Tag Archive | philosophical commentary

Asleep At The Urinal

TheMagicRealist.com

Stay awake, my old friend. You seem lost in a trance
And your hard, heavy breathing is almost a snore.
It does take a long time for that bladder to drain,
But at least it is steady. There isn’t much strain.
Goodness Grace! Is this what growing old has in store?
Have I time to develop my urinal stance?

Just hang in there, old timer. It will take a while.
In the meantime, however, I’ll hang by your side.
The old plumbing is pensive in its simple task.
That it carry on smartly is all one would ask.
Since we are somewhat private, there’s no pride to hide.
Though your body may trick you, I shall not beguile.

Urinating in unison while holding hands
Is one way that a fellow can help an old friend
Through the process. While daydreaming, he may fall down
Then become an old geyser. You’d become a clown!
Give the man’s hand a manly squeeze. He may depend
On that firmness that only he could understand.

Difference And Remainder

TheMagicRealist.com

Difference And Remainder – two separate words,
One is used in subtraction. The other, reserved
For division, can offer confusion for some
But not so difficult it can’t be overcome.
Since in math, all distinctions must be well observed,
It is best to respect them – at least for the nerds.

Difference between minuend and subtrahend
Is the heart of one matter. Words aim to make sense.
So, the minuend is the big number on top
Though it can be the small one but it does not drop
To the bottom. It will not commit that offense.
That which is to be taken is what we suspend.

Now, there could be a difference that still remains.
But remainders are leftovers from the process
Of division when all grouping is not exact.
What remains may be wanted or banished from fact.
Differences are treated, then, just a tad less
Than remainders. Is this why the weary child strains?

Death Of A Pixel

TheMagicRealist.com

What’s the root cause of pixel death? We all should know
Because death among pixels is something most rare.
Are the screens they appear upon made to outlast
Every last pixel’s life span? I would say no fast!
Things aren’t made for longevity and folks don’t care.
But for some, such a dead spot puts on a tough show.

Promulgation of pixel health is something done
At the time of their making through careful process
And en masse by machinery at micro scale.
One would think then that equality must prevail.
When the ass of a pixel makes my mind a mess
I must know that it can’t up and do that for fun.

 Pixels made of near nothingness can coexist
With the realms of pure spirit somewhat easily.
And if they retain consciousness, then when they die,
Each exists as a waveform related to pi.
Every pixel or person who wants to be free
Must have full right to do so although they are missed.

The Thirst Of Theodore Thlitlinger

TheMagicRealist.com

I am Theodore Thurston Thlitlinger, the third.
I’d been thrust into thirsthood since my thirsty birth.

That is why that my middle name was chosen well.
It conforms to the substance that I will not sell.
It’s been said I could drink everything on the earth
But that is surely gossip not well overheard.

A few thirds of my drinking I do while awake
While with others I dream about drinking scot free
Of discrete condescension or even outright.
If someone mocks my drinking I’ll put up a fight.
Thoroughly through the thickening inside of me,
Lavishing of liquidity is for my sake.

I am third in a short line of proud drinking men.
Though we all are Thlitlingers, we each have a theme
Separate from the others. Theatrically
Therapeutic in thankfulness, we can agree
That our thoughts are thalassic and like a daydream.
When they’re drunk in compassion, it can be like Zen.

Rainy Days And Mondays

TheMagicRealist.com

…Talking to myself but feeling sane.
Some days there is no sun.
Does that mean I can’t have fun?
…Stuck for a while, but it doesn’t cramp my style.
Rainy Days And Mondays Always Make Me Smile.

What I’ve got I would not care to know.
People mostly don’t like rain.
I delight in the mundane.
Is this exile? Then so is my Facebook profile.
Rainy Days An Mondays Always Make Me Smile.

…Funny but it seems that weather can’t be predicted with ease.
…Nice to know there’s human error.
Unrequited flames may rekindle as raindrops concede to appease.
Solitude is the preparer.

It’s a blessed day. I could not ask for more.
People tend to stay inside.
With their own stuff they’re preoccupied.
I am an isle. It doesn’t mean that I am hostile.
Rainy Days An Mondays Always Make Me Smile.

No Toga Yoga

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s been vogue to take yoga as something to spread
Like a condiment onto the cusp of the soul.
Yoga is something once taught by only a few.
Nowadays anyone with a promise will do
For attaining enlightenment. This is the goal
Of the one who is captive inside of one’s head.

It is quite irresponsible to seek someone
Or some book or a video. These are the wares
That evolve because people must sell to survive.
Some may be underhanded with will to connive.
Yoga takes much commitment from the one who cares
That the practice embarked upon won’t be undone.

The industrial era gave birth to great change.
Scientific development grew at a pace
To where there was much quackery. Science became
Something scoffed at tainted. This brought science shame.
Clarity and strict discipline has regained grace.
Now there is much consensus on what is called strange.

To be calm in the spirit and have peace of mind
And of body is everyone’s ultimate quest.
But the old ones who’ve mastered this lifelong technique
Are unfortunately not who most people seek.
One proceeds well in life when one is not obsessed
With someone with a blindness who’s leading the blind.

A Funny Story

TheMagicRealist.com

Once an old couple, well off and filled with desire,
Took a journey that most folks would only dream of.
So from Texas they traveled to Jerusalem,
Not to tear up the town with terror and mayhem,
But to visit the place where Jesus lived in love.
This is something to which many people aspire.

