Tag Archive | political commentary

Some Bimbo Blondes Are Male

TheMagicRealist.comIf ‘To Would’ or ‘To Wouldn’t’ should be understood
Then, that proves I’m a poet. Does that make damned sense?
Who has license to fuck with the words one’s misspoke?
Would the worst standup comic use that as a joke?
Genius POTUS, contractions are meant to condense
Words that are there initially. You think you’re good?

Citizens should know English. Would that be your plan?
After all, it’s America! You make it Great.
Your stupidity insults your ignorant base.
You could defecate for them and spit in their face
And still they would exalt you no matter the fate
Of a diseased America ruled by one man.

 Do you use the word ‘Bimbo?’ I’m sure that you do.
I suspect you know also quite well what it means.
Asshole men use the word to describe women who,
In their heartfelt opinion, just don’t have a clue.
But they won’t let short ugly guys jump in their jeans!
I know of the word Bimbo. I think you do too.

Fractured NeFari-Flail

TheMagicRealist.com

One should take Wossamotta U as a real place.
What unfolds in the present no writer could dream.
It’s so blatantly obvious. It’s hard to see
Why the few fans remaining cannot all agree
We’ve become comic characters to the extreme
As the real cartoon villains laugh through our disgrace.

The nefarious flail that is fractured began
Long before concepts ‘moose’ and ‘squirrel’ took on some mass.
It’s a binary battle no nation can win.
As the snake with its rattle, we slither in sin.
Should a John Wayne-like POTUS go kick Putin’s ass
Or speak softly with big antlers and with no plan?

Now, the melting pot, squirrely, pissed in by some bear,
Runs amuck as its leaders conceal the moose mess.
The swamp will get to stinking much worse by the day.
Until something big happens, bad actors will play.
As Fox views remains stalwart as our state owned press,
Folks appear to be mind blown as they sit and stare.

The Grill

TheMagicRealist.com

Do you know how to swim? That’s my question to you.
Well, I am a lifeguard. That is not what I asked!
You’re evading the question. I know what you are.
You’re a devious trickster with answers bizarre.
I am not some world player who must be unmasked.
I am speaking the truth. That is all I can do.

So then answer the question. I’ll ask you once more.
Do you know that sea monsters lurk in oceans deep?
Well, I don’t scuba dive, sir. So, I would not care.
Your disgraceful elusiveness is tough to bear.
Does your mama wear army boots? I’ll bet they’re cheap.
Congressman, that’s a cheap shot, one that I deplore.

Mister Chairman, this man should be held in contempt.
He just will not cooperate, and he looks fine.
He’s not breaking a sweat. There is calm in his eyes.
He should cower before us and fear his demise.
He can speak with conviction and does have a spine.
We can fool with most folks. He should not be exempt.

Southern Bell

TheMagicRealist.com

To speak ever so daintily with a loud ring
Is a talent befitting a woman of grace
From a culture evolved from the most urgent need
To discover new land and to justify greed.
That was then. This is now, though. What is commonplace
Is that strong southern women are not a new thing.

In the air, there’s a ringing sound, clear as a bell
And so loud it debilitates from inside out.
It is masculine chatter – the noise of defeat.
Does the feminine matter, or rather conceit?
Can a strong counter resonance carry some clout?
Is it possible for all to get along well?

Southern women were vibrant, intelligent souls
Who indeed were the plantations’ lubricant oil.
Nowadays, all American women possess
What is needed to clean up this masculine mess.
What ill nature of growth comes from blood mixed with soil?
Can more women in leadership reshape our goals?

Life of the Leftie

TheMagicRealist.com

The fine art of name calling evolves at the pace
Of our quick finger licking and flipping the bird.
Someone’s called me a ‘leftie?’ What’s that, by the way?
Why not let me in on it? Why not make my day?
If I tune to the news, I will learn a new word
That I don’t have to wear as if it were my race.

How I came to know that I am black is by way
Of the playground theater from players petite.
If my mother knew so, why did she not tell me?
She deemed it not important, and I must agree.
Yet, I’ll still learn a word from some people I’ll meet.
People get off on naming things. It makes our day.

So, do I tit for tat it? That would make good sense.
I must call my damned brother as he has called me.
That response doesn’t get it. It can only lead
To increased isolation in thought and in deed.
There will always be names for who I tend to be.
If we let go of naming folks, would peace commence?

