Tag Archive | offbeat

Self Help Solution

TheMagicRealist.com

Oh, Go drink yourself sloppily! I’ve had enough
Of your running your circles around the fun park.
I am here to make merry – not here to make do
With a sense of self less than the sky is bright blue.
Though I’m not that Olympian, I make my mark
By my pumping out powerful poetic stuff.

All black men think they’re poets.’ Is such a remark,
In its absence of meaning, a mental workout
For the one who receives it? It does put a cramp
In my mind for a mile. Will I emerge a champ?
I make meaning of whatever I think much about.
If I think about bullshit, my outlook is dark.

So, I write of the fecal, as it falls my way.
That is not quite as often as one might perceive.
I’m an athlete. My well-crafted body is made
With some knack for the verbal, although I’m a spade.
If I cared about what others care to believe,
I’d be lost in a theme park with no will to play.

The Blissful Behind

TheMagicRealist.com

The most blissful behind has not much on his mind.
That he has one is kind of a nuisance to him.
So he keeps the thing quiet. Most anyone can.
It takes some time and practice for woman or man.
Draw your shades, take your shoes off and make the lights dim.
As you do this more often, folks think you’re refined.

There is no one more kind than a blissful behind.
And quite by the same token, assholes are a pain –
Not in theirs but in mine. I must keep those away
Who would treat me unkindly and dare ruin my day.
As I meditate often, I’ve so much to gain.
I was meant to be loving, trustworthy and kind.

I’m no stranger to chaos. That’s why I must take
A brief time-out to let the old mind take a drain.
It’s a nice tool for bridge building. That’s a good thing.
But it needs counterbalance and soft nurturing.
If my behind can’t get it, I may feel the pain
For my being too negligent for my own sake.

Satanic Rapture

TheMagicRealist.com

With six hundred and sixty six sins on my soul
I am ripe for a rip roaring rapturous rage.
I’ve completed my mayhem. It culminates now.
The next coming of Satan is certain somehow.
We can now disavow the Aquarian Age
As complete devastation has become our goal.

Make me weak in the knees and float lighter than air
As it all becomes darkened through chaos and smoke.
Let the air reach a flashpoint much lower than earth
That our hate may deny any chance of rebirth.
Many folks create horror through dreams they invoke.
We believe they are nothing. In fact, we don’t care.

I’m a beast of this nature that now has a rash
That is acrid and prickly, and sensitive to
All the subconscious inhuman cries of our hearts.
Simply looking within is where true rapture starts.
That our souls are renewable is known by few.
And this world we’re concerned with, someday, will be ash.

Virgin Eyes In The Jungle

TheMagicRealist.com

There are many small eyes in the jungle these days.
Some are human and some can be rather high-tech.
And these woods we’re a part of form our own disguise.
May we watch as young virgins uncover their eyes
To pure visions of Indigo without a speck
Of the old social order and all its sick ways.

Virgin eyes don’t see chaos, though… Only Pure Light.
They shine wisdom upon things that seem based in fear.
When they act out or disrupt the normal discourse
Of malignant behavior and rule by brute force,
We should take a time out and lend them a sharp ear.
We were put here for loving. We’re not here to fight.

Virgin eyes versus spies is not quite the whole game.
I could wander far deeper in denseness of growth
To find things in the jungle that cause me unease.
If I see with my eyes what the virgin eye sees,
I may see where my place is and realize that both
My perceptions and attitudes cause me no shame.

Shitweed

TheMagicRealist.com

I do know why you’ve stopped me, dear officer, sir.
Your expression of disgust speaks louder than words.
Yet you need not concern yourself with all the smoke
As this weed that I’ve got here is truly a joke.
I have smoked lots of pot, but this stuff’s for the birds.
Take a toke for yourself. I’m sure you will concur.

