outlook that’s pure yields a pleasant outcome.

Today, and that after, proceed from the now
The vibration of which we have complete control.
I must look for some things that I feel good about
Then kick back and enjoy how my life turns out.
Vibration comes forth from the pit of the soul.
There’s no time like the present for learning just how.

Order Disorder

TheMagicRealist.com

Now, remember our lesson from yesterday.
Obsessive Compulsive type folks were discussed.
Do recall, they are fidgety, fickle and mean.
And besides all of that, they are not very keen
On behaviors like loving and learning to trust.
So we label them psycho’s, and that’s our best way.

Today, let us talk about people who get
So much out of living they lead tidy lives.
These sick ones, so proper with neatly combed hair,
Have a thing about order. One could easily compare
Their minds to most elegant virtual archives.
But take some more notes, class, we’re not finished yet.

Though there’s Order Disorder, that isn’t so bad.
But Disorder Disorder is more chronic still.
If you practice disorder so much to the point
Where the only relief is a toke on a joint,
Know disorder is only an act of free will.
Not knowing would cause most of us to go mad.

Big Break Theory

TheMagicRealist.com

We all need a break, and a big one is best.
This one that has lasted for trillions of years
Is the biggest on record. There’s good reason why
Rocket scientists keep their hopes trained toward the sky.
Any hope of collision could banish our fears
Of trajectories randomized, crooked or stressed.

If we call it a bang, that sounds violent as hell
And it ain’t all that accurate, so say the ones
That a bang did occur. What they actually meant
Is that space in itself is an omni-event.
Expansion is lethal. Within it are tons
Of the opportune wonders we cherish so well.

It’s a billiard game started long time ago.
The players are we who come forth and emerge
Into glorious being, and then fade away
To our welcoming pockets with not a delay
The game has just started. We’re well on the verge
Of pursuit of the eight ball. This too we should know.

Elevator Music Awards

TheMagicRealist.com

Folks who craft lousy music that puts folks to sleep
Ought to have recognition for work that’s well done.
For work that is fair, many juices will flow
As with all tender meat. Every artist should know.
How does composing rut music constitute fun?
It’s along the same lines as someone counting sheep!

There’s a tune that is played on most government lines
While waiting on hold for the next of avail.
It starts off real slow, then it starts to get weird,
As my consciousness seems to have been commandeered.
It takes talent to craft at the pace of a snail
With such melodic ease in the strictest confines.

This genre of music should have its fanfare.
Folks who write and arrange this stuff should be exposed.
Big pharma may scorn them, but that shouldn’t be
Any reason to keep them from all who agree
That annoying music is purely composed
To keep all desensitized so we don’t care.

Doctoral Pieces

TheMagicRealist.com

Yes, I’ve earned a few letters to put past my name
But I didn’t get far enough to be called ‘doc.’
I’m a Master of Arts. My true self would agree.
Since I made it this far I am tickled to be
Just a half tier above the most sentient rock.
I’m a glutton for knowledge. Is college the same?

I have gained most my knowledge outside the fine walls
Of our vast institutions of elegant thought.
I consume it by living our streets night and day
Staring into folks’ faces who’ve no means to pay
For the blessings in life that should never be bought.
I would join with the homeless if I had the balls.

From knowledge comes wisdom. Poor folks know that too.
They tell me that ‘P’ word itself is a joke.
Have you huddled with homeless in dead, bitter cold?
I’ve done so a few times. It doesn’t get old.
I’m a voice of humanity here to evoke
[Not through doctoral thesis] the Fine Art in you.

Dementia’s Dues

TheMagicRealist.com

No need for my mind. I left that back on earth
Where all other minds mingle just as they may.
I don’t need a space suit when I’m flying high.
I’m at home in my own world where planet’s whiz by
And the alien creatures I hang with all day
Have considered me family ever since birth.

What on earth was I thinking? It matters not now
Because if I remembered, I’d be there again.
Besides, I’ve a new way of getting around
Feeling just enough gravity to not get me down.
I’ve a lady who’s made of moon dust for a friend.
We’ll be Adam and Eve, and we’ll raise us a cow.

