All Our Best Teachers

I was listening to the Hold Steady this morning and there is a line in the song Constructive Summer where he Craig Finn sings, "Let's raise a toast to St. Joe Strummer.  I think he might have been our only greatest teacher."

Got me thinking about teachers.  So here's some thoughts I rattled off trying to kick a writer's block.
Read it while listening to this:

All our best teachers wrote teenage poetry

And listened to punk rock or the Smiths or something

That should’ve brought us all together.

Knowing glances at our mohawks, and band t-shirts

And feeble attempts to stick it to our parents,

Knowing glances, that this was just the tip of the iceberg.

Now I’m older than most of the bands,

And I’m always surprised when I hear about my friends being

Teachers.

And even more surprised that they’ve been doing it

For 5 years. 

I’m a bit jealous of their impact. 

I hope that someday, my kid gets pissed

At some system in the cafeteria,

And thinks it is the biggest injustice ever perpetrated,

And there are people there, to temper and encourage,

While humming that first Green Day song they ever heard

And grading papers with black coffee.

Flat Earth

Why it would be awesome if there were more Medieval Towers in our Midst

March up to the tower,

Knock on the heavy door

Walk right in,

Say hi.

Climb the stairs to the top,

Check the view from every window.

An ascending spiral,

To a windy rooftop,

And a portrait of your

Landscape. 

Lighting,

And sun.

High rises,

Apartments,

Trees

Plateaus.

You could see it all if the world was flat.

 Slightly inspired by this songs...at least the last line.

Idea Barf

This is an unrelenting jumble of ideas that came out in one idea barf.  Don't read too deeply, but I'm sure anyone can relate to some of those feelings.  

Squeezing My Beergut into a Superhero Costume I came up with when I was 9.  Dreams I still can’t put to rest.

When the rest collapses, there’s a wasteland outside.   Oh you don’t see it.  Spring is coming, Spring is come.  Like a Toddler learning to talk, I’ll use my words. 

The thing is, there’s just not much left out there.  Oh there are houses I thought I’d live in by now.  There are days to be had and nostalgia.  There are self induced responsibilities and bills.

Why go outside, I can tackle my tasks in the comfort of my own ten-year-old sweatpants. I ride a bike for Christ's sake.  I live every suburban 16 year old’s nightmare with little to show, but my bleeding heart screams "first world problems."  And I tried to change the world, and I tried to change the world when I was twenty until the bureaucracy said no.

But habits and the idea of adulthood intervened.  Is this what we are, is this what we will be?  Hiding in tv and record collections.  I read that 35% of people in the UK still sleep with teddy bears.  They have lovers and friends but sleep, tightly grasping an inanimate symbol of the past. Childhood

Carebears just took over and my eyes are slowly getting bloodshot, even though I’m sober and it’s 5:12 in the afternoon.  I’m listening to music that makes me feel cool through laptop speakers drinking water out of a beer mug. 

I’m a bit under the weather and the world makes us feel guilty for just laying low.  What should I have gotten done today?   Stream of consciousness from adult me.  The 18-year-old I repressed occasionally wants out.

And now I’m going to have a kid at some point, and now I’m going to be a doctor, and someday I’m going to change the world.  I haven’t given up.  It’s a good sign I’ve managed to maintain three cats, a marriage, and a cactus. 

Is adulthood really just keeping shit alive?  Your relationships, your friendships, you pets, your music tastes, your dreams?  Or is it a social construction like God or Dubstep?  I’m worried about my health now, I could but don’t eat fast food.  I worry about my future so I’m taking classes to make it better.

Is adulthood never being happy with a Saturday spent in comic books again?  A constant lump in your throat that you’ve somehow failed.  Failed at what?  Complete sentences, coherent statements.

I apologized the other day for ending a sentence in a preposition.  My excuse:  I didn’t get much sleep.  And no one gave a shit.  Minutia we cling to from out youth, grammar, cursive handwriting and ideals.

Poetry that I’ve let go to the wayside for too long and a stack of books I’ve been saying I’ll read.  Adulthood is knowing that I can crack that stack anytime I want but deciding I have better things to do.  I just don’t always make the best decisions. 

I have a fridge stocked with things I can eat and a wife that complains when I eat too much candy.  There’s enough coffee and booze in this room to make for one damn epic night.  Instead I’ll settle for Star Trek reruns, salad, and waking up early to learn the anatomy of bones.

The future’s bright, because Spring is Here and Spring is here and the sun isn’t setting until 9 pm.  I can go to bed when I want and get up when I want.  Just make sure it’s my call.

This is a selfish rant.  True, just not seeing all sides, but if I keep trying, I’ll find myself buried up to my neck in Lego’s with offspring that I still am not sure why anyone will let me have.  There may be a wasteland outside or maybe its just early evening in the city I've chosen to live in.  

See, I'll leave that preposition, I can, I am a card carrying adult and I'm allowed.

Clearly there is wasted time.  I don’t really see an end of it some days, this maybe-imaginary wasteland.   But those are the days when I suck.  Most days I do much better.  Squeezing my beer gut into a super hero costume is how I’m coming to grips shirts with buttons and collars. 

Covering Your Tracks...

Covering Your Tracks
 

The path to my couch,

Is vacuumed twice a week,

To cover my tracks,

So that no one can come behind,

And figure how much time I’ve

Wasted, just waiting, wondering,

What to do.

