Tag Archive | offbeat

The Remedy for Chronic Dipstick Drip

TheMagicRealist.com

Well maintained is the auto whose partner is versed
In the art of the oil check while at the pit stop.
If one has a good engine, one keeps it in shape.
He will not take a chance on a narrow escape.
The most versatile tool for garage or workshop
Is one’s dipstick, because if it’s not, he is cursed.

A sure thing about engine oil is it gets hot
To the touch – certainly if examined by hand.
So the stick is an interface withstanding heat.
Nothing else in the toolbox will ever compete
With the dipstick’s performance when adequately manned.
The engine who receives one may wish it had not.

But the graduate stick tends to drip when it’s dipped.
One should leave the thing in there while oil settles down.
Engine hygiene is paramount when checking oil.
If it is taken lightly, one welcomes turmoil.
Wipe it off, and if doing so brings on a frown,
Know that oil, in its essence, remains nondescript.

A Fresh Coat of Nice

TheMagicRealist.com

Would a Fresh Coat of Nice cover well what’s gone wrong?
Or can such a condition be simply rolled on?
Nice should never be left sealed and on the top shelf
Where no one can achieve it, not even oneself.
There is infinite Nice. It can never be gone.
I may emulate toughness, but it’s a sad song.

Like the soil, somewhat fertile, yet dry to the bone,
Is the surface so thirsty for richness to drink.
Why not lay it on thickly to well saturate
All the areas that have been marred by our hate?
Would I think that our species is missing some link?
Everything is in order. We’re just chaos prone.

Mega gallons of Nice can be sold at no price
As it comes about freely by anyone’s choice.
We apply it in many ways. It matters not
How newness is recovered, and darkness forgot.
When the people pour Nice in one colorful voice,
We may paint ourselves pleasantly toward paradise.

Silent Assed Letters

TheMagicRealist.com

If an actor is silent, why put him on stage?
I have heard of non-speaking parts. That’s not the point.
A good actor can get away with using mime
And may get more across to folks in much less time.
If performers don’t speak, their silence will anoint
The observer’s attention so that he’ll engage.

Let that bring us to letters… the ones that go mute
For a seemingly small set of words that are used.
Silent letters are assy. In fact, they’re a pain,
Though I’ve digested them with the ultra-mundane.
Almost half of the alphabet has been excused
Of a voice in some words. Are they there to be cute?

Well, they aren’t that adorable. Parsley they are
On a plate of potatoes and succulent meat,
Cast aside as the meal is completed, and then,
gathered up with the rubbish to not be again.
All the words that have placeholders playing discrete
Would do quite well without them, and they’d leave no scar.

Schizodemic Panphrenic

TheMagicRealist.com

If a cornflake-shaped elbow scab got up to sing
And you heard it and saw it while others did not,
Would you think you were crazy? Or would you believe
What is real is whatever the self does perceive?
It would trigger a movement bypassing the squat
If that happen to me. I would drop everything!

 In this space, we agree upon things that we know.
We create a strong framework for what we believe.
There’s a fringe always outside the relative norm.
It is not of their nature nor wish to conform.
They may think that the world has a trick up its sleeve.
I would say they’re correct, but I’ve no proof to show.

If this lucid hallucination is for real,
Then there are things that happen that others can’t see.
There are stories spun off from the stories made up,
And as people believe them, they drink from the cup
Of righteous self-deception. I’d hope to be free
To believe as I wish and to feel as I feel.

What’s Up With ‘Won’t?’

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

There’s a surplus of ‘won’t’ but there is no ‘wo not.’
Why did no one explain this, when I was in school,
That there isn’t a ‘wo,’ really? It’s just a growth
From a disjointed history. Were they not both,
‘Will’ and ‘Not,’ as a pair, solved by judicial rule,
Then perhaps each raw litigant would have no plot.

How does ‘will’ become ‘wo?’ That’s what I’d like to know
Not that it makes a difference. I could get by
Without reaching the bottom of this inquiry.
How the ruling for ‘won’t’ was reached I’d like to see.
Who has judged this contraction the right one, and why?
Did some scene in a courtroom take place long ago?

In Old English, the verb ‘willan’ meant ‘wish’ or ‘will.’
It was ‘will’ in the present and ‘wold’ in the past (?)
Over centuries, too many forms of the two
Were used widely. Versions appeared out of the blue.
Some folks tried the word ‘willn’t.’ That shit didn’t last.
That is why frigging English is such a damned pill.

Feeling Some Fear

TheMagicRealist.com

I’m a bundle of energy poised on eggshells
In the midst of a ruckus where I have no place
To live out my agenda. And to my surprise,
What I think becomes manifest before my eyes.
It is through my resistance that I may embrace
Not the most favored outcome where my true heart dwells.