Every cobblestone there bleeds with much history.
It is so called the Holy Land because it’s where
Things took place that define religions of today.
Is it not a fine city where most people prey
As they do back in Texas? No one can declare
That it’s no place of interest. There’s so much to see.

But, unfortunately, to the old man’s remorse,
His dear partner of so many years passed away.
He prepared, as expected, to take her back home.
But the locals, insistent as old saint Jerome,
Tried their best to convince him to chill out and stay.
He rejected their efforts in earnest, of course.

On and on they kept trying… “Do bury her here.
One would think it an honor to come here to die.
Your dear mate has done wisely. This place has become
Economically vibrant. For just a small sum
We’ll take care of your wife. So, there’s no reason why
You should disrupt her destiny all due to fear.”

The old man remained steadfast as strongly they pled.
They could not understand his defiance. Indeed,
They were utterly baffled, so they asked him why.
He replied, “I believe if a person should die
Then the one they’re attached to is suddenly freed.
If I get her to Texas, I’m sure she’ll stay dead.”

Be Becoming!

TheMagicRealist.com

Be Becoming! The summing of all I become
Can be looked at in ways that defy status quo.
There’s no need for believing the world is a mess.
My own life force and consciousness, I must confess,
Can at times overcome me and all that I know.
I can be life its damned self or under its thumb!

 Sometimes people are speed bumps. I need to slow down
When I see others that way, although it feels right.
If I rush them, my own ride is bumpy – not theirs.
And when they reprimand me, I feel no one cares.
Surely as it will happen, I’m good for a fight
But when I get defensive, I look like a clown.

Things don’t need to be taken so personally.
That is why there is passive voice. No entity
Nor subconscious collective can single me out
To remind me that I do exist, without doubt.
I shall keep on becoming, as long as I’m me,
And providing some selfhood for others to see.

Indemnity Of Class

TheMagicRealist.com

Can my class be protected form free open air
In aspect desolation? No students appear
To take in a good lesson. There’s no one in sight.
Are we well educated yet ready to fight
For what seems to be obviously so austere
That there can be no learning? Who needs to take care?

I was raised in a middle class black family.
Has this any significance? Or is it just
Digitized information fed to the class bank?
If the answer is frightful, then who do I thank?
There’s an aspect to power. It is judgement lust.
The great teacher, when I’m ready, I’ll clearly see.

We can’t all see the same way. That wouldn’t be fair.
Humankind’s evolution is steeped in process
With the creative spirit we make and we break
Any rules that we need to for survival’s sake.
Distribution of judgement is meant to oppress.
Those who have only class only have that to share.

Powerless

TheMagicRealist.com

Some cheap-suited-assed bank pawn behind a small desk
Who is one third my age has the nerve to treat me
Like the club I belong to is not worth the time.
Thanks for giving me something to process. Since I’m
To be rendered nonthreatening, then I can be
Free to curse you in ways that are truely grotesque.

One would think that your mamma knows well how you work
Like an indentured maggot. That makes her a fly
With no sense of a conscience for what it has laid.
The dried snot up your nose gives away the charade.
You are more worthless than this verse, yet I will try
To get through to the meaning and not to the jerk.

So, I’m made to feel powerless. Ain’t life a bitch!
I cannot slap the piss from your arrogant face.
Nor can I disrespect you in any damned way.
Pray that our paths don’t co-mingle on your off day.
The McJob you think highly of is a disgrace.
Your engaging their power will not make you rich.

I’m Rich, Therefore I Am

TheMagicRealist.com

I embrace my entitlement. It’s my birthright.
And in line with my heritage I do exist
To take charge and to conquer all that I behold.
Anyone with a dark past can be bought or sold.
I feel nothing of conscience, in fact I insist
That we all take up arms and engage in the fight.

And with wealth comes great wisdom and platform to rule.
Even with no experience I may fair well
In a post yeti showdown in stark sabotage
To the plans of all others. Wealth is a mirage
That depicts something meaningful in the hard sell.
Yet a rich yeti encore would make you the fool.

I shall know that my being, deficient of soul,
Does my best to emboss me and make all seem real.
Since I could have most anything, why don’t I chill?
Maybe I’m just a rich prick who dicks for the thrill.
There’s no doubt that my money can draw much appeal
And endorsement. This all is the heart of my goal.

Bowel Tetris

TheMagicRealist.com

There are clouds in the torso. They rain down upon
The digestive machinery in many shapes.
Can I rotate them properly as they free fall?
Or will they overcome me and form a big wall
Punctuated with space gaps where nothing escapes?
There’s an inherent vacuum to which mass is drawn.

Sometimes I think I would like to be a reptile.
There’s no game such as Tetris their systems will play.
They will swallow things whole then digest them for weeks.
I though must take precaution. My sorry flesh speaks
As the odd wall compresses in its stubborn way.
Should I practice well my arrow keys for a while?

I’ll get used to Bowel Tetris. It comes with wisdom
Of the world’s many appetites. Grossly I find
That all that I ingest includes not only food.
It is mixed with the makeup of my attitude.
I could wish that my system were better designed
If indeed I could see it to not feeling glum.

Jealousy

TheMagicRealist.com

If my friend does not do well, then should I feel bad?
I could feel just the same if she’s doing just fine.
So however she’s doing, I am at a loss
Should events quite outside me present the coin’s toss
That determines how I feel? And do I define
All that goes on around me as happy or sad?

