Archive | October 2016

Pinball Wizardry

It’s that time of the decade… A week left to go.
Clear the ‘coons from the basement‘ and ‘drain the swamp.’
What manner of subtlety spoke from the heart!
There is language to color – a nuance a part
From persona prepared and paraded in pomp.
Our nigger is ‘feckless‘?  Some folks don’t think so!

So he’s that and so many other bad things.
It’s a wonder the man ever made it this far
What with faithfully feckful, well-armed to the mouth
With no god above them and spirits gone South
Hurling insults and ready to ‘heat up the tar.’
He is not the Almighty, nor is he King of Kings.

Yet neither is either successor-to-be
Because feckless-lesness is a relative thing.
If the job is to keep the world held in one piece
What Manner of Gonads Would Cause War to Cease?
Pin the balls on the president to whom we cling.
Will world war be avoided?  We’ll just wait and see.

On Being Nonbeing

People have a firm grasp (And it’s good that they do)
Of the terms of existence that can’t be explained.
We go on believing the lives we construct
Have some meaning.  If not, then we fear we are fucked.
Though we search well to find it, oft times we are drained
Of our vast psychic energy.  Then we are blue.

But most do have other folks with whom to share
The myriad moment most seemingly real
To each as the other, and all who agree
That all that is real includes all one can see.
Yet the most assured things are the feelings we feel
And the blessings received from our ‘bowl mates’ who care.

I must know that I’m real and not need you at all
For verification of what’s clear to me.

And if I were to say you’re not real as I am
Then you might well conclude I were part of a scam
To get you to otherwise set yourself free
Of the pondering play that could be our downfall.

Divine Intervention

Don’t torch that rugrat!  I bring you a clue
From the One who commanded you from up above.
Lay not a hand on the traumatized child.
It’s not his fault your devotion’s run wild.
Yes, God gave you a test to determine your love
But does being a nut case exemplify you?

If God were to tell you to go fuck yourself
Would you submit to cloning to get the job done?
Or would you instead listen well to what’s said
And then come to know it’s a voice in your head?
Many people hear voices.  It’s nothing to shun.
They’re like pages from interspersed books from the shelf.

God has His way.  I’m His messenger though
So I do not mind giving you my point of view.
When some ‘voice‘ tells you to do something wrong
Why not stop to consider who’s singing that song?
God does do some testing.  He grades a lot, too!
But He does so most lovingly, just so you know.

Winning Spiel

 The chaos around… Am I bird of this nest?
If it looks like that’s so, I attract it to me.
Who the hell am I to be given such power
To dissect the world’s events hour by hour?
I’m not given vision so others can see
How to take what’s beholding and ignore the rest.

My only concern is what happens with me.
Though that may sound selfish, it’s sure as hell true.
If my focus were elsewhere I’d be of no good
To the rest of the folks of this earth neighborhood.
My passion for verse came not out of the blue.
It’s a gift from The Maker for all eyes to see.

My thrill had been penning, then shouting with glee,
“Hey look at me, folks, what a talent I am!
I’d be donned in tuxedo upon the live stage…
I’d have publishers wanting my page after page
[If only they knew me].”  They might give a damn
If I stood right before them all fettered in plea!

But I couldn’t do that; they would surely revolt
And I’d end up inside of a ‘courtesy’ van.
I’d be somewhat know then, but not for the thing
That consumes me in pleasure and makes my heart sing.
So I’ll just keep on writing as best as I can
Because otherwise I’d be inviting tumult.

There’s Tabasco In My Kitchen

Why there’s stuff in my kitchen that I don’t want there
Is a problem I can’t seem to chase from my mind.
I don’t like tabasco; I never once did.
I was raised on the mild stuff since I was a kid.
I tried some tabasco once.  It wasn’t kind.
But it’s still in my kitchen so I must beware.

Last week, the hot stove I had finally resolved.
I had kept my hand on it for such a long time.
My parents did it, and theirs did as well.
‘Twas a family tradition to navigate hell.
Then finally I realized that it’s not a crime
To break with convention however evolved.