I came here for experience – not to lay low.
Life is chock full of balls of yarn and time to play.
I will trip on some soul-nip whenever I can.
I’m consumed in awareness since my life began.
I don’t want to grow up to be some beast of prey.
I’m someone else among you who’s willing to grow.

I may be a tad skittish. I do play my part
In the scenes that are relevant and make most sense
For a drama conflagrated live upon stage.
I have but to perceive well, then fully engage
All the grace I’ve amassed. Surely that is immense.
Although somewhat unnerving, fear is a fresh start.

My Awareness of What Is

TheMagicRealist.com

My awareness of what is can keep myself stuck
On the roadway of life. It is hard to get past
All the sameness. Sometimes I can’t hear myself think.
My acquaintance with boredom could drive me to drink.
I detest holding patterns. How long will this last?
Since this happens to me, does it make my life suck?

I can tolerate traffic when we’re not in cars.
People seem to be not as quick to flip the bird.
Behind metal and glass, one might feel he kicks ass,
But in person, if you raise your fist, he will pass.
While on roadways, some nice folks are easily stirred
To brute force confrontation – but not while in bars.

Keep the mind off the hear and now, and on the road.
Do not look through the side windows at what is passed.
What’s ahead becomes now in the blink of an eye.
And what’s now becomes past fast. No one can deny.
I have tons of awareness – enough to outlast
Any standstill in life where I need not be towed.

God Hangs Out in The Strangest of Places

TheMagicRealist.com

Many men will find God somewhere near a girl’s butt
And it might as well happen since God’s everywhere.
Among butts, He’s not hiding. He’s out in plain view
Taking pride in His fine work and blessing it too
They’re designed so that young men will put their eyes there.
And they might end up finding there, heaven knows what.

Place that butt on a platter of silver or gold.
Put it up on a pedestal. Let it perform.
To stir up some excitement, they fashion their walk.
And it matters the least bit that others may balk.
I appreciate girl butts. I’d hope that’s the norm.
As I take notice of them, I’ll never grow old.

Women’s butts are a blessing. They need no disguise
Nor a statute of censorship to keep us tame.
They’re released into nature that we may be sure
That all notice God’s handiwork, sacred and pure.
Staring at that butt package is part of the game
And a helpful distraction for those who are wise.

A Box by Any Other Juke

TheMagicRealist.com

Is there need for refinement of relevant speech
When it comes to discerning the way of the dance?
Often people are juking when there is no tune.
They may pop and go weasel from midnight ‘til noon.
It’s not done much in daytime. There would be the chance
That the yellow box has not much in it to teach.

Yet it need not be yellow like some submarine.
Give it any fun color, one vibrant and bright.
All the music inside it is plug nickel free.
Who would argue that that’s not the way it should be?
Take your shoes off and park them for juke bug delight.
Don’t expect the expected and already seen.

We are out on the town on a big ballroom floor.
Some of us are quite clumsy. Some dance very well.
While the music is playing, we all do our best
Or at least suffer through it in well-tempered jest.
If I trip on the dance floor, just ring a loud bell
So that all will take notice and ask me for more.

Holy Trinity

TheMagicRealist.com

An aquatic triangle, nearby and revered
As the Godhead, confounding and hard to know well,
Is my faith such a mystery for me to know
For the purpose of being persuaded to go
By the way of the masses who cannot rebel?
It is said that divine wrath should ever be feared.

Deity equilateral isn’t by choice,
Nor is it by the fate of chance cast by the breeze.
It’s a God well-constructed and fashioned to be
Both a philosophic and discrete remedy
For the disease of living life as one may please.
So, wherein are we given reason to rejoice?

It is in Holy Trinity that I may be
All the am that I am as my father is now…
And the spirit among us is certainly real.
I can know what is true by the way that I feel.
To engage daily living requires no vow
Nor the risk I could ever be sent back to sea.

Routine Colon

TheMagicRealist.com

Just a plain routine colon is who we have here
And grossly unremarkable, to say the least.
We’ve no polyps to probe nor no fissures to fuse.
I am sure that the patient will find that good news.
But to we, he’s a healthy unfettered young beast,
When our job is to learn to make stuff disappear.

This benign seeming waste tube has nothing to teach.
It’s just too frigging faultless. The textbooks, in awe,
Would accept this wholeheartedly and with delight.
As my students you will study stuff that ain’t right.
Within any perfection, we’ll learn to find flaw.
Then we’ll bombard the patient with intricate speech.

If you know one who has one that’s kicking his ass,
Do a full workup on him, then send his ass here.
If he’s got something nasty, we’ll make sure you know
And throughout the semester, our knowledge will grow.
We maintain that good medicine is based in fear.
We’ll instill that in you through the tests you must pass.