I’m the sole CEO of a small company.
Am I wise and efficient with management skills
Regarding my own feelings and ways I behave?
Or do others ensnare me and make me their slave?
Is it that human nature is based upon thrills
A good reason to indulge incompetently?

One point two three percent of a gene-scape we are
From the humble chimpanzee. I take a step back
When I act out or withhold in bitter contempt.
And because I am human I am not exempt
From moments of mismanagement and self-attack.
A small rip in the genes will not leave a big scar.

Sustainable Future

TheMagicRealist.com

Our ecology is not a subject in school.
It’s our means of existence. Connection we’ve lost
With what is most important – that which sustains life.
If we’d just pay attention we’d mitigate strife.
If our minds may be opened to truth at all cost
We may offer the future something that is cool.

We see most things as opposites. Ecology
And Economy are the two parts of the same
Basic function of living. Business can be kind
And compliant with nature. This shift in the mind
Would do much on our part to ward of an end game
That includes our extinction most definitely.

Degradation of soil is a most urgent threat.
We cannot artificially fertilize land
With toxic anti-substances forever more.
At some point, nature hits back and evens the score.
Soil enriches through decay, as nature had planned.
Perhaps we will outsmart her but we haven’t yet.

We see spirit and nature as separate things.
They are not. They’re combined as the eb in the flow.
Leaders must become conscious outside of self needs.
Righteousness in the heart of the leader who leads
With a sense of inclusiveness and will to grow
Is what is surely needed. Therein goodness rings.

It’s not up to our leaders alone to take part
In the business of living. We each play a role
In the work of our government. Democracy
Means wholehearted involvement in how things should be.
Through cooperation we can reach any goal.
Within every new moment there is a fresh start.

Take Care Of Yourself

TheMagicRealist.com

Whose red, white and blue uncle is drunk and obscene?
And am I without parents? Who has custody
Of the way I am feeling all throughout my day?
It is I alone who causes myself dismay.
When I choose to see clearly, much better I’ll be
At behaving and maintaining mental hygiene.

Who tells me what to wear and what foods I should eat?
No one else on earth does that. It is only me.
I would be but a mere slave if this were not so.
All that takes place within me is all that I know
So my own thoughts and feelings should be just as free
From control by whoever I happen to meet.

I’ll admit I know nothing, nor does anyone,
Of the things most external. They are of debate.
They cannot up and make me something that I’m not.
I don’t feel I’m involved in a sinister plot.
What is real for me simply is what I create
As I take care of myself ‘til my time is done.

Sicker Hickory Dock

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ll come down with a fever and up to a few
Of some more fancy word stunts. I get my sick on
By constructing some scaffolding then laying brick
So to not give away the most secret word trick
That has ever seen daylight and then called it dawn
As if clocks and blind mice give a meaningful clue.

Some folks find that their hickory, made of pure dock,
Should not be locked in dickory, as it’s been told.
Many folks will have nothing to do with a dick.
When the word appears randomly, it makes them sick.
There’s no dick in the title. Perhaps this is sold
At face value, somewhat like the face of a clock.

Could one say that good hickory makes the mouse run
Any faster than it would on red wooded pine?
Thinking it doesn’t matter may cause time alarm.
We can see that it’s animate and can feel harm
All the while one may wonder if everything’s fine
When perhaps it is natural to feel undone.

So, no dick in the hickory! Not on my watch.
There are much better parts to use to build a verse.
There’s abundance of hickory and time to see
That the blind mice are fading most assuredly.
Often times it may seem that things couldn’t get worse
Then it happens again that we’ve come down a notch.

Dummy Load

TheMagicRealist.com

So now what’s the next theory? This one didn’t work
Like I damned well expected. At least it makes sense.
I have tremendous output, but it doesn’t reach,
Through the airwaves abundant, the world I beseech.
Is there off-time reserved for the load who repents?
Any semblance of feedback for me is a perk.

When at all I’m turned on and transmitting, I feel
Like a well-tuned transceiver with standard high gain
And acute sensitivity to frequencies,
Sometimes sanguine and subtle to put folks at ease.
Could the truth be that I have been rendered insane
By believing that what I say is a big deal?

Dummy loads are transceivers who do so alone
With themselves and no others – not in the small room.
Those with voice of high wattage are heard peak to peak
By those who digest carefully all that they speak.
Feeling hot like a dummy load, does passion fume
Even though interaction is not to be shown?

I will just keep transmitting, perhaps in the blind,
And receiving what’s out there. Might I be there too?
After all, what I want is only within me.
Am I fortunate that I can finally see
The stark difference absent between me and you?
To myself and to others, I should be more kind.

How I Think Is How I Feel

TheMagicRealist.com

If I think like I give a fuck how come I feel
Obsolete in my usefulness to humankind?
Is my thinking fallacious? Does it sound profane?
With my thoughts in a bad place, ‘damned right I feel pain!
I would not be a thing to which thoughts are assigned
Nor a non-willing subject resigned to ordeal.

If I think someone’s wonderful I cannot hold
Deep resentment toward that person, nor can I think
Someone’s awful and have feelings of sheer delight
For that person. Indeed, I may be prone to fight.
But often it so happens I am out of sync
With my thoughts and my feelings. This makes me grow old.

It is this fluctuation within mind and heart
When one acts, in my judgement, not in a kind way,
Pent up feelings can’t turn on a dime and concur.
Might adjusting my thinking do much to deter
Out-of-phase oscillations that may screw my day?
I have choice in the matter. I need not take part.

