Tag Archive | political commentary

Our Daily Bread

TheMagicRealist.com

Is the love of Our Father the love of mankind?
The man part of mankind may believe that it’s so.
But the woman part may have done well in its role
Had the tables been turned and they had much control
Of complex social structures. How much could I know
If I thought with my heart and I felt with my mind?

Yet I shouldn’t feel guilt should I cast not an eye
Upon what may distract me from what is my whole.
There is wholeness in everyone – even in he
Who believes he is hopeless most obviously.
Not a thing I can do can recover his soul.
As the next one ignores him, how soon will he die?

I’ve been down on my luck. I get out every day
And see all kinds of people – some needy… some not.
Then, I think of Our Mother. Who else could that be
But the woman who gave birth and took care of me?
We are cellular siblings. When put on the spot
We know daily delivery is the right way.

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.

Depreciated Accumulation

TheMagicRealist.com

Is the cost of true living more than life itself?
It’s a question that’s asked often this time of year.
Sam needs fistfuls of dollars to keep him afloat,
So he says, but the dollar is just a bank note.
It depreciates for those encumbered in fear.
There’s no wonder the leprechaun is a green elf.

To accumulate cash, then protect the big stash
From the hands of the state, is the story of life.
A balloon that’s inflated can hold lots of air.
But as soon as it bursts, there’s much cause for despair.
I make, cumulatively, my notions of strife
Such a reason to make life a paperwork trash.

I made out like a bandit this time. So did he.
Is the system so flawed that it can’t be that way?
…Just a few dollars shy of my having to claim
Any social security – My, what a game!
It is one, as I’m human, I’m willing to play.
I depreciate less when I’m willing to be.

Where Went The Sun?

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s no sun anymore. Mommy, where did it go?
It seems all of a sudden dark clouds have appeared.
And where has all the color gone. Have we stood still
For so long that amusement can no longer thrill?
What can seem so outrageous is no longer weird.
If there’s not a safe ride, what is there I should know?

If you tell me the answer is nothing at worst
I’d delight in my knowing my mother is wise
Not to make divine providence something it’s not.
Neither state nor its deepness can hide from a lot.
But is such a bleak picture too harsh for my eyes?
If it’s not always daytime, are sometimes then cursed?

I think I know the answer, dear mother, since there
Is a guidance inside me and you. It’s the same
As the instinct that keeps creatures light on their feet.
That there’s darkness afoot is somewhat of a treat
…Often sillier than the old usual game.
We’re all in it for fun, and we need not beware.

Queens And The Cosmos

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Deep Meditative State

TheMagicRealist.com

When I meditate I enter such a Deep State
That I lose all awareness of things that go on
In this world. What… a world? There is none that I know
Except that one where consciousness matches the flow
Of the lightforce that is me by light’s early dawn.
What e’er goes on about me, I feeling just great.

Is the Deep State apparent the same as the one
That is not, as the namesake suggests it may be?
I don’t give a rat’s ass but I do take relief
In my knowing my Deep State is one of belief
In a manner that others are free not to see.
When consumed in life’s drama, no growth has begun.

Some who say I’m too ‘deep’ for the mainstream to take
Might take notice how deeply we all are a part
Of a multiverse massive. It functions without
A deep statehood of men thinking they have some clout
In directing world order devoid of heart.
The most potent Deep State is the one that I make.

Mueller Time

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

A License To Sell Hotdogs?

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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

POTUS With A ‘Shithole’ Mouth

TheMagicRealist.com

When you think of a POTUS take notice how well
Your ideal of one matches what we have right now.
I was told I could be president if I would
But believe in myself the way go-getters should.
I get dinged for foul language. How do we allow
The Commander in Chief to proclaim he’s from hell?

I was told, “We would like for you not to return,”
When I uttered a venial, everyday word.
They said, “You’re not professional. Go take a hike!”
Sometimes leaders and losers behave quite alike.
And although this man’s word is unfit for a bird
All the assholes around him downplay our concern.

Children who can’t play POTUS should exit the game
While they have some self-worth left to yet carry on
In some other profession, perhaps pumping crap
Through the mouth into minds ripe for utter mishap.
I can be the professional though quite the pawn
In this cesspool of freedom where all shit the same.