Let He Who Is with Faith Cast the Next Sin

TheMagicRealist.com

Blast you bad baby butchers! You will burn in Hell!
And as God as my witness I pray it to be.
God designed women’s bodies just as he did land.
Everything that’s worthwhile comes about by man’s hand.
And if man says the bodies of women aren’t free
Then its gospel. There’s no place for reason to dwell.

You were made to make babies. The bible says so.
Fertile land can’t take cover. It takes what it gets.
If it gets stomped and spat upon, that’s no one’s bad.
Lowly soil can well take it and learn to be sad.
Jesus Christ was no woman. You have no regrets
That would come to outdo his. This too you should know.

Many Christians are righteous in will to spew blame
Like selective airborne fodder trapped in the throat.
If it’s hocked out in violence, there’s some hell to pay.
Like hypocrisy, it should be washed clean away.
Latent violent tendencies too often denote
Something deeper afoot that no goodness can name.

Harvest Humans

TheMagicRealist.com

Toward a shortage of mother meat blindly we trek
With respect for the science. Reliance upon
Quantum leaping achievements to solve world crises
May result in our being grown and picked from trees.
Of the pungent most processes e’er to see dawn
Is soil spermatization to see what the heck.

If Subgeo Infiltro Zygotization
Comes before we are ready, it may come to pass
That we’ll treat one another much worse than our fruit.
One might juice his poor brother or chop off his root,
Though it’s no longer needed for tapping that ass.
Men may masturbate into the grass in sheer fun.

They’ve been freezing the eggs. And for what? A new day
In some post Armageddon where life is laid waste?
Maybe that’s an idea that does make some sense
Since, apparently, no major growth will commence
As our mores remain so unwomanly based.
What we think can make fertile much of what we say.

Get Some Taurus In Uranus

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s an anus in Taurus. Just whose would it be
As Uranus encircles our sun on its path?
For the next seven years we’ll have earth on our minds,
In our hearts, through our veins and in news of all kinds.
We may see the bull tear down and release its wrath.
Could Uranus detain us? No fool would agree.

It is here to surprise us. Uranus, at best,
Introduces keen insight with radical change.
And through Taurus it could mean concern for the land.
We are not the earth’s owners. This we’ll understand.
We’ll become more collective and welcome the strange.
Rights for humans and beasts shall be fully expressed.

Land and money and resources, water as well,
Will see vast innovation creatively so.
We’ll remain well in touch. Electronics will thrive.
We’ll know sustainability keeps us alive.
That the earth is a china shop people should know.
We could trigger demise like a bull out of hell.

Psychotoxic Horrendosol

TheMagicRealist.com

Toxic radiation comes in many a form.
Our economy ensures that we get the best.
We get most from devices and some from our friends.
Were we not to get any, the detox would cleanse
The sick psyche. It seems though that we are obsessed
With excitement and drama. This is an old norm.

Psychotoxic Horrendosol is used a lot.
It has properties fully resistant to change.
When it’s mixed well with meaning, it makes life stand still.
People’s programmed behaviors then become the will
Of the toxin producers. Is this sounding strange?
Then perhaps I’m affected when I had thought not.

Take that UHDTV and seal it in lead.
Ship it off to Siberia. Then breathe a sigh.
Your toxicity levels will decrease in turn.
You will have less concern and be eager to learn.
If content is addictive, then boredom is why.
That is why I’m a poet. What more can be said?

No One’s Bible Is Libel

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t ask me to read scripture. I’d keep a straight face
Out of programmed politeness, but way before long
I would burst out in laughter, and that would be bad –
Not for me but for others who’d thought I had had
Quite enough drummed into me with upbringing strong.
I am doomed to find humor in most any place.

It’s the way people talked then that tickles me so.
They would think ours is funny, that is, I would hope
That our difference in time and space is a clue
To how vastly divergent we must be in view.
We will hang ourselves righteously with enough rope
Fed to us through a dark hole from so long ago.

It’s a humorous story. Don’t take thou my land…
I shall smite thee my wrath… Woe betide thee this day!

Lord, I know it ain’t Shakespeare, but give me a break!
At least half a page turner would keep me awake.
As I’m laughing my ass off, do know it’s my way.
I mean no disrespect. I hope all understand.

Ichabodra, The Crane Unattainted

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a shame Ichabodra does not rhyme with stork.
Otherwise, she’d be easy, like Sunday at dawn.
She’s unshown to us, though, and that is by design.
One who would write about her would have to define
A worse person than Ichabod. Could such be spawned?
Ichabodra is thickened like tough salted pork.

Every human vice known, Ichabod knows it well.
But his counterpart gender-wise cares not the least.
She’s a figment of my mind, so she is benign.
Nowhere near Sleepy Hollow would she find divine.
Rings of sausage to her is no sensible feast.
And her temperament, at worst, is nothing to quell.