Taking part in existing is simple enough
When I take not for granted all things as they are.
Life will be as it will be. I am as I am.
A possessed algorithm within a program
In a system of consciousness, I’ve not strayed far
From the nerve I am given to call my own bluff.

Surrender Yourself

TheMagicRealist.com

When one speaks of surrender, what does the word mean?
Passing from limitations of one dimension
To the ones of another… That seems to be fair
In describing the need to be lighter than air.
Giving in to a good thing is most often fun
Otherwise, if it’s stressful, no freedom is seen.

And we do value freedom more than we may know.
We will slither through filth and scale difficult heights
To hold on to what everyone claims as a right.
If we feel we’re restricted, we will get uptight.
Challenge to basic rights is the cause of most fights
So the best thing to do is to go with the flow.

In this physical form there are gates I won’t pass.
But becoming inane in an unbridled way
And in no way conditional is, I may find,
A wisely prescribed method to settle the mind.
When to know to surrender is but mine to say.
Between feeling and knowing, there is no crevasse.

The Shoes People Choose

TheMagicRealist.com

When some people are wealthy they tend to buy shoes.
It’s a faint curiosity as with most things.
But for sole reinforcement it is but a farce –
An insult to the poor one whose wardrobe is sparse.
Incomplete satisfaction self-indulgence brings
To flamboyantly rich ones compelled to abuse.

Our feet must have protection. The soles must be tough
To defend well the tenderness of the bare feet.
Our lives must have fulfillment or else we will feel
That we have not a reason to deal with what’s real.
Nothing beats the reality of sheer conceit
Intertwined with our natures. We can’t get enough.

To master economics and stay in the black
Or to tread life in true work – which path is more wise?
Shoes require some polishing. They’re prone to wear.
If some look at my shoes I don’t need them to stare.
They may speak of my status. They are not a prize.
They get me where I’m going, and I don’t keep track.

Dealing With Insecurity

TheMagicRealist.com

I believe in telepathy though I have mind
To curse others who have it because I do not.
If I’m not good with social cues, why am I here?
Since I am so disabled, should I live in fear?
Hanging tight to my own tree, I’m destined to rot.
Life would be a breeze if human nature were kind.

Am I out of my element? Which would that be?
The same one that we all are suspended within?
Why can’t I see what happens the way that you do?
Are we kids on the playground where I have no clue?
I feel so damned transparent and riddled with sin.
I sequester an anger that may become me.

Is there any way out of this confounded mess
Surely of my creation? I should not forget
That I’m here to experience – not to avoid
But a measure of wonder. All will be destroyed
At some point in existence. I feel not regret.
There is nothing to gain nor lose, therefore why stress?

I’m A Christian

TheMagicRealist.com

Can’t you tell I’m a Christian? I only do right.
With my face bright and holy I edify God.
He and I are best buddies. He gives me his word
Then I act out in ways in which I had preferred
All the while feigning praises as those close applaud.
I’m a Christian, and I know damned well how to fight.

But with who am I fighting? God points out the ones
Who deserve condescension and my holy wrath.
Controlled women, more guns and straight sex is a must
Unless I’m made a preacher immune to distrust.
The direction I choose is always the right path.
I’m a bible technician whose mind has the runs.

What you do is my business, dear brother in Christ.
It’s made clear in the document, therefore repent.
We shall sing halleluiah together Sundays
Then right after revert to the usual craze.
To identify that which can cause ill content
Is a God given talent, and not highly priced.

How To Make Sense Of A Handful Of Wind

TheMagicRealist.com

One with pregnant unseemingly birthed from a tree
No command of a semblance ensnares proper thought
Cast off feelings deterred amid marble in flight
Would be shrouded in wonder if nothing went right
Carried apples with caramel never store bought
Leaves a fine world to marry for just you and me

Right upside the sick poodle can a noodle bite
Like a flea-bitten flood hound defaced and made odd
To the ear that discerns all that has to take place
In a foul fisted hammer enrolled in a race
To the finishing rainbow who’d give not a nod
So selectively sequined soul sturgeons seek sight

Sadly salt savers surely since sugar sanguine
Says that all who may master the muster made mild
One can know that one knows not all that one has known
Throughout eons existing one has not a throne
Where as one sits upon it one must become wild
Even though not long winded the hands are just fine

A Danger To Self Or Others

TheMagicRealist.com

I do not what to be here. I’ll cut to the chase
And the heart of the truth about being alive.
To be made to feel gratitude is servitude
To the aspects of nature that make creatures rude.
So, how come there are apes now? Or did we contrive
Our cosmetic comparisons to praise our race?

We are doomed to the drama. We can’t get along.
Neither pair nor two dozen or whole nations full
Of a vain human species can hope to be kind
To all persons at all times. This serves to remind
Me that life has no meaning and bull has much pull.
Latency becomes blatant with numbness to wrong.

Are we bored? Then let’s argue. It’s all just a game
That we may end up making a fight to the death.
Don’t you dare disrespect me whoever you are.
I don’t like being human. That should leave a scar
On the face of psychosis ‘til its dying breath.
That I’m still here and breathing, I do take the blame.

We are locked in our corners. We each have our views
Of how things must be looked at. This is a good thing.
It will grow to infect us and hasten our will
To engage self-destruction unto nature’s thrill.
If I weren’t feeling dangerous you’d hear me sing
Like a sick sack of suds who has nothing to lose.

