Tag Archive | social commentary

Self Help Solution

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

One Could Argue

TheMagicRealist.com

One could argue. But why? Does it make any sense
To sound off to a brick wall that’s hot to the touch?
Walls of all kinds get built and reheated each time
There’s the feeling that there’s someone’s tree one must climb.
If one wins in an argument, does that mean much?
When life crosses the line, things can get quite intense.

Where is rightness or wrongness? Does God point the way?
If the One God could make up its mind… maybe so.
But one god tells the other god, “Damn you this day,
Because my god commands you to do it Our way.
If you don’t, then to hades your dark soul should go.”

It’s no wonder this world is caught up in dismay.

One could argue for righteousness and for world peace
As did many before us throughout history.
There’s a frankness in fervor for what one holds true.
Our diversity quandary is nothing new.
Many minds mitigate manifold mystery
In attempting to sort out which rightness must cease.

Satanic Rapture

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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.

Loud And Livid Delivery

TheMagicRealist.com

Though one’s innards be livery, does all the bile
That accumulates due to frustration pent up
Cause the outburst of anger with volume of voice?
Is it sometimes predestined or always by choice?
If I sound off to others, am I the sick pup?
When I view this in hindsight, it seems it’s my style.

When I think you won’t hear me, I tend to get loud.
It’s a knee jerk reaction. I’ve little control.
Therefore I must stay vigilant of my ill beast.
I do lack others’ patience. I know that at least.
Perhaps long isolation would comfort my soul.
I’m a hothead. I’m neither ashamed nor too proud.

Sometimes ‘special delivery’ is the best way
To ensuring one’s intent is taken as real.
If my mood takes a nose dive, I must be prepared.
That our good times and bad times are equally shared
Is my premise profound toward the best way to feel.
I can let off some steam and still have a good day.

Shitweed

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Just Here To Visit – Not Here To Stay

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

The Best Cure For Toe Fungus?

TheMagicRealist.com

Let us talk about toes – yours alone, by the way,
And that fungus they’re fettered with. You know it well.
Who am I to send email to you with advice
Randomly about getting your feet smelling nice?
Well, I must be an asshole. Most people can tell
By the sheer lack of meaning in what I dare say.

It seems, now, that my inbox and spam box are twins
Who play offense with insults and off-the-wall crud.
I’m a fish in this ocean. As you cast your net
Most escape by derision. You get what you get
When you’re dragging your lines way too deep in the mud.
What would you like to sell me as my patience thins?

You assume I have fungus as if the world knows
I’m a registered specimen stripped of his rights.
That’s not even the case. Where the Hell are you from?
You sneaked into my inbox like some kind of bum.
Yet, I’d be but a fool if my temper ignites.
I know no one but me is in touch with my toes.

A Sicker Present Means A Weller Future

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ve come down with thick growth, but I’ve been here before.
It is not like I’ve never been sick in my life.
Yet, I tend to recover and get stronger still.
That my children betray me is not of my will.
They confuse what is natural with what is strife
And they act as if they think their mother’s a whore.

This disease that I have is not such a big deal.
I could take it or leave it, and I have my way
With all life that comes forth from me and by my grace.
I can beat my dear children at any arms race.
So, what reason is there to allow them to stay?
It’s a noble chance spin of the grand karmic wheel.

I will get better soon as this wave washes past.
There have been many wars now, and that’s a sure sign
That my children have grown up and will soon leave home
And find more earthlike planets to conquer and roam.
One might think that my sickness is rather benign
As it lacks in significance and cannot last.

Now That I Can Tweet

TheMagicRealist.com

Do you love me sincerely now that I can tweet?
I’ve been practicing steadily all just for you.
I can twitter my ass off and do every day.
Many twits do this also with not much to say.
Can my fistful of characters offer some clue
To the ones that I’m tweeting to whereof I greet?

Watch me now, as they say. With the swipe of the thumb
I can instigate mischief or shed light on truth.
Within moments the world knows what I want it to
And it doesn’t take much to show others my view.
It would work out much better were I in my youth
But in light of all that I can tweet like the scum.

I can tweet with the best now and also the worst
As I learn to parse giblets of thought into place
So that dim-witted twit folk can follow along.
I can tweet like a mother, so don’t get me wrong.
I shall stock up on bird feed for now just in case
I’m elected Top Twit. Now, that would be a first.