Whatever’s afoot back on earth is no news
Because one doesn’t use social media here.
My mind may seem open and playing the part
But do know that I’m elsewhere, perhaps with my heart.
That being down there will someday disappear.
I am paid up to date on dementia’s dues.

An Odd-Looking Vase

TheMagicRealist.com

What an odd-looking vase. There’s no symmetry here.
Most aesthetically speaking, it crosses the eyes.
And the teas that are dotted before they are brewed
Makes a lopsided keepsake, in that, it is skewed.
The container’s a mangle to anyone wise.
What manner of artist does instigate fear?

It could although be not a vase that I see
But anti-vase faces, encircled, abreast,
Indicating a couple preparing to kiss.
If one sees it that way, is there something amiss?
This doesn’t make for a standard eye test
Because one or the other is all it could be.

A vase is two faced. That’s the thought for today.
The spacing in facing is intimate share
Among lovers and haters and those in-between.
We can be rather tender, and we can be mean.
A vase that holds flowers is vivid affair
That the space between facing shall be there to stay.

Signs of Life

TheMagicRealist.com
When one talks about signs, there are myriad kinds.
We’re accustomed to trust them to say the right thing.
But when cruising while high, should the cops be alarmed?
If you get them to smoke some, will they be disarmed?
No, the cops are not privy; to justice they cling.
They will quote you the riot act. Don’t cross their minds!

I don’t drive around high, but high drives around me.
It’s a challenge I meet on the road every day.
When I get behind someone who’s driving as if
Someone said, “Sir, prepare to drive over that cliff,”
My question is, why is this jerk in my way?
Is he seeing, perhaps, something I cannot see?

Keep an eye on what’s happening ‘round you all times
Is some simple advice for those high on the road.
But it’s also for others who must get around.
With you fools on the highway, I’m helpless and bound.
Get your asses in shape. Kindly lighten my load.
In the past I have shot folks for much lesser crimes.

 

 

At the Behest of Ben Benigniac

TheMagicRealist.com

Now, Ben is a man who has lived through some strife
So his war scars are rigid, as stout as his stand.
Although he is usually friendly and nice,
Warm and agreeable, not thinking twice
About lending a hand to his lost fellow man,
These wars that are raging mess with the man’s life.

He listens to people and has a few friends,
And his neighbors appreciate good-natured ones.
That’s why they’re together in common affair.
As birds of a feather, they flock and compare
All the news about killings of daughters and sons.
Has he come to expect this until the world ends?

Well, he looks to his soul. There is comfort within.
In the long run, such matters work out on their own.
When his mask is a scowl, people see the way through
To his true heart that rarely does take on a view
That would pull down his temperament form where it’s flown.
No need to preach peace, Ben, as war’s not a sin.

In Pursuit of the Functional

TheMagicRealist.com

I’m sorry, young fellow, this waveform won’t do.
There’s just something about it that seems rather odd.
It appears at the center, not noticed at first.
But when I look closely, my mind is coerced
Into thinking this signal’s not something to laud.
That X axis is sassy; what’s happened to you?

Other students of life know to follow the rule.
The X is for time, but the why cannot be
Of more than one value per moment’s avail
Although value is moot on a much larger scale.
Affairs of the heart are like waves in the sea,
And the ocean of axes can be a rough school.

The heart is quite centered upon the time line.
At least, that’s, in theory, where it doesn’t count.
In reality, though, there’s no heart symmetry.
It’s a tad to the left of the center of me.
My belief in its functioning is paramount
In this structural world we have come to design.

Fart Mother Smuckers

TheMagicRealist.com

I’m amazed as I’m lying here resting my bones
Just chilling and munching and checking things out.
I’d be nuts if I said there ain’t much on TV.
There’s all kinds of crap that might interest me.
If it weren’t for my living and breathing no doubt
I’d be grooving to tunes with my spirit headphones.