Approaching Death With Grace

TheMagicRealist.com

When someone we know dies it’s as if a big piece
Of our own life is suddenly taken away.
Most get through the process of their grieving with grace.
Still there is a deep sorrow that time may erase.
Yet we know this will happen to all life someday.
Every life that we know of will at some time cease.

 Life decides when to leave us. We have not the choice
When it should or it shouldn’t. We will, while alive,
Try our best to sustain it. At birth we inhale
And at death we exhale. Nature’s law does prevail.
From the moment of being we’re here to survive
So the last thing to do here would be to rejoice.

We’re all dying through living in this time and place.
If I stop to examine the life I live now
Can I see death as part of life and be content
In the process of being? I feel we were meant
To embrace our mortality and to allow
Life to spend a brief time here and then leave in grace.

Successful Introvert

TheMagicRealist.com

How dependent on labels our lives have become.
Confusing exhalation with inhalation
In the midst of one’s breathing is how one behaves
When engaging delusion. It only enslaves.
One’s direction is set only by intention
But one must take the journey and celebrate some.

No such thing as an introvert or extrovert
Does exist in reality – only in thought.
Some of us feel the need to stand up and take charge
While some others are not so inclined, by and large.
So they’re not using twitter. Contentment is sought
In their own way of life with no will to assert.

No conclusions are needed to identify
What I see right before me with an open mind
And clear vision of what only I can provide.
In pursuit of the outcome, process is denied.
As I’m focused and engaged, I am more inclined
To be much more successful than fate would imply.

Forest In The Trees

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s an awfully big picture. I’m told this is so.
They do call it a forest. I only see trees.
And each one monolithic is massive and whole.
What is outside the forest I cannot control
Nor all that which is inside. My mind clearly sees
Conflagration of detail with passion to grow.

I can move about freely. I make my own path.
I may meet other travelers and test their ways.
The big picture within the big picture, it seems,
Is the one I’m accustomed to because it teems
With more that I can handle in all of my days
Pondering its beginning and grand aftermath.

Somewhat safe in the forest, I should take some care
That the trees I encounter are worthy or not
Of wholehearted attention. The world then becomes
Not an unfriendly jungle where beating the drums
Of resentment can too often get one’s ass shot.
There are so many pathways that lead to despair.

Hoboken Hobo

TheMagicRealist.com

The Hobo from Hoboken has nowhere to go
Knowing he has no future nor past – only now.
He has time to consider mistakes he has made
While all others just like him are made in the shade.
The man does not feel lazy with sweat on his brow.
And for all his hard work he has nothing to show.

He’s the Hoboken Hobo who’s broken and beat
To the pavement from competition in the race.
Certainly there are others, but he is the one
Who is seldom believed in. No growth has begun
In his long run attempting to keep up the pace
As the corporation aims to crank up the heat.

Perhaps not quite outspoken, the Hoboken man
Is a token identity too often seen
Not on billboards across our divine fruited plains
But in urban streets where disillusion remains.
Is it fair that society is a machine?
Ask the Hoboken Hobo who has not a plan.

Make A Decision You Won’t Regret

TheMagicRealist.com

To identify dreams, goals and aspirations
Is to be a fine citizen worthy of praise.
What I did twenty years ago is not the same
As what I’m doing now. And by that I proclaim
That my dreams may entrap me in manifold ways.
Maybe I should have heeded my wise older ones.

Take a break from distraction and influences
That surround me, and take a long look deep inside
To discover what moves me. This way, I am told,
Is the way to choose rightfully that which is gold.
Quite unlike personality fettered in pride,
My true calling is absent of all weaknesses.

When you make a decision, do so from the heart.
Personality means that persona is fused
To the person. Indeed, I must pry it away.
If I leave it stuck to me all throughout the day
It becomes ineffective and then self-abused.
When it comes to your choosing, let spirit take part.

Wake Me When The Witch Is Dead

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a good life in Kansas. I’d rather stay here
Than be knocked quite unconscious and grabbed by the house
To be dropped on a brick road of red, white and blue.
I engage with the storyline and as I do
Its perverse, wicked witchery I will espouse.
The suspense, a surreal thing, is rooted in fear.

I would be called a munchkin if I left my state
Of alignment with selfhood and lightness of heart.
In the dreamworld we see technicolor as real.
There’s a hint of nostalgia in how people feel
About wizards who strive not to drive folks apart.
Does this tale have a climax? We’ll just have to wait.

But while waiting, do I care to watch the grass grow
Through the cracks in the pavement? That wouldn’t seem wise.
I know that the big city is glittered in green
And the folks who play games there can play rather mean.
To be bored with the world dream comes as no surprise.
Wake me when it’s all over. I may want to know.

Operating System Corrupted

TheMagicRealist.com

Get in touch with the enemy. Model their acts
And make sure that their vanities can be controlled.
As their ways are well studied one can gain access
To their innermost workings. Their minds are a mess!
They will sell you their secrets for trinkets, we’re told.
Easily they are driven by alternate facts.

They believe in their system. We must do the same.
Though we raise much suspicion, no one will respond
In enough time to stop us dead cold in our tracks.
As we screw them, their journalists air our attacks.
Those who matter are impotent and tend to bond
With whoever is dominant. They have no shame.