Now this bout of tabasco has entered my life.
My world and my kitchen are not as they were.
If I’m making a cake it might sneak its way in
And if that were to happen where would I begin
In pondering how such a thing could occur?
That bottle must leave here or else there’ll be strife.

On the other hand I could just let the thing be
Because how it got in here is not mine to know.
Although it’s my kitchen I’ve very well known
It follows my folly may be overgrown.
I haven’t a quarrel with you, Tabasco,
So let us be part of a team, you and me.




The Tale of the Donkey

“Pin the tail on the donkey”?  Who thinks of such things?
Are they tails that are made up to punish us too?
We’ve done nothing wrong.  Why we’re treated this way
Is to offer all children their happy birthday.
But our rear ends are ragged, quite blistered and blue.
We favor your knowing for whom the tail swings.

We have tails already; your minds take them off
Just to feign disability for a short while.
Maybe some kids would like ‘Land a bark on the dog,’
‘The smell on the skunk,’ or the ‘leap on the frog.’
When kids make their own games they’re likely to smile
And our butts get a break.  That is nothing to scoff.

So here is the thing we would pin upon you
Since you’ve peddled the stupid assed game from git
Teach your kids to allow them to teach you as well.
They are out with the old stuff; it’s such a hard sell.
Let them do their own thing just as they may seem fit.
Keep our butts from your faces and do something new!

Wacky What If-Ing

What if up still meant out as in terms of the earth,
But then down became somewhere much other than in?
Would the fragments that seemingly fall from the sky
Take a detour from earth as they shout their “Good bye?”
What if I weren’t a chicken?  Would fowl be my kin?
Or would mingling with monkeys maneuver my mirth?

What if noon became midnight and June became May?
Then would all the world’s creatures take arms and revolt?
Or would they conclude that things still are alright
And continue their day-ing while knowing it’s night?
It’s enough to give any small chicken a jolt
When considering all that could cast ease astray.

What if blind leaps of faith were not taken as true?
Would questioning my own existence be fair?
Would I walk around dreamlike, not noticing much
Of what goes on around me with people and such?
What if people around me are not really there?
I’d be freer than nothingness without a clue.

Neuter the Damned Cats!!!

There’s a House that some families make home for a while
In a city that’s known to be contra A.C.
Within it a chain of male cats have held reign,
But the smell of the place does drive folks to complain.
Does anyone know what the hell it could be?
There are nothing but Cats there, and they don’t defile.

Yet, claw marks on furniture are most telltale.
Random rips in the fabric were missed by the crew
Who make sure the place glows and that it smells clean
For the next worthy, tom-catted purring machine.
So still that damned smell comes up out of the blue
And the people, downwind, become ripe to assail.

In the Oval Office, the smell’s still pretty rank
Though an atomized mist of a fragrance did work.
It had done so ‘til now, but the smell has returned.
Now it seems that both candidates’ voices are spurned.
So being a woman is NOT such a perk.
Since she married a Tomcat, she has him to thank!

Down Ticket

“Shit Faced down in the Kool Aid” ‘deplorables’ lay
Yet, it’s not just mass suicide ordered by one.
We’re a sore that’s been hurting for quite a long time.
That lame WikiLeaks weasel’s a master sublime.
He will rip that wound open, and do it for fun,
By releasing a few crumbs – a little each day.

But, maybe he’s not the biggest whiz after all.
He seems more like a puppet – a fine-crafted tool
Whom Putin uses to play his foul board game.
Earth’s a scratch and a match, and resistance to blame.
But a powerful game needs a powerful fool.
You must pump that limp Trump up to stand hard and tall.

Trump women don’t know sexual crime when it’s felt.
He has brainwashed their bodies as well as their minds.
He’s a powerful fool, folks – a matter of fact.
Even young nasty bad boys can know how to act
On a Tour Bus or  ‘locker room’ scenes of all kinds.
People’s problems, he feels, are the cards they’ve been dealt.

Cards like being a woman, a Muslim or black
Are the rungs on the building-block ladder of life.
And the two at the top of our choosing are true,
Each one to an outlook of divergent view
From the other’s.  The call to eliminate strife
Could be paramount instead of vicious attack.