There’s a truth to my living. I’m doing without
The hustle and bustle of everyday things.
There’s a way to my knowing. This too is true.
If I knew how to think, I’d be dangerous to you.
I just keep to my world and accept what life brings.
From point A to B, that’s the easiest route.

So, life is great. I am comfortable knowing
I don’t have to know much. That suits me just fine.
There are plenty of fart mother smuckers, you see,
And they all have ambition to help you and me
To relax in wellbeing made to their design.
Don’t ask me to move; there ain’t no place I’m going.

You Can’t Trash a Trician

TheMagicRealist.com

Get a load of that Trician, folks, gosh what a sight!
He’s the marvelous hero who works door to door
With gadgets and cables and tools of all kinds.
The stuff that he knows might just boggle our minds.
When he gets here he’ll lay all his stuff on the floor
And begin working wonders to lead us from plight.

He’s got meters, repeaters and gizmos galore
As he stakes out the problem and lays it to rest.
If he will take a break you might offer him lunch.
When you do get him talking he may get the hunch
That your faith in his skill has been put through the test.
He is hard wired eloquence live at your door.

Do trust in your Trician and give him a hug
That is if he’ll have it and if the job’s done.
Or you might just give him some pizza instead.
If you grill him a steak it won’t go to his head.
When your Trician is working he’s having much fun.
When his good work is finished we all can feel smug.

Fuel Your Desire

TheMagicRealist.com

The self must feel good; God commanded it so!
To do harm to others would not cross one’s mind
Were such a person well off and ‘at one
Like the typical lighthearted sun of a gun.
‘Ain’t a thing of more import for all living kind
Than ensuring a good feeling’s ready to flow.

Though twenty-four seven’s my usual shift
I have time to step casual and have it all ways.
My momma told me, “Girl, do what you want.
You must go forth in life as your own debutante.
Don’t do what you don’t want to gain others’ praise
Your own inner guidance is your natural gift
.”

I endeavor to stay in that ‘feeling good’ place.
It isn’t too difficult if I know how.
It’s a matter of reaching for thoughts that feel good
And of working to stay there despite humanhood.
It sure helps to stay focused right here in the ‘now.’
Life is wide open country and stepping with grace.

Horace the Humping Horror

TheMagicRealist.com

Do listen up, girls, there’s news I must tell.
It’s disgusting and quite disappointing to me.
That Horace guy whom the boss hired last week
Asked me out on a date with his caveman technique.
I agreed to sleep over just so I could see
If this fellow could work his machine very well.

It was tragic, dear ladies, don’t sleep with this man.
You will bounce like a basketball being not bound
To hitting the floor every once in a while.
The man is a menace; I guess that’s his style.
I was looking for love, but a humpbeast I found.
So avoid this asshole the best way you can.

I hadn’t faked orgasms much until now.
No need to do so had ever occurred.
But this jack hammer Horace, although he’s endowed,
Must lose the damned hard hat, for crying out loud!
We are not made of concrete, but he hasn’t heard.
Don’t ask him to slow down; he wouldn’t know how.

One and a Halfth Coming

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t trip off a cloud, folks, this ain’t the time yet.
I’m just here to clear things and sort some stuff out.
Lord knows any parent can count up to two
But I don’t have children; I’ve sheep to tend to
And they’re much more conducive to living devout
In their fullness of being, not knowing regret.

But humanity has a weird way with this thing –
This living on earth in alignment with all.
You seem to take truth and then twist it somehow.
If I did have a grave, I’d be twerking by now
To the tune of a star-spangled bugler’s call.
You make of my words not a loving wellspring.

‘Just a simple reminder: I will come again
And it won’t be to clean up and straighten things out.
I’m still good at carpentry, but that won’t do.
I’d be better off keeping a sharp eye on you.
‘Cause you’re making stuff up as you spew it about.
The shit’s got to stop; I will not count to ten!

My Kingdom Within Cannot Be Within You

TheMagicRealist.com

My pleasure depends not upon pleasing you.
I learned this while crying my heart out one day.
I had thought it’s because I’d mistaken your hope
In my loving you as some kind of restraining rope.
Now, we’re both misaligned. Did we plan it this way?
It’s amazing what folks with agreements go through.