The Wellbeing Conspiracy

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

But It’s True!

TheMagicRealist.com

I just saw it on TV, so I know it’s true.
I keep up with events that occur in the world
And my country and state and what’s in my back yard.
I consume information. For me that’s not hard.
My mind can be gripped because it’s fully knurled
By my own set of preferences and point of view.

I cannot not believe them. They said that it’s so.
So it’s Gospel. Don’t tell me to ignore the facts.
I must think from the box. There is no other source.
And to think from one’s own head is nonsense, of course.
I’m a creature of habit programmed to relax
And let all things around me put on their grand show.

Just because it is true, does such truth affect me?
Things are true as we make them so through our belief.
Yes, some things are quite blatant, explicit and real.
We evaluate by how we think, see and feel.
We create what is real to us. It’s the motif
In a world ever-changing toward what is to be.

Young Jungian Pyongyangan

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

The Second Day

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Is It Really Political?

TheMagicRealist.com

As the world’s ones and zeroes become reds and blues
On a cyclical basis, does software exist
That will keep all the masses in subtle control?
Does the program of politics soothe every soul?
I am one of two digits far down on the list
In a video game where the goal is to lose.

Red and Blue are true colors just like Black and White.
One can pair with another with viable ease.
Oil and water are substances easy to blend
When compared to our natures. We’re doomed to defend
The small truths we believe in. We’re stuck in the trees
Of a forest foreboding and dark as the night.

Most political structures seem digital too.
They are often bipolar, magnetically so.
When the flux reaches maximum, empires divide.
When all pretense is shattered, there’s nowhere to hide.
It would be to our good were our goodwill to show.
Yet, that doesn’t seem likely. I wish it weren’t true.

Animostic Anathameme

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Unnatural Gas

TheMagicRealist.com

People’s speech are a collective carbon footprint.
We can output more noxious dioxide than cows
Not to mention the methane from those who eat greens.
We can up and start speaking by myriad means.
Speaking may be the only means one can arouse
The life force in another, if only a glint.

What I put in my engine determines how well
This old vehicle runs on its roadway toward now.
If I fueled it with gibberish I’d move around
As if I’d had my crankshaft dismantled and drowned
In the piss of the populace. I’d know not how
To get back on the track of life where I excel.

I can get higher octane from any good source
Just as long as it speaks with no strong toxic fume.
But the best place to channel my wisest insight
Is within where the still voice will show me no fight.
All for whom the gas passes are pumped into gloom.
There is no one but me navigating my course.

The Eyes Have It

TheMagicRealist.com

Someone’s called for a vote and I’m well uninformed
On the issues or people who run up for grabs.
Do I know what I’m doing when I go to vote?
I’ve been casting my spiritual ballots by rote.
There’s a lot to consider besides keeping tabs.
Simplest thoughts are as bees. In my mind they are swarmed.

Someone said the eyes have it. I heard not a nay.
I do not listen carefully some of the time.
Does my citizenship have to do with my heart?
There are red and blue blood vessels. They don’t depart
From their vital consensus. Their pairing is prime
That the body may function its natural way.

If there are nays abundant who seldom get heard
Would it be up to me to see that things get right?
I would be such a fool. I would drive myself mad.
I am prone to fall into tar pits, just a tad.
There’s no message about me. It’s been a long night.
I can now devote precious time to what’s preferred.

A Nation of Cause, Not of Men

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Learning To Read From Those Greedy To Earn

TheMagicRealist.com

Hope you’re chillin’, Macmillan and sick McGraw Hill.
What the Fuck are your names worth? Ten dollars per page?
What the Hell are you teaching our kids by your ways?
Your kids all learn in private while smothered in praise
That’s as fake as the actor upon a live stage.
I am baffled, again, by the farce of free will.

It is part of my undoing that I am cast
In the drama where bullshit become the stage props.
Why I can’t have a textbook when I volunteer
To help kids with their reading, to me, is unclear.
I could spend time with children until my heart stops
But this issue of profit is one that will last.