She’s escaped from calamitous scapegoatish prose
Represented as satire of concurrent style.
Ichabodra deserves not a page in a book
That is of the same title. That Crane has a hook
Well intended to keep women down for a while.
I can find Ichabodra wherever she goes.

Parts Is Parts

TheMagicRealist.com

Parts Is Parts and can sometimes be born of the arts.
They’re the roles that the actors take when they have work.
Many parts are well played by performers of class.
When they come to be known, much moolah they amass.
Wealth and fame are but two; they earn many a perk.
When they’re good, they evoke feelings deep in our hearts.

Many wholes made of parts are aware that they are,
Like soul mates through eternity locked in embrace.
All the parts of all wholes have a consciousness too,
In acknowledgement that there is much work to do
To maintain healthy functioning by our own grace.
We have taken a leap. Have we reached all that far?

What is different is integral to the whole.
Where integrity differs, the function evolves.
Every part of a function works best with the rest.
There’s no sense in determining which part is best.
Parts Is Parts is a puzzle that no human solves.
Our survival in partnership may be our goal.

Barcode Overload

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s too much information – that naked barcode.
It behaves like the butt crack. To me it looks gross.
Everything on earth has one – perhaps the moon too.
And like assholes, opinions and bad humor (eew!),
That machine-crafted zebra mark is bellicose
In a manner that messes with me when it’s showed.

Everywhere I will see them, like peeping Tom’s eyes.
Hanging out at the corners of labels they hide
Unassuming to most. But they give me the creeps.
They may thrive on immodesty, but not for keeps.
I do cover them forthwith with paint well applied.
I just don’t like to scan them. To me it’s unwise.

Is the growth of the barcode because of the growth
Of our species-specific domain, as it were?
We are plenty in number and things that we do.
We need means to keep track of all that we accrue.
Though they’re God awful nasty and too oft’ occur,
They’re a sight for the digital dimwit or both.

Adult Onset Nativity

TheMagicRealist.com

Were I born yesterday, things would make much more sense.
As it is, I arrived here before my own time.
In the meantime I’m given some room to explore
This life chamber around me that I should adore.
Is it wrong that I’m learning stuff way past my prime
As my time to be born consumes me with suspense?

In some ways, I’m brand new here. With each rising sun,
I’m essentially nuanced to wipe a clean slate
In the morning before any drama begins.
It is nobody’s business who died for my sins.
If I dropped dead this moment, who’d care if it’s fate?
If there’s needed a young heart, might I be the one?

 Neither exit nor entry certificate states
Where I fall short of worthiness and due respect.
Hopefully, an old bundle delivered anew
Can provide entertainment, if but for a few.
I would not discontinue this due to neglect.
Both the mother and baby have intertwined fates.

Owe Me One, Then Owe Me

TheMagicRealist.com

I could be Rumpelstiltskin or Pudding and Tang,
Yet a friend of Luke Flightjacket is who I am.
Way too many sci-fi flicks have taken the turn
Toward placating sensation with much crash and burn.
So whenever you find yourself in a big jam,
Just owe me one, then owe me, son. This isn’t slang.

Some would say I’m a Jedi because I kick ass
In the mystical lucid land on the wide screen.
There are dark evil forces in your world as well.
They take over your content and cast a deep spell.
Do I slice through your rubbish or make things seem clean?
If I do that, then my character isn’t crass.

And for this, you don’t owe me. Do know me to be
At my best with my light saber held tight in hand,
Strong and ready to offer diversion from hate.
With some imagination, we may gravitate
Toward the friendlier force, perhaps as had been planned.
If you know me, then owe me your living carefree.

I Don’t Need A Damned Hero

TheMagicRealist.com

I don’t need a damned hero. Please give back my face.
And… my name is not Robin. I’m no kin to you.
I did quite well without you before you arrived.
Things now aren’t any better, yet I’m not deprived
Of my sense of humanity. If I but knew
How to ditch you completely, I’d reclaim my grace.

Something tucked in my pocket may act as my friend
As long as it behaves well and gives me respect.
It will act like a smartass and make me look lame,
When, to others, the thing is a fanciful game.
This is not about something that I need protect.
I’m the one in its shadow with thought to portend.

It’s a hero. Big Whoopie! It does a great deal
For most assholes convinced It’s a survival tool.
But for me, it’s a smartass. We don’t get along.
Every time I do something with it, I am wrong.
That’s according to it, therefore ‘it’ is a fool.
This hero doesn’t save me. That’s just how I feel.

From the Desk of D. Dudley Dickinworth

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

Sir, we give you the dickens! This time it’s for sure.
Why have not you responded? Where’s your sense of greed?
We have offered you millions. Don’t say you don’t care.
You won’t find a more urgent email anywhere.
You must answer me ASAP so we can proceed
To maintain cockamamie discourse. You Are Poor!