What is up with good weed these days? It’s hard to find
And then when it is found one must pay due respect
To the in-between bastards who break the shit down.
I’ve been getting my stash, these days, from folks uptown.
I’ve smoked three joints, by now, but alas… no effect.
So, don’t bust me because I still have all my mind.

I’ve been smoking this shitweed. No good stuff have I
And it’s been that way always. I haven’t felt great
Since I visited Thailand some decades ago.
Their good shit got me wasted and moving quite slow.
So it’s not like I’m moving fine goods across state.
This old rotgut for pot here is not worth the try.

Just Here To Visit – Not Here To Stay

TheMagicRealist.com

If I weighed almost half a ton, would ankles work
With four pairs of two screwed tight by no engineer?
How I ended up here seems a puzzle today.
Now that I’ve lost my parking space, then must I stay
In a constant upheaval endorsed by my fear
As most often I feel like a well-behaved jerk?

I’m not here to do odd jobs. Who told you that lie?
Was it me through deficiency in self-defense?
It can seem I’m the nice guy for doing jack shit.
It’s a subconscious bugbear that stings quite a bit.
I would tell folks to stick it, if I had some sense.
I don’t know what I’m doing, yet foolish to try.

Do most people fuck with me be because I am slow
In the mind a bit and of a social IQ
That’s as low as the oil stains on life’s garage floor?
I fucked up for you this time. I’ll do it some more?
I can do that so well. Surely I never knew.
Since I’m here for the visit, I might as well grow.

Lorem Ipsum

TheMagicRealist.com

What The Uckfay? I say in the odd-Latin way.
I don’t mean to hijack it to make verses rhyme.
But it’s there for my use if I need it. So what
If it’s triggered by language that fills in the rut
Of precise advertising for use anytime
When there’s dummy space needed for nothing to say?

Language is quite the dinosaur. It has it’s way
Of remaining quite cryptic in how it’s conceived
Over eons, although it can easily be
A most elegant means by which people can see
Deeper meaning in what all agree is perceived
As reality and what makes for a good day.

If the notion of dummy text makes any sense
It may come as an insult to folks of my kind.
Words can shoot from a fire hose or someone’s pen.
If we piss off all poets, what will happen then?
It should not get my strength nor my will misaligned.
There are text pumps afoot. I shall not take offense.

My Darned Bowels Are STILL Ailing

TheMagicRealist.com

What is up with my innards? They’ve got me again
Doing side twists and wishing that I were a plant.
Seems that bowel gets so cluttered so often that I
Would trade guts for some green leaves. I do wonder why
Normal folks crap with ease but some people just can’t.
That damned bowel’s been a problem since I don’t know when.

On the top shelf, I’ve shitters, bowel blasters and such
Though the medicine cabinet too is a mess.
I’ve got paraphernalia to rig the rear end
For extreme irrigation that I may impend
A prophetic bowel movement with no second guess.
I have glycerol bullets that I don’t use much.

If I cleaned up my act a bit, that might do well
To address this most chronic non-movement of mass
Through my system. I’ve tried everything that is known.
I’d have nothing to lose and perhaps I’d be shown
A new outlook and how to make up with my ass.
Too much damned information? I’m damned glad to tell.

Queens And The Cosmos

TheMagicRealist.com

There are queens who have means of commanding the lives
Of their many offspring through their chemical cue.
They are built into nature – the six-legged queens.
And the human ones conquer by whatever means
That they deem are appropriate to what is due
Of whom they think are children of theirs in their hives.

Nature’s queens affect neurons. Ours do that as well.
The same circuitry links us in myriad ways
Like when birds of a flock all change course at one time.
There’s an unconscious rulership where I know that I’m
In the mode of receiving my ration of praise
For the work that I do by my passion to tell.

I can be a fine worker or drone if I will
But to mind my own business, which might be the same
As all inter-transactions occurring on earth
Ever since it first cooled down long after its birth.
So that means I’m a ‘team player’ in the big game.
But by default, I have my own dreams to fulfill.