Grubby Publisher, What Gives You The Arrogant Ass
To charge hundreds for children’s books for public schools?
Oh! I get it! Your greed gives you every damned right.
You may kiss mine profusely throughout this white night.
Who the Hell stole your insight? We all are not fools.
A new fresh wave is coming. This old one will pass.

Give Us The Grab Ass

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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

Of Our Souls’ Unlike Poles

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Across the Pond, They Call It An Advert.

TheMagicRealist.com

How this past year has been can be put into words:
Yellow buttery bleak and red necks gone ablaze.
Some who thought we’d get better still think that we are.
Yet, we’ve got something bitter. That’s swamp change by far!
Through commanding by Twitter, we’ve entered a phase
Where the media lead us like innocent herds.

“I just cannot believe it’s not better by now,”
Say the ones who had trumpeted triumph in hope
That the swamp would come clean again, like long ago,
And that coal mines will flourish. Great pride we will show
To the world’s many nations whose leaders don’t grope.
Things are still pretty cheesy, but not from a cow.

Things are better for me, but no credit goes to
Anyone who holds office and squirts on its walls.
I am better because my true self lets me know.
As I keep on improving my mood, I’ll outgrow
My propensity to grab the bull by the balls.
I can churn my own butter well, as many do.

A Parallel Gaming

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a parallel gaming. There’s shit going on
That we can’t know enough about. There’s just too much.
Airplanes going through buildings cannot make them fall.
As you watch it again, demolition is all
That is clear in the mind. We are eager to clutch
Onto whatever game plan is meant for the pawn.

Yes, there is some world order that is being planned
But it’s been going on since the Church game board came.
There are steep hierarchical ladders and chutes
Woven into life’s fabric and up through our roots.
Games we think we are playing are not quite the same
As that of the few ones with the world underhand.  

We could just mind our own business. Maybe that way
We’d disrupt the game process by not feeding hype.
The news media, big pharma, ‘organized’ crime
And so many more game boards will wither with time.
These are times that are turbulent and fully ripe
For an ultimate game playing toward our doomsday.

Concealed Carry

TheMagicRealist.com

Should I carry my tool in a spare vestibule
Under armpit or next to my lower left nut?
I could hide one inside my collapsible shoe
Then when I click my heels I could put a hole through
Any short mother fucker who thinks he knows what
Makes him bad enough to take on such a damned fool.

I’ve a right to conceal it – my fearfulness streak.
It’s a feeling I’m used to. It makes common sense.
Everyone has one’s own set of circumstances
Wherein fear reinforces and heightens the chances
Some gun will go off in the name of defense.
I must conceal my fearfulness or I’ll feel weak.

So, do carry my way. Guns are here to stay.
And it’s not like we’re civil. We’re wicked and wild.
We’re a cumbersome species who can’t get along.
We need plenty of weaponry to make us strong.
Guns and gun control can be left up to the child
Who would see them as folly and wish them away.

Full Function Generator

TheMagicRealist.com

To maintain a wave function, there’s unction involved,
Of the kind that is foul like the breath of the bowel.
When gratuitous bodily functions persist,
Then events that are current should drift off my list
Of life scenes I engage with. A healthy avowal
Is one I’ll not take lightly if life seems unsolved.

Live does seem rather gross. There is spit in the air.
Folks are hocking their guts out for others to see.
But it’s just my perception. I see it that way
Only if it is helpful in making my day
The way I and those like me would like it to be.
Were there not others like me, life wouldn’t be fair.

Life’s a function phenomenal – much like a dream
Where the mind excretes heavily upon the soul.
To endure a wave function would take strength of will.
To collapse one effectively, one must have skill.
In the grim art of winning at every sought goal,
There’s a point where one thinks that one’s will is supreme.

All the Months When There’s Hem

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Is there cause to cause mayhem though it may be June?
I should consult the Wiki folk. Maybe they know.
If I did a quick Google search perhaps I’d find
All the months when there’s hem so that I’ll stay behind
When those ripe for mayheming are willing to throw
All their sense toward the seizure by light of the moon.