From our records of outstanding contractors due
A large payment, we find that your name does appear.
We now need your full address and bank info too.
We will need up front payment to cover a few
Incidental expenses, like campaigns of fear.
Make that check out to me. I will take care of you.

I don’t want to get nasty, but, damn it to hell,
You have not yet replied to me! Don’t be a fool.
Don’t you know how to act with a dick in your face?
You must give it attention. I know there’s some place
In your heart for some jackass who thinks he is cool.
Once I have your phone number, I’ll call you as well.

A Wonky Relationship

TheMagicRealist.com

Things appeal to the wonk (who is happy to plonk
Down his sanity for a mate as strange as he)
That have not much bizarreness when pictured alone.
When they’re seen as a pair, though, their union is shown
To be as odd an odyssey, if such could be.
Can it be held together, or will someone conk?

Every plate has a wobble. Each soul has a plate.
It may be full or empty. Some skill it will take
To ensure that momentum is constant and swift.
When all balance quite well, what a wonderful gift!
We may choose co-creation along with heartbreak,
Yet, to do so without self is such a blind date.

If I find satisfaction within my own skin
And not bother my partner with all that I lack,
Perhaps I’ll come to know the odd one within me.
Once that we are acquainted, my true self will be
My own best source of guidance who will have my back.
Anyone who is strange enough could be my twin.

Knee Jerk Reaction

TheMagicRealist.com

Tally Ho! I’m the knee jerk. Although a day late,
I know you will forgive me because I’m a fool.
I react all the time – not just one day a year.
Everyday I make merry to mitigate fear.
I can be quite spontaneous but never cruel.
I believe foolishness is the cure for most hate.

If you think this is silly, you’re right, I must say.
I put much time and effort into what I do.
Does it make people chuckle? That, I’ll never know.
There’s no choice but to tread on and go with the flow.
If my ass ran away from me, I’d have no clue,
Because it dons no butt bell to give it away.

All I need is a good knee to utilize me.
Every knee jerk depends on a knee to perform.
I can spring into action, but never will sap
The insanity dormant beneath the knee cap.
It’s a pleasure to tap a good jolt to the norm
From the heart of the knee jerk who’s daft as can be.

To Forget Being Gotten

TheMagicRealist.com

If I need to be understood so I feel good,
Up the creek of the fecal and minus the oars
Would be I with my sorrow and deep seated fear
That I’m too odd a creature and don’t belong here.
When I don’t believe I’m the one who life ignores,
I am scaling the brick, and not knocking on wood.

Are my words so elusive that they don’t make sense
To the asshole majority? That’s fine with me.
They’re the same words that everyone uses. I just
Rearrange them in ways that are meaningful. Trust
That I came here, as all do, to live and to be
Plentiful in creating in full present tense.

I can’t get a damned thing that most rappers exude.
Most of it is a voyage, for me, to nowhere.
So, I don’t listen to them. That’s not ‘tit for tat.’
I’m an alien being, and no diplomat.
Should the gallery peanuts sound off, I don’t care.
One whose heart glows with passion cannot be subdued.

Homophonic Heteronymity

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

I had fear of the homophone right from the start.
Had I heard a thing of it, that would have been nice.
I was taught, as a child, of the word ‘homonym.’
Now, no one’s ever heard of it. Have I gone dim?
Could it be that my memory is imprecise?
Which came first with my schooling? The horse or the cart?

It seems Google remembers. This gives me some peace.
I would beg post-teen teachers to keep their acts straight.
That is, if I had nothing much better to do
Than pick nits with society and what is new.
As I keep to my own little world, I feel great.
I’ll admit to some old ways that I could release.

One may hire O’Glyphic or Heterophone
For the ones spoken most to and who listen well.
There may be some who heteroglyph their way home.
Homophonic profanity festers like foam.
When they’re making up new words, would someone please tell
The old retroverse wordsmith adrift on his own?

Bizarre Pharma Dharma

TheMagicRealist.com

A life filled with bright color begins with child’s play.
That which makes the heart happy is sweet to the taste.
If the medicine tastes good, then I can believe
It will do what it’s made to do. Do I achieve
Any measure of some relief? Or, do I waste
Much of my motion hoping that meds are the way?

I need something for gut clog – a lethal depth charge
That will blast the pipes thorough of resident waste.
The condition is common, the symptoms as well.
They’re enough to debilitate and make life hell.
Yet, despite indications that aren’t to my taste
I seek help from beyond self… from ‘oneness’ at large.

All the fine meds available are much the same,
As they boast full relief from what ails me the most.
But the symptoms they claim that will then go away
Are the same as the side effects, to my dismay.
Should I therefore proclaim that my innards are toast?
That would be utter nonsense, and worse, a damned shame.