The Mission

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

That Which Henpecks The Henpecker

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Mueller Time

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Plight Of The Pink Pickled Pine Pecker

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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

 

My Inner Bean

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

A License To Sell Hotdogs?

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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

Kicked Right Out Of Dreamland

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Whose Skills Are A Mazing?

TheMagicRealist.com

Just whose skills are a mazing? They wouldn’t be mine.
I’ve a watertight alibi. I was in space
At the time those weird circles appeared in your fields.
So don’t blame them on me. My benign talent yields
Not a blanket of mischief with straight poker face
Nor the purpose to brand the earth with my design.

Someone messed with those images – every damned one!
Either that or the aliens are drinking tea
Made from mushrooms from cow patties beamed to their ships
Then distilled and digested well so that their trips
Are as freaky as no human tripping could be.
Then perhaps they are ready to have some real fun.

It’s a big tick-tack-toe game they play from the sky
Or from people’s computers. Whichever the case,
People’s skills can be alien in many ways.
And somewhere in it all there’s a big need for praise.
When caught spewing their markers all over the place
It would be fascinating to hear from them why.

Get Up, You Little Klutz!

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

The Wellbeing Conspiracy

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Pants’ Expanse

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Seven Of Swans

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Young Jungian Pyongyangan

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Let Go Of The Anchor

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Toward A Newness Of Year

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

The Second Day

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Merry Christmas, My Children

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

A Pigeon In A Palm Tree

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Coon River

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

 

Animostic Anathameme

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Let the Hardware Department Find You a Good Screw

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

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

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

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

Deriving What’s Integral

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

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

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

Friday News Roundup

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

A Sucker For A Circuit

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

A Nation of Cause, Not of Men

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

The Octopus’ Garden

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

 

Who Approved This Design?

TheMagicRealist.com

This peculiar design hasn’t passed by my desk.
Who came up with it? This really baffles my mind.
Most the creatures I know get along on all fours.
Most have skin that stays dry. They have nothing like pores.
This design that becomes me is of an odd kind.
Does it have the potential to be statuesque?

It is of its own nature subliminal to
The same math that is natural to the grand sum
Of the natures of all things perceived in this realm.
But can man be perceived to be wise at the helm?
This design has some issues to be overcome.
It could be tweaked a bit more. Perhaps that will do.

This magnificent form is not perfect to me
As it reaches from nature to nature by way
Of the mind that reflects like a mirror with heart.
When my vision gets cloudy, I may fall apart.
It’s a trip being human. It quickens my day
And provides me with wonder and purpose to be.

Mega Motor Mothermouth

TheMagicRealist.com

Mega Mother Mirifica straight from Thailand
Is the herb I’m most high on. It is nature’s best.
None can mess with my motormouth. Many have tried.
I will talk rings around people and with great pride.
When my speech engine piques, I out motor the rest.
I don’t know what I’m saying, but folks understand.

Give me riches or fame or life’s forbidden fruit.
That may satisfy me if I were but a dame.
But my mouth is terrific. It runs on its own
Whether standing before you or via smartphone.
Men and women do motormouth about the same
And this doesn’t stop either from being astute.

I have something to say just as those who do not.
It can’t matter too little if there’s little talk
Because I fill the vacuum when there is no sound.
I could gab myself giddy. I’m quick to expound
On most anything uttered among any flock.
Where there are ears to talk to, I do what I ought.

Give Us The Grab Ass

TheMagicRealist.com

It was custom that candidates pleaded their case
To the public who decided which one would be
The next governor to stand outside of the law.
They had made their decision at once and for all.
They had chosen The Grab Ass, and to some degree,
‘Twas a guaranteed win without running a race.

“Which one do you want me to give to you today?”
Asked the Uncle, so gobsmacked at such a lame choice.
“Shall I give you this nice Secretary of State?
She appears squeaky clean… surely nothing to hate.”
But, the people who voted thought they had a voice.