You Ain’t No Popsicle

TheMagicRealist.com

Would you try to tempt Jesus again were he here?
Anything you would bribe with, you never did own.
Is the hair up the buttock beginning to heat?
You may melt like a popsicle in your defeat.
Why so frigid a tone with our friends you have shown?
Is there something that Putin knows that brings on fear?

So, you ain’t no popsicle compared to oDude
To the north of us. Is that the hair up your ass?
Women would lick his face if he gave them the chance.
And, if he were not married, they would drop their pants.
Unlike you, he’s a gentleman of noble class.
What a Hell of a reason to treat the dude rude.

I am old just as you are, Don Juan past the wane.
It ain’t all about pimping and where best to grab.
Cool orange schmuck on a shtick is what you have become.
It’s ironic. You promised to flush out the ‘scum.’
You’re a loud flashy face with a gift for the gab.
Do the world a full flavor. Go drip down some drain.

Now, does this really feel good? It’s something to do.
It accomplishes not much, but what can I say?
I can’t do anything right off hand except write.
And, as I, the damned topic gets older than right.
I’ll refrain from preparing content for display
That is smelling like anything other than new.

Delayed Grief

TheMagicRealist.com

It has been eighteen months now since my country died.
I have not yet gone through all the stages of grief.
Suddenly a huge wave of emotion has come.
Would this be an excuse to get wasted on rum?
Something dear to my heart has been stole by a thief.
Have I kept most my sorrow pent up deep inside?

A cathartic experience is what it’s like
To come to the reality that life has gone
From the land I once knew… But the feeling is fine.
What I know is there is no apparent life sign.
I know also that midnight will turn into dawn.
Resurrection and healing appear down the pike.

Hatred is a reality factored into
The fabric of existence in physical form.
Contrast is part of living. There is no escape.
If I move well within it, then I’m in good shape.
Does departure from sanity mark a new norm?
I would pray for the death of me if that were true.

If my feeling is hopeful, then I should know why.
It’s because I believe that this country is strong.
For a nation well built, there’s no such thing as death.
There is polysyllabic expense of hot breath.
And without that, it could be that we’d get along.
Since the country’s not dead yet, I won’t say good bye.

How Deep Is Your State?

TheMagicRealist.com

I can see how supreme scales of justice are made
To move easily when congress crafts the right tools.
How deep Is your state In? deed, how Deep is your State?
Because I really need to learn what is the fate
Of democracy. Have we been taken for fools?
We The People should pick judges. Are We Betrayed?

No Collusion” is not a strange slogan for those
Who, chin deep in their feces, are trapped in their lies.
No big mass infestation of brown people can
Be allowed to outnumber the waning white man.
If they came in through Canada donned in disguise
Of white makeup, would harm upon them they impose?

Just how deep is your state? Does it get close to home?
How far up your vagina does it have to reach?
Those who know they don’t have one know people who do.
Babies already born and caged don’t have a clue.
Yet white men in black robes have the Power To Preach
Through their restrictive rulings, by far, monochrome.

This is such a hot summer – so filled with suspense.
But it’s not time for popcorn. Folks’ lives are at stake.
There will be bursting bombs past the fourth of July.
Many steeped in collusion will say their goodbye.
After years of unsafe sex, don’t we need a break?
This historical nightmare will soon be past tense.

I know how deep your state is because it is mine.
We have all been infected as if by a bug.
In some way, we’ll get through this. We have not the choice
To believe that we’re helpless and don’t have a voice.
We’ve a world class buffoon in cahoots with a thug.
We will navigate rough times, but things will be fine.

Mitosis

TheMagicRealist.com

Every cell undergoes a disturbance within
Its thin border that isolates it from the rest
Of the cells in the union. It has to divide.
Tension has reached a maxim and will not subside.
Restless tribal disgruntlement fuels the oppressed.
Civil warfare invites us, so where to begin?

We don’t need to be conscious of what’s taking place
At least not on a level where one can stand back
And see things in perspective – all bias aside.
That’s an awful big leap, and it’s best if it’s tried.
When I open my mouth I am on the attack.
Are we not human chromosomes ordered by race?

I can feel the divisiveness. It’s a stiff drink
Of a basic intoxicant for my self-worth.
Am I ripe for the showdown when it comes to pass?
I am ready for anything short of impasse.
Cell division and I are acquainted since birth.
It would be quite a bore to remain on the brink.

