Tag Archive | social commentary

Quiet the Mind and Receive

TheMagicRealist.com

Words evolve into traffic, then don’t convey much.
They are not the best teachers because of their traps.
They routinely ensnare us and leave us confused,
Yet, without our content, we feel further abused.
A brief timeout will reset my tuner, perhaps.
Words can mimic advice, but they’re often a crutch.

When I offer vibration, I get something back.
What that is depends wholly on what I put out.
If I quiet the mind before starting my day,
Then my words do have meaning – to me, anyway.
So that I may receive well, I’m better, no doubt,
To unplug from all that I would call soul attack.

When I silence the chatter, I better receive.
To get in the receptive mode, all that I do
Is to fixate on some gentle noise in the room.
If my focus should falter, I simply resume
Until I feel detachment, and blissfulness too.
Then the more I receive, I can surely believe.

Remote Access

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t make fun of my accent. I’ve practiced it well.
Either that or my English still gives me away.
Anyway, I will help you. Your system is screwed.
I’ll access your computer and then I’ll get rude.
I’ll have problems to show you and too much to say
While concealing the fact that this is a hard sell.

 This is like the old shell game with quick sleight of hand,
Only I open windows and spread them around
While explaining how sick your machine has become
In this short while I’m with you, you simpleton bum.
I will find every bad thing there is to be found
Then create a few more. This is what I had planned.

Just sit back and relax while I fill up your screen
With my scribbles and doodles and fancy artwork.
You won’t owe me a fortune. Just half one will do
To restore your computer to something like new.
What I tell you is true. I’m a desperate jerk.
If I knew any better, I’d surely come clean.

I Don’t Need A Damned Hero

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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.

A Wonky Relationship

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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.

To Transcend The ‘Unfriend’

TheMagicRealist.com

To transcend the ‘Unfriend,’ I would most recommend
Referendum regarding the chronic disease
Of indifference to what’s in front of one’s eyes
Unless it has a touchscreen. I don’t criticize.
I’m reminded that when I’m too willing to please,
Some may find me a displeasing fool in the end.

Face to face we are fickle with flamboyant fluff
That we flitter like glitter. We seem made that way.
Now, we’ve replaced our faces with iFucking tHings.
What an overpriced plaything that sings when it rings!
Please forgive me, I digress, but hear what I say.
How much more disrespectful are we with this stuff?

Every ‘friend’ has a face. Every face has a soul
And a heart that can feel and therefore can be hurt.
Was the purpose of Facebook that we all join hands?
Perhaps so at the start, but now, it’s about fans.
On the playground, some seem to treat others like dirt.
Would you ‘unfriend’ your mama? That would be quite droll.

Knee Jerk Reaction

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

To Forget Being Gotten

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Gravitate Toward Feeling Good

TheMagicRealist.com

There are things that attract one’s most critical mass
As the earth does with all things more heavy than air.
Of those things, there are many that can be much fun.
When engaged in, the business of life is begun.
To descend adrift freely and without a care
Is the kind of adventure no brave one would pass.

What can go wrong is not on the mind of the one
Most distracted by passion in each moment new.
There is gravity in what sometimes I attract.
It may pull me towards that which I don’t want contact,
At least, not as momentously as I accrue
Enough doubt to consume me and leave me undone.

I’m not ready to take to the air just right now.
I must visit the cockpit to see who is there.
I’ll make sure there is someone who’s flying the plane.
If I don’t find a pilot there, what would I gain?
I would land the plane safely, then perhaps declare
That I feel good already. I worthy, somehow.

Homophonic Heteronymity

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

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

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

Bizarre Pharma Dharma

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Often Easier to Be Sad

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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.

The Shift

TheMagicRealist.com

When The Shift, as it happens, is one of the heart,
There can be none of greater importance to me.
It’s a move toward abundance from living in lack
And a shift from the worldly, that I may get back
To the way of the spirit. I most want to be
Part of all that I come from with much to impart.

It’s the upshift from lower to higher mindset
That I may become used to as I am prepared
To await the incumbent awakening of
A new consciousness worldwide conceived of pure love.
That beats scanning the news for stuff to make me scared.
Have the gears of smooth transmission shifted quite yet?

There’s a shift in the moment. Each one is a change
From one view to the next. Each one offers a choice
That I make in the moment for darkness or light.
No one needs special knowledge to know what is right.
As the world’s masses gather and speak with one voice,
The big Shift becomes viable and nothing strange.

The Barrier Transparent

TheMagicRealist.com

Once I walked into glass… ‘couldn’t tell it was there.
And I felt like an asshole. Folks laughed themselves sick.
As for me… I was dazed, and I didn’t care much.
I have near perfect vision, yet I need a crutch.
Perhaps clicking like bats do would be fantastic.
Not a thing I could see through would become a snare.

Often glass is a ceiling. Sometimes it’s so high
That it cannot be seen by the one who grows tall.
If one ascends too quickly, before very long,
He may strike what is unseen and feel he’s done wrong.
In that way, such a ceiling can be a brick wall.
What is hopeful is that one can still see the sky.

Some things should be transparent, and some things should not,
Is, I guess, what I’m saying, not knowing from where
I find such things to write about, and that’s OK,
Just as long as I let spirit echo my way.
Surely flying through glass cannot cause me despair
As I keep myself focused with all that I’ve got.

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.

A Room With Some Padding

TheMagicRealist.com

…Just a room with some padding. I don’t need a view.
I don’t want to see what it’s like on the outside.
What is out there is nowhere. I’m no one to it.
People treat one another the way they see fit.
Am I mad if I seem to be full of self-pride?
If you say so, there’s nothing much else I can do.