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.

What A Grip Has The Barb?

TheMagicRealist.com

We are quick to give gestures. We do so in praise
Of all goodness… or evil. Which one is the case?
It’s a simple hand symbol of hundreds, perhaps,
But its manifold meanings can catch us in traps
When we try to read minds and then try to give chase
To the compounded error in logical ways.

Certainly it’s a neat thing to do with one’s hand.
We can show off to birds saying, “You can’t do this!”
After all, they can mock us because we  can’t fly.
As they fly they oft’ say to us, “Give this a try!”
When one flashes this symbol, one does so in bliss.
Those who give it receive it, and both understand.

So, the barb has a firm grip on some people’s minds
And it may play a part in their lives in dark ways.
Many do so in love though. So what can go wrong?
Love remains quite the stronger. It sings a true song.
It’s a hand job we’re stuck with. Let’s stick it in praise
And good will toward whomever the loving heart finds.

That Which Henpecks The Henpecker

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Just Change The Station If You Don’t Like What’s Playing

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s no need to complain about what’s in my ears
Or in front of my eyes just because it is there.
It is there IF I tune to it. It can’t assert
Itself in my experience. I can avert
Any unwanted content. I need not beware
Of what broadcasts to me about troubles and fears.

Sometimes I get the notion that I could out wait
What I’m getting in hopes that someday it will change.
If I wait for the station to play different songs
That would be rather silly. My good sense belongs
In a state of mind supple and borderline strange.
I’m a carefree consumer when I’m in that state.

There are radio towers all over the land
And perhaps some in space, but the point is they are
Only stations I’m tuned to. I can tune away.
That my being selective can brighten my day,
I am grateful my focus can never stray far.
I prefer that I take life the way that I’d planned.

Get Up, You Little Klutz!

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

The Wellbeing Conspiracy

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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.

Emancipation Proclamation

TheMagicRealist.com

I can do that. But why, if it favors just you?
I am not a crowd pleaser. That’s not why I’m here.
And what you think about me is not mine to know.
I am not your performer. This isn’t your show.
If my job is to please you I’m married to fear
Because if you reject me then I’m feeling blue.

I was given my freedom by that which gives life.
In fact, I am so free I can choose to be bound
By the people around me as I lap their praise
Like a blind sighted thirsty dog lost in the maze
Where the prize at the end is dried bones in the ground.
That’s one world of entrapment and personal strife.

It’s the law that our freedom exists for our good.
There is no getting ‘round such a resident fact.
We are free to choose bondage. Some make it an art.
But we’re free as the Dickens in mind and in heart.
I cannot be the ‘fine one.’ I’d ruin my own act.
If I want to live well, this must be understood.

Seven Of Swans

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

The Mind And The Machine

TheMagicRealist.com

Here’s a ‘Which came first?’ riddle… an easy one, though.
Which came first? The machine or the primitive brain?
Well, the answer, conceived of the present day mind,
Is that each makes the other unto its own kind.
When machines have ideas, will that mark their reign
As our rulers because of how much more they know?

Central Processing Units look much like our brains.
Both have thick convolutions of data-filled space
They have super thin highways for traffic to flow.
We are active reticular systems who know
That our thoughts must accumulate nicely someplace.
The brain that is bionic is not one that strains.

Bots are now here among us. The droids will come soon
To do things more efficiently and more by day.
Some will act awfully human without awful ways.
They will outperform people and we’ll give them praise.
Artificial Intelligence is on its way
Like a psychic pandemic where we’re not immune.

Toward A Newness Of Year

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

The Second Day

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Do I Need To Be Gotten?

TheMagicRealist.com

My most difficult lesson in life is my pride.
I have not much to speak of. That’s why I speak out
With a loud voice that people pretend they can’t hear.
Show respect for the rock star as I shed my tear.
It’s about time all worthiness should carry clout
But the populace present is not on my side.

Why that this is so puzzles me. Should I believe
I’m a loser with nary a card in his hand
He can play to bring worthiness into his sight?
Do they have something I don’t have? Maybe that’s right.
I don’t profit from praise. I’m in no high demand.
I give birth from my heart of what e’er it conceives.

I’ve a case for resentment. I know very well,
Though, that spending my life force in pity and gloom
Will enhance my declining and speed up its pace.
It’s been all about Facebook and winning some race.
All my work I will have self-inscribed in my tomb.
I’d be happy to take a long break from this hell!