Easily they’re corruptible, gaping in awe.
In slow motion, explosiveness looks like a dream.
As it happens in real time, is real damage done?
They will speak all about the man holding the gun
As he shoots at them. Not even thinking to scream,
They’re a curious system confounded in flaw.

Whiteface

TheMagicRealist.com

Does America have a big whiteface again?
Or can we ever have one that all can call ours?
Do we seem like a friend to bewildered allies?
Has the fate of our statehood become someone’s prize?
Is it likely that we are now governed by czars?
Do we act out in whiteface like proud gentlemen?

What’s the state of creation in our nation now?
Is it one of relationship or battle cries?
We’re at war with our damned selves! No thing leads us on
Like rekindled resentment from which hope is drawn.
We’re a state in a state of most lethal white lies.
We could redeem ourselves if we only knew how.

We depend on our dough-people maybe so much
That we think they aren’t human. Therefore, the machine
Of self-government needs a full check of its gears.
But it is somewhat human. It does shed its tears.
Absolute in snow whiteness, much chaos is seen
And the heat of our drama is cold to the touch.

Why Am I Stressed?

TheMagicRealist.com

Do not work, and don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.
You may be under pressure but make no mistake.
I will clothe you and feed you and give you a roof.
One who’d make such a promise is made of disproof.

If my thinking is heavy and clearly opaque
Is there anything worthwhile that I can then do?

Can I sit and be blissful alone in one place
For a brief march of minutes? That should not be hard.
If it is, then it means only one sundry thing.
I have not done what is necessary to bring
Simple mindfulness back into proper regard.
If the masses can’t do that, is that a disgrace?

Like the fragrance of jasmine on life’s summer breeze
I’ve no choice but to linger until lingering
Dissipates in completion of purpose assigned.
What I’m thinking and feeling are so intertwined
That I can’t blame another for what life may bring.
On that basis, can I put my stressing at ease?

Head Or Heart

TheMagicRealist.com

Head and heart are two totally separate things.
What is seen on the surface also is within.
We alone complicate things. The creatures of wild
See all life as one simple thing – much like a child,
But with intent well focused. I’ll dare to begin
A statement of inquiry as if it has wings.

Can the heart speak of anything? I would think not.
It just wants to keep blood flowing. That is its job.
It need not be articulate – only steadfast
That its date with my breathing will not be its last.
Now, there are quite a few things that make the heart throb.
People could say it’s speaking then. I’d say they ought.

The heart has only two sounds: Dub-Lub and Dub-Lub.
Only on rare occasion does it verbalize

In an aberrant manner. But, unlike the brain,
Nothing can happen to it to drive it insane.
If I came to believe that the heart can be wise
Would that mean I’d be giving my poor brain the snub?

Meditation is not interrupted by thought.
I would not ask the kidneys nor liver to cease
Their sustaining their function as peace do I seek.
It’s refreshing to learn that all organs do speak
In the language they’re used to. The mindful release
Of the unwanted chatter is then what is sought.

Wisdom, Meditation And Bliss

TheMagicRealist.com

Mysticism means exploration into things
That I have not the knowledge of – so far, so good.
Everything that I know not, I can’t understand.
If I find one with wisdom and peacefulness grand,
Is that person anointed with true guruhood?
Is what I know that others don’t worthy of wings?

If I lost all my assets and felt quite depressed
My mind would try to trick me into true demise.
But if I held my breath for two minutes, I’m sure
That abundantly free air would act as the cure
For my habit of teetering on compromise
Of my spirit. Sometimes, it’s adversely expressed.

 The most sophisticated machinery here,
The unique human body is of pure design.
Yet it can be encumbered with high maintenance.
That appears true for most folks and seems to make sense.
Living totally means that there is no deadline
When it comes to engaging all that we hold dear.

Put Your Bitch On The Street!

TheMagicRealist.com

Messed with government workers, here’s some good advice.
I can tell that you’re just a tad miffed, but don’t sweat.
So you’ve tried a few yard sales, and that didn’t work?
I can show you some sympathy. I’m not a jerk!
You may eat cake and suffer my unyielding threat.
I’m profoundly grotesque, and it’s hard to be nice.

Have you talked to your landlords? They should share the blame.
After all, there is plenty. You all must partake.
Everyone in this nation is under my rule.
Anyone who thinks otherwise is a damned fool.
I can’t care about you. My own ass is at stake.
Fairly soon I’ll feel justice. You should feel the same.

Put Your Bitch On The Street! Leave the kids on their own.
Her income will replace yours while I break some wind.
If she’s not in the best shape, offer a discount.
Anyone with cold cash and is willing to mount
Is an asset you cannot afford to rescind.
All this talk of a crisis is way overblown.

Mow The Grass, Tyson!

TheMagicRealist.com

Oh, go Mow The Grass, Tyson! Please shut your machine.
No one else is as smart as you. We all get that.
Your profound observations and statement of facts
Are akin to how one with an attitude acts.
If Einstein were alive now you’d get tit for tat!
You may not be the smartest one this world has seen.

You don’t have to wear black so much. We see that too.
Perhaps done quite unconsciously, there’s no mistake
That there’s pride in your presence. The smug in your smirk
Is a testament to your most outstanding work.
But when you are on camera, please give us a break.
Few can understand most things the way that you do.

Mow our minds, Mr. Tyson. We all need a trim.
Some intellectual aristocracy can,
In the course of a short while, enlighten the heart.
The bright mind and warm spirit are not far apart
In the person of this brilliant jerk of a man.
After ten minutes of him, I’m filled to the brim.

