Damn it feels good (to have the greatest dog in the world.)

 I think this is the first reference to my upcoming fatherhood I am posting here and I'm sure that fact is going to insert itself into more of my writing.

A Haiku

-->

Surprise! Baby Shirt

Surprise! Visit from a friend

This year will rock.

Another Haiku

-->

Irony Defense.

I don’t really like this song,

It’s just, uh, funny.

And a stream of consciousness about coffee and dogs.

 Damn it Feels Good (to have the greatest dog in the world)

 

-->

Damn it feels good to wear comfortable shoes, a flannel, and drink coffee as late afternoon fades slowly into early evening.  There are still tasks to be accomplished tonight like scrounging for dinner and washing my bulky sweater collection.  In this moment:  there is only frozen introspection and eyes caught by blinking streetlights.  I await a second wind that will carry me all of the way till bed, but for now, in this second, I transcend space and time.  Birds eye view watching myself type and sip, sip and type.  Closing my eyes hearing the sound of the keys and the sound of the coffee shop’s music selections.  There’s a group in the corner discussing the merits of our president’s Middle East policy.  Their engagement with the universe interrupts.

 I am fading to black…

… Coffee.  Refill.  I’m back for the moment.  My own opinions on the subject are stirring.  I could contribute.  I’m getting worked up.  No.  Breathe.  Look out the window again.  There are people walking their dogs on three of the four corners of the intersection I’m looking at.  Each person would swear their dog is the best.  I wonder if there really is a Best dog or if there is really just a best dog for a person, or for a moment?  Now reality sets in, I have to go home and walk the dog and feed the whole family.  The end of my musings is far from disheartening.  Reality is, I have the greatest dog in the world.

BIOGRAPHY-CORE

So this one is a little crass...

 

BIOGRAPHY-CORE

(by Stanley Mathews)

I’m going to start a band,

            And we are going to rock fucking hard.

Like Andrew WK on stilts, in a top hat, at a Green Day Concert with 5^th grade me in 1994.

But we’re not just any band.

            Nope.  Theme band.  No one has just a party anymore, so I’m not just starting a band.

We play keyboard-led-hardcore-punk-classic-rock BIOGRAPHY CORE and you can only see us if you have a Costco card.

WE GIVE OUT FREE SAMPLES OF ROCK over near the book department, behind the mom jeans. 

You can literally dine on our jams and you don’t have to risk scorching your mouth

With a microwaved hotpocket available on aisle nine in apocalypse family packs of 7300 in assorted flavors.  Enough for a family of four to each have one a day for five years….

But I digress,

            This is my band’s fucking press release.

And we are on a mission to rescue the art of the biography. 

            TRACK ONE:  Key of SCREAM

YOU DON’T WANT THE LIFE OF KIM KARDASIAN

YOU DON’T WANT THE LIFE OF SARA PALIN

YOU DON’T WANT YOUR DISCOUNT HARDCOVERS TO MAKE THE WORLD DUMBER.

BUY THIS BIOGRAPHY OF JOE STRUMMER.

THERE’S A THREE PAGE BOOK ABOUT ONE DIRECTION,

BUT UPON FURTHER INSPECTION…

IT SUCKS!

And that’s just a fucking taste. We are public servants, taxpayer funded like the Police (not sting) or the Navy (like the Village People)

Holiday season?  Why buy the biography of Will Ferrell when there’s an 826 page tome dedicated to John Adams?  Maybe a new book on Rosa Parks? Mark Twain?  We are here to warn you to slowly walk away from the illustrated life of Pat Robertson.

            TRACK TWO:  Key of GANG VOCALS

EVERYBODY LIKE’S HOLLYWOOD,

BUT BETTER BOOKS COME FROM BOLLYWOOD.

ORDER ONLINE BOLLYWOOD BIOGRAPHIES!

CULTERAL DIVERSITY

CULTERAL DIVERSITY

IN YOUR BIONGRAPHY 

IS BETTER THAN WHITE PAGES

ABOUT GILBERT GODFREY

(spoke quietly) even though I would read that one.

So come to COSTCO, we are there open to close all week.  IF you throw some money,

Or a 48 pack of Swiffer Dusters at us we may just play a request…about GIANT BOXES OF CHIPS (that I eat while I’m reading a biography of Queen Elizabeth)

BUT I’m not giving that one away here.  Fuck No.  Get down here now,

TO HAVE YOUR READING GLASSES ROCKED ON!

And stuff a stocking with the life and times of Bruce, Neil Young, Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits, Miles Davis, and FUCKING LINCOLN.

Step away from ASHTON KUTCHER’s Story…

            TRACK 3:  In the key of BARROOM BRAWL

EVERYTHING I LEARNED, I LEARNED FROM LINCOLN

EVERYTHING I KNOW, I KNOW FROM ABE,

SO HAVE A GLASS OF YELLOW TAIL,

AND TURN THE PAGE.

SPOILER:  HE GOES TO SEE A PLAY.

People

Thoughts on the terrifying things in the world. 

This is not the most coherent thing I've written, but it is my first attempt to come to terms with what's happening here in OR and what has happened in Connecticut.