A Pigeon In A Palm Tree

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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.

Coon River

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

 

Animostic Anathameme

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Compassion Anonymous

TheMagicRealist.com

You all want to feel better. That’s why we are here
In a room dark and empty and lacking in hope
That a new door will open. Things can become bright.
You are loved beyond knowing in God’s knowing light.
I commend you for finding some method to cope
With your sensitive natures accustomed to fear.

As your counselor, I am not here as your judge.
And I know if that were the case, you’d tune me out.
You’re so close to true knowing, yet movement is slow.
But the God force within you is willing to show
That our lives all have meaning. I know you have doubt.
To thine own self be true. I will not hold a grudge.

My sole job is to soothe you. If I saw you bleed
I would come to administer first aid to you.
I know your hopes are bleeding. Both wounds are the same.
We can all speak in open without guilt or shame.
I am glad you are here. You are long overdue
For a life that’s worth living with spirit that’s freed.

An Infectious Kindness

TheMagicRealist.com

There are those who are caring. I see this is so
By the look in their eyes and the warmth in their hearts.
It’s a blessing to see this. It strengthens my hope
That we still may turn upward our steep downward slope.
From the love deep inside is where all kindness starts.
It’s a fact seldom thought of but vital to know.

I was downtown today just to drop off a book.
On the way there, a parking lot hijacked my sight.
There were people with food and with spirits infused
With a shot of pure kindness from folks who are used
To behaving in loving ways and doing right.
Though I’d thought life is hopeless, I’ve gained a new look.

I’d decided to mingle a minute or two.
Had I known that my spirit was infection prone
I’d have made the library book last on my list.
They were giving free hugs. That is hard to resist!
Life convinces me no one is truly alone.
A warm hug and a hot meal does make the heart new.

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.

A World Of Our Own

TheMagicRealist.com

Is a world of our own something we can achieve
On the heels of our asking in diligent ways?
Every world that’s outside me is mine quite the same
As all others own my world. We’re all in this game.
Intertwined complex matrices accent our days.
When I transmit myself, other selves can receive.

Every cell in the body is one complete world.
It’s its own point of consciousness having a brain
That is located outside – not buried within.
It’s a fact that the brain of the cell is its skin.
At the center, its heart is prepared to obtain
All instructions it needs. Within strands they are furled.

There’s no forced integration. All segregate few
Become specialists in their uniqueness of style.
Every part has its function. Each makes up the whole.
It would seem that belonging should be our main goal.
But it’s not. We were meant to take pleasure and smile
In a world of our own that we can craft anew.

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.

Symptoms of Karmic Reflux

TheMagicRealist.com

I have mistreated women. I tell you no lie.
If I did you would tell the world decades from now –
Never there and then and spoken right to my face
Always hence many moons to brew ample disgrace.
I detest my foul actions. Should I take a bow?
It is time for this world to behold a man cry.

What to make of my actions? Am I of bad blood?
At the time I performed them, I knew they were wrong.
Yet, I just couldn’t stop myself. Who is to blame?
I can point to no other, as men are the same.
We can take what we want thinking that we are strong.
We are human and male with minds thicker than mud.

What can aid indigestion of unwanted deeds
Within those who committed them and their oppressed?
Some may say, “Just say no; nip that thing in the bud.”
But if hell freezes over before the next flood
The position of women may fully be stressed.
Until then, poor digestion is all that proceeds.

Friday News Roundup

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

A Nation of Cause, Not of Men

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

The Octopus’ Garden

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

 

Being * Doing * Having

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

Ask a child what he wants to be when he grows up.
He will tell you most certainly what that will be.
That’s because he is centered. He has not learned how
To add doubt to his judgement. He lives in the now.
What is fixed in the mind’s eye is rightful to see.
The child’s measure of joy is as kettle to cup.

We can be, do or have anything that is thought.
This fine truth is as old as the makers of time.
Children know this until they are programmed to not.
It’s the way of society. Most have forgot
That the secret to living in wonder sublime
Is to follow one’s dreaming towards that which is sought.

Children ask lots of ‘why?’ and expect us to tell
As they see us as wiser than they at the start.
Then when they become older, they see how confused
And beset with obsession with being abused
We can be. And to them it seems we’ve made an art
Of subverting ambition and making life hell.