Compassion And Virtue

TheMagicRealist.com

When I do not identify with anything,
Then in absolute virtue my living will be.
I am filled with compassion for all that exists…
Even those who, in blindness, are flailing their fists.
Only when not identifying can I see
What I may have to offer. What peace may I bring?

People are sympathetic to some noble cause.
But in being so biased, compassion declines
For all else not identified with what we love.
Therein lies some resentment. Can we get rid of
Unbecoming behavior? The heart undermines
The intent to think clearly from adequate pause.

When compassion encompasses every last one
On this planet or wherever consciousness plays
Throughout space-time and being, will we have done well?
Within every infinity chaos must dwell.
So, it does well behoove us to measure our days
As if all of creation had never begun.

Gratitude Is Not Attitude

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s an intricate fabric of which I’m a thread.
There is always a place where I’m part of the fold.
Neither feelings of loneliness nor perceived guilt
Can convene to antagonize what has been built
Over eons. My true heart cannot be controlled
By illusions of misfortune that lie ahead.

As life happens around me, the thing I see most
Is how much is involved in the moment at hand.
Every bite that I take… many did make it so
Through the chain of production, as most people know.
What goes into each moment, then, is rather grand.
I can take time to be and be fully engrossed.

Gratitude is not attitude. It’s a wellspring
That flows freely from feelings of utter content.
To call such thing an attitude doesn’t say much.
It implies I’m aggressively cold to the touch.
Gratitude is a break from my will to resent.
It’s a pleasure to be a part of everything.

Decisions

TheMagicRealist.com

Much of life is of choices made throughout the day.
I can meet every moment in torment or joy.
I can help this behavior through clarity keen.
No one else can act for me nor stand in-between
Me and what I’ve decided. My will I employ
To live life as I choose to. Is this not our way?

My emotions go up and down. Talk in my mind
Is quite often chaotic. It makes not much sense.
It says nothing of import. It changes its tune
Pitching one thing at breakfast… its counter by noon.
Clarity in the moment is one’s sole defense
Because therein, one’s choices cannot be maligned.

Difficult are decisions made under some stress.
I’ll become then compulsive with clarity gone.
As I make them in happiness, clearly I see.
If I fuss much about them, confused I will be.
Yet there is inner guidance I rely upon
If I can but remember when under duress.

A Peaceful Mind

TheMagicRealist.com

As we grow to be human, our lives get complex.
Other creatures with stomachs full just lie around.
But when humans are satisfied, really, we’re not.
We will seek out new problems and give them a shot.
What is sought after diligently is then found.
One’s illusions are built upon what one expects.

Life ends not with survival for we human kind.
It begins with it, and that is not a good thing.
We’re not meant to be busy. We’re meant to chill out.
Most our illnesses come from our stressing, no doubt.
If we did much less of it, would happy hearts sing?
Everything is at peace to one who is aligned.

Yet, A Peaceful Mind is not the highest of goals
As it is fundamental to all that we do.
If done so in enjoyment, all acts must be done
In the state of A Peaceful Mind. Can life be fun?
Surely turmoil is lessened with a clearer view
Of a much grander clockwork engaging our souls.

Bad Hair Day

TheMagicRealist.com

One might ask a Zen master if he has bad days.
After all, it’s a good question. Most of us do.
He would probably answer, “That wouldn’t be wise.
I’m alive and at peace below clear sunny skies.
If I labeled my days good or bad as do you
Any worm of a thought might engender malaise.”

Processes that define us, too many to name,
Are of yet a few categories to be known.
Existential are most, and we pay them no mind.
But the ones psychological are of a kind
That when focused on too long, the mind can be blown.
Most of us with no training can play an ill game.

The Creator’s creation must impact the soul…
Not the one that I made and placed inside of me.
Concentrate on the grandeur? Can such a thing work?
I’ve no choice but to try or go waxing berserk.
I’m some clinical label if I want to be.
But I don’t. Peace in tranquility is my goal.

God And The Scientists

TheMagicRealist.com

It so happened in the twenty fourth century
That a small group of scientists went to see God.
When they got there, they greeted him, “Hi there, old man.
We have something to say. Please do hear if you can.
You’ve done great with creation. For that we applaud.
But you can now retire because we are as thee.”

God replied, “Is that so? Tell me, what can you do
That I have done already in my divine way?”
“We can create a human! Just watch if you will.
We have evolved a billion-fold… so has our skill.”

They then zing-zapped some soil and without much delay
A new human the dirt became, with feelings too.

“That is somewhat impressive, if I may be kind,”
The prefect of divinity said in response.

“You have made a fine human from soil that I made.
Can you make one from scratch and without the charade?
It would seem you’ve not mastered the subtle nuance
Of existing. Until then, your wills are confined.”

Beyond Ego

TheMagicRealist.com

It is known that the ego does things the hard way.
It has not much concern for the way that it acts.
It is good at one-upmanship. That is its goal.
It can’t know what it’s doing. It has not a soul.
It may be quite adept, though, at verbal attacks.
And when it can put others down, that makes its day.

It’s a very sad way to live. I know for sure.
Satisfaction is bittersweet in effort strong.
It is like an addiction to struggle… For what?
…Some grand sliver of spotlight? But what of my gut?
It will get me believing that I can’t do wrong.
It’s a symptom, perhaps, that I am insecure.