The path to stove top,

Is mopped once a week,

If not more, to hide the messes

I’ve made trying to cook up

Something new.

The path to my fridge,

Is swept on the hour,

To make sure no one knows,

How many beers I pull out,

And pop open, to properly

Get numb enough,

To erase all traces and sit back down,

Safely considering my next,

Utterly erasable move.

My bedside however,

Is litter with skeletons, monkeys,

Candy wrappers, and emotional garbage,

Stained, and the path their poured

Concrete. 

I just got too tired to cover it up any more.

And went to bed.

At least I set the alarm

Some random Haiku:

Deposit the check,

I don’t deal with check too much.

The teller agrees…

I wore my slippers,

To the store, then took them off

At home…house slippers.

I want to start an

All natural ice food cart,

Only open in Winter.

Cheers,  Next Post will be end of the year lists probably.

Bob Fantastic

 

A tiny poem, with math...

When I was 12, I thought I was 35, And when I was 21, I thought I had an old soul, Now, I’m nearly 30, And I think I’m barely 12, Age and maturity Are irregular wave functions. Of time and nostalgia.

Stanley Mathews is back: Occupy Your Own Fucking Street

So screw this. If you want an introduction, go back a couple dozen of these wussy haiku posts and unfinished fiction, otherwise, enjoy my offering, or don't.

While reading, please listen to this:




Occupy Your Own Fucking Street
by Stanley Mathews


This is a poem for the real world,
A big motherfucking dream you might say.
Motherfucking utopia in an Easter basket
With those little fucking tootsie rolls that
Aren’t chocolate and no one knows
Where the shit they come from…

That’s kind of what this is like,
A wish on a star through pipe smoke
On a rainy night, midwinter,
While standing in a pile of shit,
Moist junk mail and hopeless beer vomit.

That’s all the good wishes are, but still.
Fuck you.
I want a world where everybody takes their couches,
And moves them out to the curb,
And then, facing said curb couches,
So as to make a conversation place to fucking
Talk, put their lazy boys in the street parking area.

Fuck your living room, sit on the floor.
I want a world where all up and down the street,
I can hear radios blaring songs about important shit,
Like politics, and fucking, and fucking the man,
And growing up, and drinking beers, and breaking up,
And getting back together, and breaking your tv,
And covers of awful pop songs to be funny, since everyone knows
I don’t really like those fucking songs.

But we all really do, somewhere deep in our regurgitated,
Already been chewed bubble gum hearts.

I don’t want to have to go to a bar to talk accidently meet some guy,
Totally fucking belly up,
Start a fumbling conversation, then realize,
Oh shit, you’ve been my neighbor for 3 years.

I want to make it so no matter how bad our modern
Peripheral vision is, we can’t just walk straight ahead
Ignoring each other.

Oh, I’m guilty too.

I have the softest piece of shit white vinyl chair in my
Living room.
I sit in it, all by myself,
Sometimes not wearing pants,
And watch Star Trek reruns on my only friend,
Netflix…and even she keeps getting more expensive.
Raising her fucking hourly rates,
Till it may not be worth me watching,
Even for the journeys of the USS Enterprise.

So today, I give you a fucking commitment,
I am bringing my ancient chair that I stole from my parents
To the curb.
Not as garbage, or in some hope that a random stranger,
Will take that shit off of my hands,
But as neighborhood furniture.

I’m sitting on it. I’m going to read a book out there,
Or watch movies on my old MacBook thanks to zombie Steve fucking Jobs.
Maybe I’ll inspire you to pull that red flowered couch I’ve seen you
Masturbating in in front of your picture window,
While your wife’s away and your kids are at school,
in front of your house.

Then the tweekers across the street will bring beers,
And people will stop fucking driving, abandoning their cars
In the wasteland of the middle of the road,
And we’ll have a traffic jam of empty vehicles,
Not like that wussy REM video,
Like the goddamn zombie apocalypse.
But with a fucking block party,
And fiesta lights,
Piñatas,
Big ass speakers.
Operation Ivy,
Bad Religion,
The Misfits,
The Beastie Boys,
Run DMC,
Billy Bragg,
Neil Young,
The Gin Blossoms,
Hootie and the Blowfish,
Lady Gaga.
Cardboard open spaces,
For those coordinated douche bags to break dance,
As an excuse to listen to those

Bad
Pop
Songs.

Fuck occupying Wall Street.
Get out and Occupy Your Own Street.
Bring your neighbor a beer,
Invite the local bartender over for a drink,
Hand out coffee
And nachos
In your sweatpants.
Everybody pitches in and nobody’s out a dime,
And 3 days later,
It’s raining, washing the sweat
Off our euphoric bodies,
Soaking our rock and roll or
College athletics hoodies,
We’ll smile.
Cause we just changed the mother fucking world.

That’s my dream at least.
Fuck you,
Want a beer?

Chase Scene (part 3)

Part 3 (a short chapter)

“Stomp”
I wake up in a dark room.
All I can remember is the blotted out sun,
Terror,
And wondering if the crowd would even react,
I know I’m awake usually due to
The pain.
I am even more acutely aware of my waking state,
Because I feel nothing.
It’s not hot.
It’s not cold,
There’s no pain at all.
Nothing.
No feeling of a bed,
Steel table under my back.
Too dark to know if I’m moving my.
Proprioception is shit.
I hear a click.
Nothing.