Moving Past the Experience

TheMagicRealist.com

It is easy for us but not so for the harmed,
Who are too young to understand what’s going on,
To move on past rejection and psychic abuse.
Why not round them up, brand them and then let them loose?
There is no point in asking where conscience has gone,
As it baffles our leader why folks are alarmed.

It’s an Alice in Wonderland tale but surreal.
Either side of the rabbit hole is a strange place
To the other. A brown Alice forced through it will
Be processed or perhaps not. She knows not the drill.
Time may dampen some pain, but it will not erase
What impressions the children have. Are they ideal?

Rabbit holes have no bottom – those this nation makes.
They are seen as deterrent in nature and form.
Tiny eyes won’t remember alternative facts.
They will recall a nation conceived of bad acts
Perpetrated upon them amid a hate storm.
In some time, we’ll know the full brunt of our mistakes.

A Brief Analysis of Some Old Woman’s Fart

TheMagicRealist.com

How does consciousness come forth from putrid bowel gas?
Or perhaps it’s not consciousness – just the effect
Of untold generations of bigoted hate
Justified by religion and blessed by the state?
If convincingly human, it should get respect.
But the cloud it excretes is as foul from its ass.

Many things that are solid indeed have a face.
And some liquids reflect faces, having no choice.
But a repugnant smell has become a faced fart
To make good air not breathable and to depart
From what most know as justice. It thinks we’ve no voice
And its policies stink. It’s an utter disgrace.

This smell wants to fit well in its old woman’s purse
Along with other stale odors of the sick past.
Take her arm, little manhood. Your mama says so.
Were you ripped from your mother some eons ago,
You might now have some backbone. This bullshit can’t last.
Your contrived little crisis can only get worse.

One can’t stomp on a fart as one would a cockroach.
It does have some advantages through its disguise
Of something somewhat human, enough to convince
Most the members of congress as most of them wince.
Someday soon we’ll have fresh air. We will organize.
Your abuse of God’s atmosphere summons reproach.

Tapped Any Ass Lately?

TheMagicRealist.com

David Attenborough sometimes speaks of wild ass
As they cross some huge landmass in mass migration.
All the ass he has tapped are grateful he’s done so.
The man has done some fine work to let us all know
That the tapping of ass is not done just for fun.
It can be educational and done with class.

No good ass is a dumbass, nor is he so smart
That his goodness will save his ass from being caught
Without cover when taking it while lying down.
The best ass is one who knows his way around town.
And the ass who is smartest will not have a thought
Of blind hatred toward women. It’s not in his heart.

As our pieces of ass became pieces of eight
All across the world landscape through eons of time,
Has respect for the feminine taken a dive?
Common sense says without it we will not survive.
I will pray that salvation is not a far climb.
No Old Pig in a silk suit has room to berate.

It’s A Good Life

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a Good life, America. Don’t say it’s not.
We owe all to the monster who treats us so well.
Nowhere else in our long history have we seen
Such a Wonderful tyrant. Don’t say that he’s mean.
We should all give him praise now, while under his spell.
If we make the child angry, we could risk a lot.

He had some friends to play with. He wished them away.
With the point of a finger he orders his wrath.
It is Good that he does this, though. He can’t do wrong.
If you cannot agree, then you do not belong!
He is Brilliant, and simply a fine psychopath.
Everyday is a Great day. What else could we say?

It was nice in the old time when souls weren’t at stake
And when truth was a constant, along with respect.
But this monster won’t know that. No power has he
To read even his own thoughts, as one can well see.
This sick child of a man will do harm if unchecked.
We have met our own darkness. Will we come awake?

Oil and Water

TheMagicRealist.com

Oil and Water don’t mix well. What else should I know?
North and South never ended their all out race war?
Jews and Arabs will always be blood enemies?
Blacks and Whites can’t be equal? That’s not how God sees?
I guest star in a rerun. I’ve been here before.
I am black, and I know it. Gosh! Who tells me so?

Is it you who reminds me, Miss Trash, on your rant?
It’s not looks… rather actions that define a man
Or a woman. One could ask if you’re either one.
A sick child will spew rancor and do it for fun.
If you could have a TV show based on the klan,
You might want not a black boss. I’d think just a scant.