I should maintain some distance between it and me.
After all, it is not me nor can life revolve
Around it. Clearly, it is a survival tool.
If I learn how to use it, I’ll not be the fool.
So the ego can be my own puzzle to solve.
Maybe life can be blissful most naturally.

Papa Bird Has Plenty Butt

TheMagicRealist.com

Papa Bird has enough ass to keep the chicks warm.
It ain’t like he’s a featherweight at nurturing
His young children while his mate is out getting food.
They will trade off their duties in brief interlude.
Papa Bird believes equal rights is the right thing.
He is not truly conscious of breaking a norm.

Papa Bird works his butt off. The lady does too.
…So much must be completed in so little time.
But to labor is pleasure. Fulfillment is keen
When in each given moment, pure splendor is seen
As the best movement forward in spirit sublime.
We can know that the Papa Bird knows what to do.

He’s no half-hearted father who clings to manhood
As if it were a big bird that could fly away.
That which takes to the air does come back to the nest.
As all bids of a feather, we do but our best
To provide for our families, while every day,
Acting out in the ways that we feel that we should.

Do I Need Confidence?

TheMagicRealist.com

When presented with some kind of chasm to cross
Where on one side is me and the other is life,
There is something that I need. It’s not confidence
Nor an imagination in lieu of suspense.
Simple fear of the unknown and possible strife
Can direct my believing in personal loss.

What I need is some clarity – not some belief
That if I should act foolishly, my intellect
Has the right to chastise me for my stupid act.
It will do so relentlessly and without tact.
Even though I’m not perfect, should I get respect?
Yes, I should, because time that we have here is brief.

Every year is a new one until it is passed.
My most favored illusions I clearly can see.
Every cycle completes itself with a new start.
All the knowledge I’ve gained is to reset the heart.
The mind wants to remember how good life can be.
It is good to let go of the year become last.

I would love to see clearly what life has in store
For the one who perceives it and says that, “I am.”
That I clearly can do so by matter of choice,
I can feel light and bubbly. Should I then rejoice?
Any confidence I have is not worth a damn.
All I am is delighted that I can be more.

A Man And The Electric Chair

TheMagicRealist.com

I have good news and bad news. Which first do you want?
Said the lawyer to his client waiting to die.
He was wrongly convicted. He did not commit
The act he was accused of, so soon he will sit
In series with set circuitry at voltage high.
He cannot see his lawyer as a confidant.

The law is not about what is true and not true.
It’s about who comes up with a viable proof
To confound enough clarity to warrant doubt.
Clever games of deception are what it’s about.
That is why most attorneys are rather aloof.
Of the ones who are worthy, there may be a few.

“What’s the bad news?” The man asked of his attorney.
“Electrons will rip through you until you are cooked.”
“What the hell is the good news, then?” Asked the doomed one.
“I convinced them to lower the voltage for fun.”
Can there be anything that is more overlooked

Than the chairs we’re assigned to that we cannot see?

Don’t Cut A Deal With God

TheMagicRealist.com

The last spirit who tried to do business with God
Of a deceptive nature did find himself caught
In a web of entitlement to the top role.
It’s believed that through hatred he aims for his goal
Of complete dissolution of all loving thought.
His personification can’t seem all too odd.

We are of God yet other. How does this work out
If we’re all spirit family with him as dad?
We know parent and child are two separate things
But in spirit we all wear the same angel wings.
Only his are much brighter. He’s supremely clad.
So if I tried to scam him, I’d lose without doubt.

There’s a thing called devotion. It is not a deal
That I make with divinity for things I want.
He knows better what I need and when it should come.
I believe since he made me, I have freedom from
Pondering if my purpose is something to flaunt.
I trust that I’m receiving all that which is real.

Paranormalcy And The Pranks Of Spirit

TheMagicRealist.com

Something funny I heard from a psychic today.
The old Bush who just passed away is doing fine.
He has caught up with Barbara. She’s playing pranks
Sending her dogs to mess with Trump. I give her thanks.
We all know he dislikes them. Perhaps it’s a sign
That his own canine nature does give him away.

Those who’ve gone are still with us. We just can’t perceive
Them in their world except when they make themselves known.
They’ll mess with electronics. They’ll enter our dreams
In such ways that our knowing is not as it seems.
Sometimes children can hear grandma on the iPhone.
Those departed are heartfelt as they watch us grieve.

And they do love to fuck with folk. I know I would.
There are things that I dream of that I can’t act out.
That’s because I am human and could go to jail.
But when I am in spirit, payback will prevail.
I’ll get some satisfaction yet remain devout
To my spiritual purpose which is to feel good.

God’s Writing Tool

TheMagicRealist.com

Yeah, I wrote that! I know that it must be Divine
So then maybe God wrote it expressly through me.
Are we one and the same? I’m not one to blaspheme
But it does seem when I’m writing, I’m in a dream
About swimming unfettered and most gracefully
In a sea of verboseness that I can call mine.

It could be I’m a channeler of the Great Force
Who directs all behavior throughout space and time.
I may be somewhat psychic in that sort of way.
Well at home in God’s toolbox, I’ve good words to say.
So, my job is to translate and make the words rhyme.
God makes use of my job skill. I’m thankful, of course.

Between waking and sleeping, as my day unfolds
I’m compelled by the spirit to take down some notes.
I’m supplied with the substance. I mess with its look.
I could get all excited and go write a book.
That may lead to disgust from ass kissing for votes.
Sometimes acts unbecoming is what life beholds.