 It makes sense that mayheming be done during May
Just as long as the heming is kept up to par.
If they outlawed June heming by April next year
Then would late April heming produce lesser fear?
Heming is much like J-walking. Some people are
Good at crafting slick short cuts to get through their day.

I’m for heming in May – not in June or July
Because warm months are those good for frolic and play.
I may mayhem in September as it cools down
Then partake of Oktoberfest while I’m in town.
Seems there’s no other month for mayheming but May
Though it’s outlawed in all months where Now does apply.

First Quarter Red Moon

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Bright First Quarter Red Moon means it’s three months past June
But the night isn’t scary one fourth of the way.
It is one Fourth because that is all we can see.
It’s the First by Cartesian count, some would agree.
It is Red as earth’s mad shadow upon it lay.
It’s the night of the goon versus that of the coon.

As the Red Ass gets fuller, let’s say to one half
Is there anything possible that can be done
To not notice what all goes on up in that sky
And to not give a rat’s ass for not caring why?
I can keep the mind sharp… the heart focused on fun.
That quart butt in the sky is by now just a laugh.

I am not an astronomer. I just look up,
Something natural to most when there’s sky to behold.
I must know what I’m seeing by way of moon light
Could be just an illusion. That seems about right.
It is fascinating watching this moon grow old.
My advice for it is, “Suck it up, buttercup!”

Nothing Can Happen That I Can’t Believe

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

Not a thing that can happen can happen unless
I believe it can happen in any small way.
Of the things that can’t happen, there’s no way to know
Because, by disbelieving, it can’t steal my show.
Nether things not imagined deflect from my day.
I believe in my God Given right to express.

The words ‘screed’ and ‘misprision’ I heard of today.
They don’t sound quite like curse words, but I could be wrong.
These are words of a high order, not often used.
In the context of government, often bemused,
There’s a deep need and hunger for getting along…
To get what’s not believable out of the way.

I believe what can happen and can’t are the same.
There’s no way that the cosmos will up and take sides.
And the cosmos is not playing games with us all.
It responds to all living things, big ones and small.
My believing in something by default divides
Me from others who don’t in this consciousness game.

The Machine That Minds Us

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

We’re a great big machine of industrial strength.
It’s a kind of democracy made of two poles
Not the north and the south poles as war would suggest
But the right and the left poles in heated contest.
The machine burns a fuel that is made from our souls.
We machine operators are kept at arm’s length.

The gigantic machine fuses cause and effect
In a manner that defies the logic of man.
It’s been given a kick start to move on its own.
It is now automatic. Momentum has grown
To the point where it takes big smarts to understand
How it functions now after some time of neglect.

By the way of the righteous and raw energy
We are fed to ourselves in a synchronous way.
The hot steam we let off and the consequent soot
Make some wonder if something unfair is afoot.
As it tends torque to turbine we might as well stay
On some path toward some light in the hope some will see.

Moral Compass

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What’s the Deal? Who’s the wise guy? Quit playing around!
Where the hell is that compass? I mean it this time.
Until now, it’s been kept in a high moral place.
I now realize, dear colleagues, that that’s not the case.
Giving full voice to racism, though not a crime,
Is the reason to make sure that compass is found.

We are all the king’s horses, and some, the king’s men
And our king is himself as a red horse’s ass.
When he kicks in his stable and scatters his hay
Many barn creatures high tail it rather than stay.
We’re The People. We make up the strong moral class
Who speak out when the king is deficient… again.

There’s no need for alarm. There is leadership still.
We shall guide one another by truth’s healing light.
We can pray for our kingdom, that we remain free.
We shall pray for our falling king that he may see
That there’s no place to go at the end of a fight.
He shall resign from office by popular will.

There’s A Spider In My Bathtub

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It’s a fact – I can’t tolerate spiders at all.
There’s no way on God’s green earth that I’ll get along
With a creature so ugly with long skinny legs.
It would be no less so if they were but just pegs.
I must kill the poor bastard, and that can’t be wrong.
It’s a lower life form, so that makes it my call.

And this house that I’m in is for me – not for them.
It is mine. By the will of my race it is done.
There’s no sub-human species that will replace me.
If I have to kill all of you black things, you’ll see
That my kind rules this world, and we have just begun
Our world war with all nature by way of mayhem.