Often Easier to Be Sad

TheMagicRealist.com

My old lady done left me and took both the cats…
And the keys to the pick-up she don’t even drive.
Maybe she hates my singin’ and playin’ guitar.
She ain’t said nothin’ of it, at least, not so far.
But she took off, and I don’t know how to survive.
I’m one sick sack of suds among soul democrats.

What’s got into my baby I just cannot say.
I’ve got lots of good TV and Coors Light on tap.
My abode is a breadbox on big cinderblocks.
I make porridge lukewarm for my fair goldilocks.
Maybe she would have stayed if I’d learned to sing rap.
Lord, wherever she’s gone to, I hope she won’t stay.

Like my dreams about coal mines, I’m left in her dust.
So, I could do the bar thing, but that gets old fast.
A big family reunion will do well for now.
If I don’t find a girl then, I’ve lost it somehow.
With a dickhead in office, my sorrows can’t last.
Though he ain’t keepin’ promises, in him I trust.

How Much Am I Allowing?

TheMagicRealist.com

How much am I allowing? Or do dare I ask
Of a spigot controllable by me alone?
Does the knob need a turning to left or to right?
Then, how many degrees? What if it is too tight?
What flows into the bucket is more than what’s shown
To the eyes made of matter, the natural mask.

The life force that sustains me is fluid, at base.
It expands or contracts to get in everywhere
Any force wants to take it, assuming the shape
Of that which may contain it, not wanting escape
On its own, whether conscious and fully aware
Or intangible, totally, thus without grace.

Life is given to me. I shall give in return.
I contain what flows through me for use while I’m here.
The world may dip within it. In fact, be my guest.
Easily, what is fluid, someone can digest.
What I do for a living, now, can’t cause me fear.
I survive quite amazingly without concern.

Talking Oneself Off the Ledge

TheMagicRealist.com

I am told life is precious, including my own,
By behavioral science and men of the cloth,
But not by those who would leave me out on the ledge.
It is up to me only. To thy own self pledge
To remember the big picture – not the thin swath.
Any vision from that space is fear overgrown.

 I may long for the tunnel, then pure loving light
That I don’t seem to find here in this blurry realm.
What I see down below me I don’t want to face.
Down there needs not another. It would be disgrace
To give up such a fine face to life overwhelm.
What if I suffered greatly? That would kind of bite.

That is hardly the point, though. There are many ways
One may take matters drastically into one’s hands.
There are things about living that I may despise,
And my focus on those things would be my demise
Had I not a defense for life’s unmet demands.
There’s no hope in the pavement. There’s no need to gaze.

Passive Retentive Anal Aggressive

TheMagicRealist.com

I am not anal, doctor. I wipe only once.
And that one time is surely enough, I would say,
Because I do things thoroughly, taking my time
To make sure all is tidy and absent of grime.
I would say I’m fastidious. That sounds OK.
When you say that I’m anal, I feel like a dunce.

Often passive retentive, I keep to my own
Little world of becoming. I seek no advice
To propel me through some worldly crisis, you see.
I just come to you because that way I can be
Most flamboyant with my deepest secrets. It’s nice
To soul dump on some stranger who is judgement prone.

So, what else can you tell me, aggressive assed one?
I am ready to hear all that you have to say.
I know Freud was a coke head and mental blacksmith.
Let us cut to the chase and get rugged forthwith.
Playing with this absurdity brightens my day.
When I’m bored with my dull life, I see you for fun.

The Hell Out Of Dodge

TheMagicRealist.com

Let us talk about Dodge again. It’s a nice place.
Though I haven’t quite been there, nearby is OK.
Though I think of disaster when this town is named,
It has no more than elsewhere. So why is it famed
As some hell to depart from and get far away?
I do wonder if people there live in disgrace.

‘Get the Hell out of Dodge!’ It’s expressive, in ways,
Of the chaos that comes with the limits of speech.
We can color the notions of panic and fear
With illogical thoughtforms that aren’t very clear.
We adopt our weird sayings, though often we reach
Some acute understanding amid verbal haze.

Dodge is fine, I would hope, and its residents too.
They would have to have long gotten over this joke.
When one needs to get out of someplace really fast,
No particular city should ever be cast
In a cloak of obscurity. We owe these folk
Some relief from our warped ways. It’s long overdue.

On The Zest Of Zippid E. DooDaah

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ve made up with the DooDaahs in whole or in part.
What the bird thinks he’s saying is through the artist
Who created him as his own alter ego.
Through the lines of the character, we come to know
Deep within the rose velvet, there is a tight fist
That is poised to punch poignant those of a meek heart.

Does the gentleman bluebird waste much of its time
Hanging out on the shoulders of arrogant fools?
If he does, he’s a DooDaah. That matter is fact.
Then to call the bird ‘mister’ is not how to act.
That it’s blue matters somewhat, according to rules
Interweaved in the fabric of nature’s high crime.