I can get used to white, though it does hurt my eyes.
Can you keep the lights dim enough so I can’t see
That I’m banging my head on whatever I find?
Were I made to see brightness, I might well go blind.
There is no mind more lost than the one that can be
Locked away due to mere obsolescence endwise.

I believe I’m a poet, still. Don’t say I’m not.
I embrace my delusion. Belief is steadfast.
Some who craft only bullshit get on fairly well.
To pretend to not understand me is pure hell.
If I don’t think about it much, I will have passed
Through a dark, psychic fugue, but with torment forgot.

Passive Retentive Anal Aggressive

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

The Hell Out Of Dodge

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

On The Zest Of Zippid E. DooDaah

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Snarklingate

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

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

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

What Am I Receiving?

TheMagicRealist.com

In the swamp of reception, there’s much to perceive.
Any mouth with the means may make much of the air.
We each have every right to speak what’s of the heart,
In the mind… and to whomever one needs impart
One’s own point of view. Is it wise to be aware
Of what I am receiving while set to believe?

What remains quite amazing is that we each see
A reality unique unto what is known.
If I say it’s a swamp, one may swear it’s a lake.
To erupt in disorder would be my mistake.
We force feed our realities until full grown.
Then, too often, we feel that the world should agree.

Any swamp can get murky, and it can come clean,
And be lit by the brightness of full clarity.
What I listen to regularly has effect
On myself and the outcome. I’m free to select
Any cry from the swamp that speaks something to me.
I receive, most apparently, what is unseen.

Stop Keeping Score

TheMagicRealist.com

I know well that this life is an intricate game,
And I make it that way, just as everyone does…
That is, those who have been here for quite a long time
That the game mystifies them. Then winning is prime.
But, it’s not about score keeping. It never was.
We  can take away sports props and still play the same.

Mine may measure quite smaller than yours does right now.
Yet, I needn’t catch up with you. That makes no sense.
My own path through the deep woods may not be as yours,
And that’s surely a blessing. The forest ensures
That all paths lead to one place, and that’s not a fence.
I care less about winning than I can allow.

This life game is well played if I stop keeping score,
As if making comparisons brightens the soul
Of the better one. That’s not the point of this game.
It has something to do with all being the same
In our will of expression. It may be my goal
Just to bask in my playing while asking for more.

Performance Anxiety

TheMagicRealist.com

I enjoy performing. I’m anxious at times,
Thought I don’t really need to be, and I’m not proud.
My anxiety sets in along with self-doubt.
I don’t care if you boo me or don’t check me out.
I’m sure someone who’s out there will find me endowed.
It’s for that one who I strut. My happy heart chimes.

When I see what excites me, my heart does a dance.
It expands to full color for all eyes to see.
Do you find me exciting? You may or may not.
I will find the right one who will think that I’m hot.
And if not, I’ll continue most confidently.
The best part of my living life is the romance.

Not all like my performance. They have every right
To delight in the things chosen with a pure heart.
I delight in performing. I think we all do.
Every scene I appear in is stunningly new.
If I thought much about it, that wouldn’t be smart.
My own world is my stage, and the sun, my spotlight.

Bless Every Damned Thing!

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Wholly Preserved

TheMagicRealist.com

I am wholly preserved in a whole way of life
Based on profit and making goods lesser than good.
My consumption embalms me. What I eat contains
Every toxin conceived that can flow through the veins.
If I could do without food, I certainly would.
It is not good that eating should cause someone strife.

I’m concerned about shelf life as they are shelf death.
When the spirit decides it should leave its abode,
It should do so because it’s the next thing to do –
Not because one has eaten that which is not new.
Seems with all the preservatives, movement is slowed
To a long, labored crawling until the last breath.

How does nature preserve me? Or does it at all?
I could read product labels ‘til blue in the face.
I could seek diet gurus and shell out much cash
To detox my sick plumbing with colonic splash.
But the body’s own knowledge I should well embrace.
What I give it for nourishment is my own call.

What Do I Bring To The Table?

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

I Am Always Becoming

TheMagicRealist.com

I behold my reflection. What should I see there
But a mere mortal being? It is nothing more
Than an image, out there, and again in the mind.
If I gave it my loving, it wouldn’t in kind.
Indeed, it can do naught. It has never before.
If I fell in love anyway, would someone care?

I’m no longer a muffin. If ever I were,
For a time long enough to light up the world stage,
I’d have had plenty beauty… enough to believe
I could slay any dragons the world could conceive.
My good looks have been cancelled out due to my rage
When within the reflection, some calm I’d prefer.

I am always becoming who I’m meant to be
By my knowing my image takes nothing from me.
What I take from it can be a reason to praise
My Creator for trusting me with all these days.
Narcissistic behavior, most definitely,
Is my unconscious clinging to all that I see.

The Near Life Experience

TheMagicRealist.com

Who are nearer to living life well every day
Than our children, who know that this life is a game?
They are carefree, yet helpless in so many ways.
They depend on us to guide them through the rat’s maze.
But when they reach adulthood, they’re not quite the same.
They may lose some of life due to spirit decay.

It’s a near life experience being with kids.
Their sincere effervescence is soup for the soul.
Put some kids in your presence, then watch the clouds lift.
They may cause us some chaos, but they are God’s gift
To a world that needs plenty of soup in its bowl.
They may teach us delight in whatever life bids.

To experience living well is to be young
In one’s outlook toward everything. Nothing is bad
Of itself unless it is a far away thing
From that which is alive and can make the heart sing.
There is nothing more sick than a child who is sad.
Perhaps nearness to death is where hatred has sprung.

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.

The Mighty Metric Second

TheMaticRealist.com

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

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

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

This Has Never Made Sense To Me

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

CuntScape

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Self Help Solution

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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.