I can’t stand to see spiders in my fine white space.
The mere thought of a spider sends chills up my spine.
My unconscious volition says, “Kill them on sight.”
I could rally and gather my kind by torch light.
If I die as I’m killing you, I’ll get the shrine.
I’m superior to you because of my race.

Dream More, Act Less

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There’s a time to make use of the muscle and bone.
It is when I’ve achieved true alignment with me.
I can best reach that place by daydreaming my way
To creative enlightenment day after day.
As my dreams take on character, I can foresee
Any life I’m creating through focus alone.

When I set aside time to find images of
Only things that are pleasing, I’ll more often be
In alignment and in tune vibrationally
With all things I desire. My spirit is free
To receive all that’s worthy and complements me.
I am free to partake in the spirit of love.

In my space in alignment with what is my source
More inspired ideas are common affair.
I can get help from others with minimal fuss.
I can give up my job as an ornery cuss.
My inspired action leaves me quite aware
I’m extremely productive – a dreaming workhorse.

All Is Well

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Will You Be Ready When the Moment Gets Romantic?

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

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

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

YOUR PAYMENT !!

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

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

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

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

Can I Trust You.. ??

cute puppy, TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

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

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

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

 

Aftermath

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Aftermath there is physics; for some, it’s fine arts.
All our children are taught they’ve some measure of choice
In whatever they chose to learn or hope to be.
We could leave them alone. That’s the best way to see
Children’s true heart’s desires expressed in their voice.
If we let them be free, that is where genius starts.

Aftermath is a concept just like math alone.
It’s abstract and concrete all at once anytime
It is used or is studied by scholars worldwide
Who make use of its usefulness with certain pride.
Surely math as a concept to some is sublime
Because well it does model most things that are known.

Aftermath there’s the matter of reaching high goals.
When there’s stiff competition, the pressure gets tough.
Aftermath third world countries’ kids put ours to shame.
Should some think tank take notice? Should someone cast blame?
It’s a myth that our kids are not doing enough.
They will fashion their own world and also their roles.

Brainless Brain Surgery

TheMagicRealist.com

Someday soon the skilled Robot will handle the knife
In a world where most humans will devote their time
To the comfort of Being and living the arts.
We’ll have mastered the tech world with all of our smarts.
We shall live in a world that is truly sublime
Where we all can partake of this treasure called Life.

But that’s all in the future. It isn’t right now.
We are thick convolutions of cortical mass
In a network of raw nerves and some that are rare.
It would take a skilled surgeon to know what is there.
Can a brainless brain surgeon become a jackass
After signing his mind off to then take a bow?

I can tell my grand little ones, “You too can be
A successful brain surgeon, yet not have a brain.
You may even be able to write a good book.
But your soul becomes cabbage when stole by a crook.
If you don’t have a brain, though, you can’t go insane.”

It is shoe-shining shameful. And that’s it from me.

The Art of the Dump

TheMagicRealist.com

The Dump has much lesser to do with the rump
Than the Art of the business of letting words flow.
With the mind of a child, they flow through me with ease.
I feel comfortable sitting and plunking the keys.
Is the gist of my writing for others to know
Of my heart in small pieces or in one big clump?

Well, the answer to that is I write every day.
It’s my goal to be regular, clear and carefree.
I have cranked up my pace from a slow running start
To the point now that I’ve come to master my art.
I would like that my words are for others to see.
But that doesn’t deter me. I’ll see it my way.

The Art of the Dump is a daily routine
Then I shower and shave, and move steadily on
To whatever the new day will offer to me
To consume and digest more so others can see
What words I have fashioned to offer next dawn.
I enjoy what I’m doing. Is this clearly seen?

The Financial Report

TheMagicRealist.com

The Financial Report is brought to you today
By our sponsors who turn out to be quite a few.
There’s the red, white and blue, conflagrated in green.
There are nods, winks and subtle cues that are unseen.
There are talking heads tethered to outlook askew.
What to make of a leader who must have his way?