You are right, Mr. DooDaah. It is a fine day.
We each wax satisfactual to our own tune.
I don’t whistle my doodaahs out loud out of fear
That some actual DooDaah would hand me a spear.
Then I’d raise it and yell something strange to the moon.
When it comes to the DooDaahs, I am not their prey.

White Rabbit

TheMagicRealist.com

We have all lost our minds. That much I can recall.
But not much beyond that, I am happy to say.
I’ve a timepiece that not only tells me the time.
It will tell me I’m much too late to make that climb
Down the me-hole, where all things behave quite my way.
Would I get there in time if I entered freefall?

How did I lose my memory? And is it right
That we carry on smartly assuming our roles
In this card kingdom, not knowing from whence we came?
Would it be such a riddle were all cast the same?
Does the Master Card Dealer reshuffle our souls
And then redistribute them, perhaps, out of spite?

I am not the white rabbit – at least, not today.
I have regained some memory, not knowing how.
We have come here to act like we’re cards in a deck.
We, most often, are each other’s pains in the neck.
And, poor Alice is grown. She’s in therapy now.
It’s a curious card came that we’ve come to play.

Snarklingate

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

I am not quite a hermit cat. I need no shell
But the air that surrounds me in sparkling sunlight.
If I blink my eyes thrice, I know they are still there.
And my little ones love me, as for them I care.
It is nice basking freely. My future is bright.
I have taken this bird’s nest. Within it I dwell.

Did they leave rather peacefully – those that were here?
Or did they see us coming and fly fast away?
Heaven knows. My concern is with moving about
In a world where I freely determine my clout.
If they’d stayed, I’d have eaten them. That’s just the way
I behave with my feathered friends. I am sincere.

For now, I am content. I do purr with the best
From a humble twig dwelling that’s fit for a king.
If I tweeted or meowed, they would both sound the same.
Whether singing or winging, all life is a game.
I do either or both as I do my own thing.
I have not much regard for the feathered oppressed.

Bless Every Damned Thing!

TheMagicRealist.com

What the hell can I do but bless every damned thing?
I can’t beat the sick bastards. They’re nowhere in reach.
If I hold a stiff grudge against that which I hate,
My heart welcomes disease, and then death is my fate.
All the hate that’s around me is ready to teach
Me that what I give focus to, this life will bring.

All the crap that is wrong with this life I must leave
At the doorstep of doom where it rightly belongs.
Every sap sucking asshole who’s dead or alive
Gives me reason to know if I chose to deprive
Myself of true alignment that rights many wrongs
Of my world, I’d be less in a space to achieve.

Bless the whole screwed up world. It must matter to me
That I keep myself happy instead of damned right.
Every crotchety bitch and demented old man
Surely got that way thinking that they were less than,
So that now they are ready to take full delight
In expressing disgruntlement most artfully.

I Need You Right Now

TheMagicRealist.com

I am needing you now, friend. I’ve no time to waste
Standing here watching you grow. It’s been a few days.
Do you not know your purpose? Well, I do know mine.
I must have supper ready so my guests can dine.
Will you speed up your growth rate? I’m sure you have ways
Of placating my arrogance and will misplaced.

If you won’t grow, we’ll eat you, as small as you are.
Is it better to trip than to keep a straight head?
Mine’s screwed on right, but yours seems arrested in place.
I can’t feed my folks folly. It’s you they embrace.
Could I serve them your roots in a light tea instead?
Grow up NOW, errant seedling! Don’t act so bizarre.

It’s a fact that I need you now only because
I give you my attention too much of the time.
Any seed that I plant now will take time to grow.
That all time is eternal is helpful to know.
In the meantime, my patience is rendered sublime.
I can give up my tweaking of natural laws.

Better Business

TheMagicRealist.com

“Nine to Ninety-Nine Business Weeks, Sir!” That’s how long
It will take to respond to your urgent request.
Please bend over until about ninety degrees
So when we stick it to you, we’ll do it with ease.
If you want to complain to us, then be our guest.
We don’t post contact info, though that may be wrong.

Say you’ve dropped your bJesus card on the rail track?
That is how we perceive it. Did we get that right?
Well, we’ll send you another. But, Oh, by the way,
You’ll incur some discomfort and maybe dismay.
You’re a fuck up, dear customer… and not too bright.
Let us put you on hold, sir, then we’ll be right back.

…Oh, did we disconnect you? We’re sorry. Please know
That our job is to Serve you. We do that our best
From a call center ten thousand miles far away,
And through thick scripted accents programmed to convey
Only policy… most often mocking the stressed.
We do value your business like piss in the snow.

Ugly With An F

TheMagicRealist.com

You are ugly, my sister, and covered in soot.
But don’t take my assessment to liberal heart.
I can tell you’ve been crying. Somehow this I know.
Any woman of your age has been through some woe.
A few decades ago, some gave you a fresh start.
Their intention was pure and their effort well put.