We each need our counsel, yet we shouldn’t seek
To guide one another. That doesn’t make sense
As no guidance coming from others is true.
They all have their motives that service not you.
Rightful reason evolves, then, to render defense
To the ego who fears that its soul has gone weak.

Direction that’s constant comes yet from within
Where the still silent voice does modulate flow
Of the energy resonant deep in the gut.
When we don’t take direction, we wobble somewhat.
Our friends may just lead us where we shouldn’t go.
So rely not on others… not even your kin.

ApocaLips

TheMagicRealist.com

Often speaking through doom colored lips is a breeze.
The still air of boredom and restlessness plots

And conjures all manner of sick tale to tell.
Deplorables paint a nice picture of hell
But then so do I while connecting my dots.
Whatsoever one chooses is then what one sees.

If you don’t have a good thing to say, then don’t speak!”
Is the scolding I’d get as a talkative child.
When in error I’d take what goes on in the world
As a sure sign that meaning itself has unfurled.
Like bats flying rabid, ideas run wild
From prophetic scriblings in language oblique.

‘Hope my gisting is clear; I’ve no message to bring
As I reign in my placated prison of thought.
If there’s war against evil, bring scripture to bear.
Then if that doesn’t work, perhaps joining in prayer
Will bring all to whatever treasure is sought.
Absolute peace on earth – Would that make our hearts sing?

Forlorning Begets the Spectra

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t worry; be happy” is simple advice
For a flesh and blood man who knows how to survive
Yet also for snowmen with carrots gone chill
With no hope withstanding, not even a pill.
It’s no wonder that snowmen and real men alive
Will procure veggie consciousness at any price.

When the mind freezes over and playtime sets in
Is the hell that was present now sculpture in ice?
Give one time to attend to one’s final affairs
Before one ascends to that snow land upstairs.
A stiff brew on the rocks there would really be nice.
The rocks here are cold ones that bruise a tough skin.

Go forth and tell no one that I have healed you,”
Jesus said to those folks who’d been broken or bent.
He knew if they went and told others, no doubt
They’d be robbed of their healing, then being without
The means to return to a state of content,
They’d revert soon to sickness as if it were new.

You Tooth News and a Surfer’s Blues

TheMagicRealist.com

This is Becky Brusselsprout here with you live
In the waters just off the coast of the land.
Howzit feel, surfer dude, having missed that last wave?
Are you filled with remorse? Are you fit for the grave?
The world wants to know. I endorse their demand.
I’m a bitchin’ reporter; that’s how I survive.

You say you’re not bothered? The next wave will come?
That may be true, friend, but what are the odds
That you’ll catch it just right and appear like a pro?
If a breath is worth bating, then give us a show.
The world seems addicted to foolish facades.
We consume tons of content. Some folks call it scum.

We can’t stay and wait with you, and that’s to your good,
Because waiting’s to water as life is to flow.
When the next good one comes, we won’t be in your face,
Then perhaps you’ll perform in magnificent grace.
But since we won’t be here, the world will not know
So, so much for a story. We did what we could.

Wafer Mache

TheMagicRealist.com

I remember the zinc-plated vacuum tube days.
Perhaps that’s the issue. It wouldn’t be fair
To the new ones to point out the way things were done.
I would take apart radio sets just for fun.
Inside there was substance no age can compare…
…No petite touchy feely. …No harmful brain rays.

A box made of wood with a dial and a light
Was the thing we would ‘watch’ as each evening passed.
The announcers were artists who captured the air.
They brought life to living and not much despair.
Those junk boxes were sturdy and well-built to last.
There’s a need for what’s come, but who knows if it’s right?

Moore’s Law clearly states that our paper will end.
Transistors will run out of space pretty soon.
Before that should happen, perhaps we’d take care.
Our technology’s volatile wafer thin layer
Could be wiped out of matter emerged from the moon.
[It’s a misguided warning… Continue your trend.]