Can a nation be run like some southern plantations
With workers for indoors and some for the fields?
Those who like being niggers say “yes, Suh” to him.
They will dance to his antics, although he’s quite dim.
When he’s due for a shoe shine, their loyalty yields
A safe job and smooth sailing, and good slave relations.

I will NOT be your nigger, says one under oath.
I’ll ignore your sweet nothings and perverse embrace.
I do not enjoy being left in a room
With a beast who would just as soon hand me a broom.
When I’m near a slave owner, I’m in the wrong place.
Racist paradigms stifle our ‘financial’ growth.

Payola

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Conceptual Hypothetics

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

What Gives Us the Ass?

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Rock Paper Scissors

TheMagicRealist.com

Black Lives – That’s a matter pertaining to me
Just the same as it did half a century ago
When the fear was the white-hooded witches let loose
Wreaking havoc and living by way of the noose
And the lynching and bombings and crimes we don’t know
So, perhaps my believing is now what I see.

There were stereos then, also stereotypes.
Both were loud and obnoxious and prone to the brawl.
There were also those games that are played even now
Where the zero-sum outcomes are preplanned somehow
And uneasiness comes with the sound of a drawl.
Ornate stained glass ceilings have turned to crack pipes.

There is usually a winner and rarely a tie.
We know one beats another in circular chase.
Stiff black Russian roulette can be served over ice.
Black blood does bleed red. This one fact should suffice.
The gears keep on meshing. It’s all about race.
I don’t bark at the bugbear; I know I might die!

Ego: Mirror of the Horse

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t mind my beast. I’m a bastard today.
I’ve a bit of the bitters; that’s just how things are.
Some government worker said I cannot vote?
When the system is screwed I become the scapegoat.
I become wild and crazy with outburst bizarre
And it seems I’m the ogre; their system’s OK.

Says the system that I voted elsewhere today.
It’s a cock sucking lie! I don’t care what it shows!
I’m a flesh and blood human. I don’t understand
How they bow to machine and give me the back hand.
Maybe government workers are robots… who knows?
Yet, if I am to vote, I must do it their way.

I’m ashamed of the way that I acted today.
I had no idea there’d be an exam.
I feel much like a horse someone’s trying to break.
If I bask in my wildness, is that a mistake?
I’m prepared for the next test. I won’t have to cram.
This damned horse is exhausted with no more to say.

Art of the Autist

TheMagicRealist.com

The Autists are coming. Indeed, they are here.
They’ve been teaching among us for decades by now.
I am proud they are with us. They’ve nothing to hide.
I’d intended to be one myself, but I died
From my wounds incurred wrongly by default somehow.
I am social, somewhat, and that’s my greatest fear.

Where the stronger the Autist from birth through ‘til grown
The more God’s protection is given because
Those who can’t be adjusted or harmed into place
Show that love, unconditional, all should embrace.
It is clear our conditioning should take a pause.
It is wiser, perhaps, to just leave them alone.

It is funny; society says something’s wrong
As they look for a cause as if it’s some disease:
Too much crap in the water, folks, let’s tone it down.
Too severely they’re happy. We must make them frown.”

We’ve the right to let others do well as they please.
It’s a massive inclusiverse where all belong.

Mirrors of Perversion

TheMagicRealist.com

‘If we don’t study past events, we’ll repeat them.’
Now, that kind of Jed Clampett logic begets
Every manner of discord and personal strife.
We can learn from mistakes but not make that our life.
We regurgitate sorrow and brand our regrets
Then we brainwash the young ones – it’s they we condemn.

What to think of a woman’s miraculous meat
Since there’s substance attached and a spirit within?
Some men think it’s a menace; it ties the world down.
Any man who supports it must be nature’s clown.
Any woman who speaks out commits a grave sin.
Although physically real, we are thoughtforms in heat.

Before calling one crazy, it’s good to ensure
That one’s own funhouse mirror is spotless and clean.
We are creatures who speak about God, then we kill
In the name of His Love, then we call that free will?
Our perversions are manifold and clearly seen
Through the eyes of our shadows whose sight is yet pure.

Boomers Bused

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Coon Cranny

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

At the Behest of Ben Benigniac

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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