On the trickle, down ticket, we vote for ourselves.
In the long run, we convince ourselves we’ve done right.
But do we do the choosing by conscious intent?
…Or genetic pre-programming?  Could the extent
Of our human behaving be righted in spite
Of the world ticket player in whom darkness delves?

Grand Mal Movement


TheMagicRealist.comThe Grand Mal Movement – a dance on the stool
When tightness is forced past expected control.
A cool rush perspires a brushed whirl of wind.
I now must account for how badly I’ve sinned.
Mass saliva production proceeds with its goal
Of persuading the gutwrench to suspend its rule.

Another severe one disabling the will
To just remain upright and anchored somewhat.
With flat feet on the floor, though, I double in pain.
Why must I go through this again and again?
The release of the rut that’s become of the gut
Reflects but expulsion that’s little to nil.

A second wave coming – I am, though, prepared
For my consciousness leaving.  I’m bent on the floor.
What happened betwixt is a mystery to me.
If I could upload this for doctors to see,
Then they wouldn’t ignore my complaints anymore.
I suppose my describing it all makes folks scared.

But then how would anyone else come to know
What some seemingly private a hell does go on
Behind smokescreens of provident medical view?
The fact that they find nothing wrong is a clue
That what I’ve got going can surely be gone
If I seek inner guidance and just take things slow.

The funniest thing is the ‘movement,’ you see,
As the body is limp, yet it flails on the deck
With a force that is fluid – a rhythmical feel.
Can the body explain to the gut the real deal?
My body may tell me my life is a wreck,
But it’s psychosomatic. That much pleases me.

The Girl Named Urethra

A new school offers chances to make some new friends,
But this little girl’s prospects were slimmer to none.
A child named Urethra is not commonplace,
Thus her ‘friends’  let her know it and laugh in her face.
To them, she’s a joke, and they’re all about fun,
So there may be a lesson before school day ends.

Why her dear parents did name her that way
Is not such a mystery and not really cruel.
A baby name book is just unknown to some,
So a text on anatomy’s where it came from.
The name does sound pretty – like some kind of jewel.
Did they know what it meant? Well, they didn’t that day!

On the playground, Urethra was mocked by a bully
Who thought he might practice some hate he was taught.
As he did so, Urethra just started to sing
With a voice as lovely as lilacs in spring.
Her song was the easiest fight never fought.
Her friends took a new tone, accepting her fully.

Turm Oil Trot

For ages the Turm has engaged in its trot
To the drawing and quartering work of the world.
Red war, and black famine and pale green disease
Are the Horsemen who’ll bring mankind quick to its knees.
Knowing it’s about oil, our minds are unfurled.
Then it’s possible we could avert this onslaught.

But what of the white one – that one with the bow
And that arrow insisting it knows its own way?
Does it shoot from the hip and preach red, white and blue?
Does it speak with a bias toward me or the Jew?
We will know – or we’ll not – by the end of the day
Who the third antichrist is by which line he’ll tow.

We are living, indeed, in most interesting times
Yet, how many times have folks said that before?
It seems as though we would much like things to end,
But our ending just seems like an ongoing trend
As we nitpick old prophets and texts by the score.
[My Gosh, I do fancy a good verse that rhymes!]



When a Fire gets going, what’s there to be done?
The first thing might be: Get the Hell out of Dodge.
But a fire can move at the speed of a thought.
It’s ignited by anyone feeling distraught.
One could end up a guest in some rogue fuselage!
Does it make any sense, then, to call 911?

One may speak of the first bomb – that bursting in air,
And the horror it rained by the dawn’s early light.
Some powerful whoop ass did cause earth to cower.
Who’d have thought that mankind could have wielded such power?
The big war was won, yet things just don’t seem right.
We now spew whoop ass worthiness instead of prayer.

The fire that burns from the will of the heart
Is the same in the atom that makes of the flesh
A carnal aroma – cooked meat in the air,
And mass devastation and death everywhere,
As memory filters through smoke laden mesh,
And consciousness struggles to make a new start.

We do call ourselves righteous and let others know
That we don’t take a beating then run away pissed.
We have enough nukes we could blow up the moon!
If and when all world leaders will reach that point soon,
There’s potential for Fireworks… Hard to resist.
And the earth will survive us, as once long ago.