Ask yourself why you want it – that which you desire.
It will then become active. This universe has
Every means that is known and unknown to provide
The reality dreamt of and worked toward with pride.
The dreams of the children have worth just as much as
Those of anyone with the good will to reach higher.

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.

Mega Motor Mothermouth

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Here’s The Beef

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

A Day On The Calendar

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a day on the calendar. That’s all it means
To someone who has no home and nowhere to go.
And it means nothing also to someone like me
Whose contempt for most humans sometimes one can see.
It’s a day for a break from the bountiful flow
Of societal cues that have made us machines.

It’s a day to be thankful. That much I’ll admit.
Yet, that is true for every day that I exist.
It’s peculiar to put aside one day a year
For engaging in thankfulness, some out of fear
That if they don’t partake, they will hardly be missed.
Among culture and family, one must commit.

I am thankful that God has shown me a new day
Full of wonder, excitement and joy unsurpassed.
I’d be thankful too, had I not lived through the night.
There’s a time for my leaving this world with no fight.
I am thankful my time here is not meant to last.
Have a blessed Thanksgiving, my heart does obey.

Poetic License

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

“Have Engine – Will Poet” shall be my motto.
When it comes right down to it, it’s one with some tread.
As I travel this highway, my ride must be smooth.
When my word road is bumpy, how can my work soothe?
I require Full License in trust that I’m read
Like a bird at its leisure with some place to go.

I’ve a License Poetic to prove I may drive
My machine in whatever way I judge to be
Beneficial in getting up just enough speed
But not so much that reading becomes a hard deed.
I am easy to read, and I cruise radar free.
Way ahead of departure, I’m good to arrive.

There’s no Highway Patrol for the poet in me.
They say it’s not my day job. I’m too small a fish.
I have not earned my letters for poetic arts.
Thus, I don’t have the right to endear people’s hearts.
So, I’m wild on my highway. I do as I wish.
I can poet my ass off and do it with glee.

Diagnostic Statistical Menace

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Serrated Serenade

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Flustercuck

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Particular Judgement

TheMagicRealist.com

Dear Diary, what a long day it has been.
I spent time with some children, but that part was short.
Since I’m older, I take social duties to heart
Although, what I would teach kids is how to take part
In their own self-becoming. I’d fully support
What their true hearts desire again and again.

It’s adults who are headaches. Our spirits are dull
When it comes to most anything. What can we teach
To the little ones who are much closer to truth?
We could turn off the bible and study our youth
For a little while until we are what we preach.
Life is not my migraine. It’s a point to the skull.

It’s been all about finding some honor today.
And that seems somewhat meaningless even to me
As this long day recesses. I am an adult.
I behave like a child. That is not an insult.
Most adults I know couldn’t hold shit to a tree.
What I learn most from most children is how to play.

This Mirror Called Life

TheMagicRealist.com

Who enjoys a good puzzle? I think we all do.
It is good therapy for the indigent mind.
I don’t make life a riddle. It is on its own.
I can complicate matters, but what I am shown
Is a whole world of images, some ill-defined,
But all reflecting all that reflects all that’s true.

There is manifold evidence life is a bore
If I trick myself into believing it’s true.
I could turn on devices and get them to share
What we most have in common that we can compare.
But devices turn off just like real people do.
Life’s a game and a puzzle obsessed with a score.

I can’t stimulate others to what rings my bell.
That’s a matter of free will I’m doomed to respect.
If this world knew about me, you’d be in my case.
You would find somethings on me to cause me disgrace.
My most valued reflections of life are suspect
To the mirrors of scrutiny I know too well.

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.

Celestial Susan

TheMagicRealist.com

A gigantic turntable exists in the sky.
It is called the ecliptic. It is the sun’s path
That outlines its circumference in such a way
That it marks off twelve slices in polar array.
It becomes not a hard task to learn all the math
That is needed to figure out where planets lie.

Seems it is both or neither a science nor art
Though its practice dates back to the dawning of time.
Those who think it is folly are set in their ways.
With the scientist’s method, sometimes progress stays
On the cusp of discovery, stuck in mid climb.
Yet the mind and the heart are not lightyears apart.

The Celestial Susan is put into place
As a piece of a clockwork in sync with the ways
Of behaviors of people according to when
And where time introduced them to this life again.
Our precise correlations can awe and amaze.
We are live on a turntable nestled in space.