The Big Bear chose The Grab Ass. Is this the new way?

“Kindly give us The Grab Ass!” I heard people shout.
“We don’t care that he’s nasty and gruff in his ways.
We just want someone brazen to stir up the pot.
The man has a red hard on. This matters a lot!
And as for poor old Hillary, our voices raise –
Lock her up in hell’s dungeon and don’t let her out!”

Here’s The Beef

TheMagicRealist.com

I am Manny, the meat man with many fine meats.
I will slice through your town and deliver fine cuts
Of the purest of premium beef parts there are.
I’ll deliver the beef with no bull from afar
Nor nearby so that all will have beef in their guts
Or their butts depending on how well the soul eats.

I do carry whole beef by the half or hind quart
Or by wedges with holes in them to give them air.
I have beef by the barrel, if that be your shape
Or by hormone replacement without the red tape.
The whole world is a meat market, just to be fair.
All I do is deliver. I’ll never run short.

“Where’s the Beef?”, then, should not be a question for you.
I have advertised subtly through the ages.
Beef is totally nourishing, high grade protein.
It can make the soul hearty and make the heart mean.
My whole beef isn’t mean. It’s practiced in stages.
I should start selling veggies. Folks might like that too.

Diagnostic Statistical Menace

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Serrated Serenade

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Infidelicacies

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Flustercuck

TheMagicRealist.com

There are two or more gathered. It could be in grace
Or in consort with cunning in weaving a spell.
Many people united can become perplexed
With that ‘chicken or egg’ thing and which will come next.
That lame argument is a façade with a smell.
It was implemented to keep fools in their place.

People are much like chickens. We scratch and we peck
At that which is below us, as we judge it so.
As we gather together, we make such a fuss
Over just about anything meaningless, thus
Most the worms we’re consuming will not make us grow.
Social clusters are often a pain in the neck.

I am not xenophobic. I cuck with a few
Of my species because alone I’d not survive.
Each one pecks in one’s own way. There’s no reason why
One should peck like another. No rules here apply
Except those of the cosmos wherein we may thrive
As we had well intended when we were brand new.

Of Our Souls’ Unlike Poles

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Flaming Petutia

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Didgeri Donewith

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Zonehenge

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Some Advice For Young Poets

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a reason I didn’t start speaking ‘til four,
As my family began to think something was wrong.
I just needed more time. Language didn’t seem quite
Like something to take lightly. That didn’t seem right.
I was rushed into speaking so I’d get along
With society’s programs and culture and more.

Perhaps I took enough time to learn language well
Long before I would stutter and make some mistakes.
My perfectionist attitude slowed down my pace.
Had I known living life well amounts to a race
I would not have been tricked into playing high stakes
In a game I know nothing of. I am in hell!

I would want future poets to see I made sense
On some level, despite my most retrograde mind.
Have your way with my style and do call it your own.
Do Not tell them it’s mine because my life is blown.
Anything attached to my name is ill-assigned.
Make a carcass of my work and at my expense.

 

It’s About Self Control

TheMagicRealist.com

I attract what comes to me – no doubt about that.
When I find myself frazzled by what’s in my way,
I do tend to go off. I’ve been known to get riled
When I feel that my honor is being defiled
By someone with control issues and much to say –
Not with words but with attitude like a bobcat.

Tough black cats at the drive thru is what I will get
When I doubt what my better self knows fully well.
That is: No one can damage my ‘honor’ but me.
What goes on in the real world is not mine to see.
I can get through this fine day without letting hell
Have her pleasure at my expense and much regret.

Self-control is a skill to be practiced and honed
And this world does provide opportunities great.
I can move most my muscles; that much is for sure.
I command subtle energies never obscure
To my worthiness as well as those whom I hate.
My distaste for the drive thru is hereby postponed.

A Chawpauper’s Chance

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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