So, a popular loud mouth with off-the-wall views
About just about everything barring the dark,
Crafts a base learning moment. I’m smack back in school.
You ignored the one voice that plead, “Shut your mouth, fool!”
With your teaching credential, you have made your mark.
It’s a shame that the others must now pay your dues.

Is It Something You’ll Say?

TheMagicRealist.com

Is it something you’ll say that will put you away
Through asylum, impeachment or natural cause?
Is it something that you may have already said
To someone who is wired or sleeps in your bed?
You’ve become a fine screwup. You deserve applause
Before you have completed you very last day.

You bit off a big chunk. Is it too much for you
Given apprenticeship with the art of your deal?
‘Lock Her Up!’ …did I hear you say? What about now?
If you both did some time maybe that would allow
Such a railroaded nation to finally heal.
Why not find a way out? That’s the right thing to do.

You said once, a frail woman would need lots of rest
If she took on high office. Your humor is fine.
You’re no pillar of strength. Your base will see the light
Through the long-darkened tunnel grow ever more bright.
When your girl child is threatened, you will then resign.
The nation will recover. It’s all for the best.

Let He Who Is with Faith Cast the Next Sin

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

The Standard Not Cased

TheMagicRealist.com

The Standard Not Cased – A professional term,
Somewhat militaristic sounding to lay ears.
We all know what is standard. We’ve learned it from birth.
Our dominion is sacred and good for the earth.
We are Monarch! That’s how it most surely appears.
Why is it that our fine standard makes others squirm?

Ours is red, white and blue. Others… blue, white and red.
There’s a handful of colors each nation may use.
We can’t run out of colors. They can’t go away.
We hijack them to standardize what we must say.
We do give up our freedoms as we dare to choose
Metamorphosis raging at full steam ahead.

So, the Standard Not Cased are the colors unfurled
And released from protection from weather and wear.
I salute them, in general. Orders I take
From my inner self only. Why live not awake?
Today’s sentry is willing to notice and care
That our standard may not be the best in the world.

It’s A Trip

TheMagicRealist.com

“It’s a Trip what be happ’nin’ dare ‘round dat white house.”
Did I get that vernacular right? I must know,

Not for any known reason – just out of the blue,
Like what happens in government, vacant of clue.
You behave much like ‘niggers.’ Is that just for show?
There is no one’s attention to duty to rouse.

I’ve watched candidates stumble as if by design
Through omnipotent forces unidentified.
There exists biased judgement in each human’s heart.
It seems you take to tripping to better jumpstart
This cold government engine. Perhaps you’ve not tried
Something else therefore it seems unwise to decline.

We each do our own tripping – both on and offline,
And through manifold systems we lay down our traps.
Anyone not suspecting some lead boot will drop
May avoid such an outcome and end up on top.
What is built upon, though, may be sure to collapse.
When I don’t pay attention, I’m doing just fine.

Swamp Refugee

TheMagicRealist.com

How’s that swamp draining job going? Have you begun?
Or is someone appointed to do that for you?
One who says that it’s nasty there maybe would know.
You did say you belonged there some nightmare ago.
It’s ironic you went in there smelling like poo.
Now the task is too dirty? It’s no longer fun?

There’s a refugee crisis since office was took
Like a thief in the dark water. Bully for you!
Who is doing the cleaning? Just where is this mess?
I don’t think that it’s you, ass. You may well confess
To yourself that you’re finished. You could have made due
Out of office as just an old worldly wide crook.

As the myriad creatures emerge from the swamp,
One by one, soaking wet with shame for egg on face,
Is the swamp being cleaned by a man or a goon?
I think I know the answer. We all shall know soon.
There’s a deep, thorough cleaning indeed taking place.
When it’s finally done with, the worthy will romp.

Dataface

TheMagicRealist.com

There may be a resemblance, but only in jest.
We should not take to joking, yet that’s what we do
With sung heroes of wealth among young and alive
Who appear in good health and have prolific drive.
But this man is NOT ‘Data,’ the character who,
As an officer, turns out to be of the best.

I believe he is human and brilliant of mind,
With a knack for precision and logical view
Of what people hold precious. Could something be flawed?
Has our Data been beamed to some dark force abroad?
What should be know by all is known but by a few.
The ‘real’ Data knows Duty and is truth aligned.

“Senator, I will have my team get back to you.”
Well, that sounds good in theory, born of the abstract.