There are some kinds of ugly that don’t have an F.
There’s a spectrum for ugly, just as for ug-not,
But, my sister, your ug has an F upper case.
It’s a good thing my talent can brighten your face.
I like working with color. It soothes me a lot,
Just as working ingredients fancies the chef.

I can make you look pretty in heart and in mind,
And a spirit that sings your original song.
Does “America First” mean that you should be mean,
Or a harlot, or something somewhere in-between?
With some strokes of my own, you and I will belong
To a world more compassionate, loving and kind.

What Do I Bring To The Table?

TheMagicRealist.com

What I bring to the table of life is but me.
I believe I have something of value to give
To society which it has not enough of.
If I can’t bring much else, then at least I’ll bring love.
To break bread in communion is reason to live
In appreciation for what’s caused me to be.

I develop my talent for dining in grace
With my fellow digesters consumed with the meal.
I have some table manners that tend to offend.
Often, I take a break when I can’t comprehend
Why I’m here in the first place. Is my hunger real?
When I choose to recover, I slip back in place.

I bring you to the table that we’ve built by hand
With much hard work and talent and strength of the heart.
I bring meaning to life in my own special way.
We are each someone special with something to say.
Our strong table is sturdy. It won’t fall apart.
We are all self-invited before all was planned.

The Mighty Metric Second

TheMaticRealist.com

Thirty brief megaseconds is almost one year.
But when looked at it this way, may there be a chance
That I’d honor the short unit second much more
Than I did just a few milliseconds before?
I gain something from any conceived circumstance.
As the world waxes metric, I’ve nothing to fear.

Three point six kiloseconds is what it should take
For a car doing sixty to reach sixty miles.
Yet our miles may be mindful and metered to tell
All the world to get kiloed and cast in a spell.
Miles are steadfast notwithstanding fervent denials.
They may mop up the messiness metrics may make.

In six more decaseconds, this much can be said –
Nearly five hectoseconds it takes for sunlight
To traverse to the earth. This is significant.
“But to whom?” one might ask. I would say, “To the Plant!”
Eighty six point four kilos of seconds is right
For a well measured full day. It’s now time for bed.

Angular Momenta

TheMagicRealist.com

It does not make a difference what I believe,
As my lines are prewritten, well-studied and played,
And wrapped tightly around me so that I can’t move.
I’m in love with life’s contrast and ready to prove
I can manage most any mass. I’m not afraid
As I give to momentum just as I receive.

Living gives me the right to see things my own way.
Many ways do encircle me. Some I adopt
And take care of, as, randomly, they move about
With velocities varied. I have not a doubt
That their moments of inertia cannot be stopped.
If my life were as linear, I’d love to play.

Yet I do play by default. What runs around me
Is what I have held onto by my will or not.
I could let them run freely, the ways that I own.
But if they don’t return, I would be left alone,
As my reason for living would be well forgot.
Might my ways be more friendly if tied to a tree?

This Has Never Made Sense To Me

TheMagicRealist.com

The whole purpose of baking a cake, I would think,
Is to have it, then eat it. This makes sense to me.
It’s absurd then to say I can’t have what I’ve made.
And, what’s worse, I can’t eat it? Let’s drop the charade!
One can have cake in mind and in stomach, you see.
Labored having and eating may cause one to drink.

When I preheat my oven, then mix up a batch
Of my best-bellied batter to tittle the tum,
I can have that and eat it, then whip up some more.
If I run out of stuff, I’ll just run to the store.
There’s no theme philosophic I need overcome
So the cake that I have now can go down the hatch.

Take the X off that OR gate. I can have it all.
What is made, then consumed is but one perfect match
Made on earth and in heaven by how I perceive.
I appreciate that speech has naught up its sleeve
That the mind milled for meaning can’t easily catch.
I’ll have cake AND I’ll eat it, and not take a fall.

CuntScape

TheMagicRealist.com

All alone in a CuntScape, at last, for a while,
I take in all I can with the senses at hand.
The thin smear in a dish may be what becomes me,
Yet the function is fettered if we only see
But a flesh of an orifice to a strange land.
Cunts will come out in force as men stand in denial.

I believe that it’s time that we put up a wall
Of warm, feminine flesh with its softness of touch.
Cunts can let themselves let themselves be beaten down
Just because they get nasty when dick is in town.
That dick masters in nastiness matters not much.
Put a cunt high in office, and let the dick fall.

Is it true that a cunt can behave like a  dick
In the open theater upon the world stage?
I believe so, but that matters little to me.
What a dick does, a cunt does, most definitely.
But a new breed of cunt force is coming of age.
Things will get hot and nasty, then change may come quick.

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.