Put your ‘team’ on the floor if they have answers, please.
Your dorm room is now worldwide. A future that sees
You as more like our Data, is one based in fact.
You could show some emotion, as most androids do.

Kool-Aid Charade

TheMagicRealist.com

As the head of the elephant, stuffed on the wall
In the house of it’s owner, the bear in the ice,
Must be well taxidermized to make it look real,
Is it rough to the touch? That should be a big deal.
One who drinks the red Kool-Aid does so at a price.
It will take down the heavyweights and make them small.

It is drunk behind closed doors. Consumption is kept
Well concealed and performed as a drama most grand.
Almost all the king’s horses have elephants’ heads
And a loud trumpet’s bellowing that the heart dreads.
What could be so perverse that we can’t understand?
Can we follow a leader whose heart’s never wept?

There are some dead men walking… and talking these days,
Where throughout the vast jungle, the things that take place
That may cause severe damage to my way of life
May drop free of the spectrum of doom and world strife.
Those who have drunk the Kool-Aid are doomed to embrace
Consequences severe for their treasonous ways.

Too Alone Prone Persona

TheMagicRealist.com

When alone in a shoebox and weathered by time
And neglect of the home life within the dark soul,
No one comes by to visit. What life could be there
But one filled with delusion and utter despair
For not having attained some significant goal?
At the moment of birth one seems way past one’s prime.

Maybe better with family, a dog and some beer,
There is guidance available to one who seeks
Strong alignment with some cause related to blood.
I salute the self-righteous supremacist flood
Of the fictional family with tongues in their cheeks
That will tell this sick nation that it’s time to cheer.

To propone the persona of flesh on a throne
Does extract from the owner some measure of heart,
And from those of the kingdom, much trust and respect.
There is no sense of honor that I need detect
In the souls of the leaders I choose. A new start
Is something I can’t handle. That’s why I’m alone.

Often Easier to Be Sad

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Transliterative Transliterature

TheMagicRealist.com

I’m not sure how the war started and couldn’t care,
Except strong indignation erupts in the soul
Of humanity, once again – this time through he
Who dishonors maliciously most frequently.
To divide through blunt brute force it seems is your goal.
Why make war with your soldiers? You’re Daft, I Declare!

‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,’ is still sound advice
I received from an old salt when I served my time.
It applies not to forces of service alone.
Within all things of life this is easily shown.
The commander in chief is intent to begrime
Every sane institution with torment and vice.

Check your skivvies, ‘commander,’ you’re in for defeat.
Karmic militant forces momentous and strong
Will engulf and consume you in treasonous shame.
You will be the apprentice whose lost his own game.
May you lose where you don’t have the right to belong.
You are trash in a silk suit consumed by conceit.

Begin When It’s Easier

TheMagicRealist.com

I will start when it’s easier to comprehend
All the chaos outside me – inside me as well.
There’s so much I could focus on. Some of it’s good.
Yet it’s hard to find, and hard to be understood.
I perceive much that is me. Within that I dwell.
I could push stuff aside, but that seems not the trend.

They behave much like pinballs, the eyes as they bounce
From one source to the other for dopamine hit.
Have I seen what I wanted? Have things become clear?
They just get more confusing and laden with fear.
I’m addicted to garbage, sometimes I’ll admit.
Toxic content delirium I can denounce.

Is this nation in disarray? It looks that way.
So, that means I’m in error. No mess I need clean
But the one in the mind that I made on my own.
I can start seeing better with crap left alone.
There’s a saner world out there that is clearly seen
By the one in alignment and not led astray.

Ugly With An F

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

From The Schoolhouse At Monster And Maple

TheMagicRealist.com

We are living in savage times. Here, what you see…
This assault weapon. It’s what the serious use
When they’ve lost every hope of somehow blending in
With society’s madness. All heart is of sin.
If I think I see one who may have a short fuse,
I will do what I can to protect you and me.

But, don’t worry, dear students. I am fully trained.
My reflexes are sharp, and my judgement is keen.
I can spot ‘evil sickos’ a yardstick away.
I would shoot any person if I thought they may
Do the same to another, not whether foreseen
Nor withheld from the instant through fate ascertained.

I am now your Godmother, well-armed and prepared.
You will note that I don’t have a smile on my face.
That’s because our wise president wants me to be
Just as perverse as he is. I hope you can see.
It’s the rifle folk eager to run an arms race
And keep children who protest tormented and scared.

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.