Take this for what it is, one draft, my thoughts on trying to discuss this all day yesterday and instead wanting to pretend that nothing was happening or just hide with a cup of coffee and a beer and stare at a wall.  This is not meant as a judgement on how other view or deal with tragedy, but is my personal battle and I felt the need to share something.

People

I don’t believe in Karma

I don’t believe in God,

I’ve always said,

            I hold out,

            I maintain a belief in people.

And their innate ability to create

To love, to make each other laugh,

And accomplish the impossible,

With a supernatural intervention.

All of us,

All People,

Solely responsible for our greatest feats.

If your faith is in the tangible

The your gods have  3 dimensions

Filled with shades of gray.

My faith is shaken.

            By people

And their  innate ability to destroy

To forget, to hate, to die,

And accomplish the most disgusting

            Of acts.

            Without supernatural intervention

All of  Us

All People,

Solely responsible for our greatest failures.

Still lying here, midnight,

            Faith dispatched by news 

            by images and an inability 

                        to figure out how we keep ending up here.

I look to our mortality,

            As motivation

An unknown timer,

Constantly set, wound up,

                        Often silently manipulated by others.

Counting down.

We are interwoven, connected,

            Slowly,

            At the same time, 

Killing and saving each other.

            By terrifying actions,

            And small decisions.

All the good we do.

             All of us

             All People.

Every religion has angels and devils.

 ....

Hold the people close to you,

Wave and smile at a stranger.

Bob

           

The Funkulator The Poet

Been in a creativity stalemate.  Wrote this in my head while riding my bike.  If I wasn't married, it's probably how I would have to pick up women... (note, slightly unsafe for work and should be read out loud)

I give you

The Funkulator The Poet

Thanks for that free verse series to the female deity,

Now, next to the stage of open mic poetry night,

Ummm, Funkulator…

I’m The Funkulator The Poet,

Put away your Ipod or Tablet,

Digitized Kindle Walt Whitman,

The lyrical spindle, love poem hitman.

I’m the Funkulator ,

Not an escalator,

But I go down,

Not an elevator,

But I’ll get you up,

I’m the Funkulator,

Not Darth Vader,

I can be mysterious

But not depressed,

Impressed?

I thought not,

I’ve barely started sowing

Seeds of seduction,

Deep in the seat

Of your pants,

Implants,

Or by chance,

Your beautiful mind.

Funkulator complements your hair,

Your dic-

-tion,

But is looking at your behind.

I’m the Funkulator, The Poet.

Bringing on a Sonnet

To make your knees quake,

You been asleep?

Be Awake,

Or come sleep with me,

Or at least have a cup of black coffee.

Earl

Grey

Tea

I’ll get a little cream

stuck in my mustache,

And you’ll laugh,

I’ll pay for yours in cash,

Sacagawea dollars,

A bard and baller.

Funkulator isn’t buried in debt.

Wet?

Nah, that’s just my slicked back hair,

Because I care about grooming,

Clean and well trimmed,

My suit is retro and well hemmed.

Funkulator casts with his deep sea fishing pole.

Catching

Ladies, Men,

Hooked deep in the soul,

I’m Funkulator The Poet

 All I can see is a Funkulator-the-Poet -

Shaped-Hole.

That I will fill

With Funkulater play dough,

From my fireside poet flow.

Listen to the imaginary bass line,

When I’m done reciting, we can have some face time.

I’m the Funkulator the Poet,

I love you so much,

I bought a canoe,

With new paddles to row it,

Out to an abandoned island,

Where no one is around,

And I’ll never be found,

All I brought was my laptop,

And 160gigs of Tom Waits songs

And Experimental Hip Hop.

I pounded on those keys

A beautiful letter to you,

But without a printer I couldn’t put it in a bottle,

So I packed back up,

And sailed back across the sea,

Went straight into the

library,

Stuck in my thumb drive and hit print.

I downloaded some Will Smiths songs,

And back I went to my secret little island,  

The palm trees, penguins, and polar bear cubs.

I rolled up your letter like a scroll,

And tossed it into the waves.

Because,

I’m the Funkulator The Poet

This was a metaphor and you know it,

To explain the lengths the Funkulator will travel,

To unravel,

The kittens ball of yarn

That is true love.

I’m the Funkulator The Poet,

And I’ll take you back to my mansion.

My butler is actually all three kids from Hanson,

Glued together to look like Alfred,

For Batman,

But don’t worry, Funkulator isn’t spooky,

I’m not dark,

But all my light switches have dimmers,

My cooks will mull us some wine,

We can watch Fresh Prince Reruns

while it simmers.

My couch isn’t leather

Because leather is mean,

It’s made of a material designed by NASA

And sold only on TV,

QVC, Home shopping Network,

Funkulator the Poet will buy you gifts,

As the tone of the evening shifts,

And Boyz To Men,

Gets switched on,

hands free,

by telepathy,

my house knows my moods,

now I’m reading your mind,

let the Funkulator,

hold your hand and paint you with a simile…

No.

I’m the Funkulator the Poet

And I’m not giving that part away,

Think of what happens next

As an incentive to stay,

Where you are till I’m done reciting

I don’t sing, I don’t flex,

But I funk my way to your heart like

A Julia Roberts movie in the multiplex.

I’m the Funkulator,

Not A terminator,

I’m all real man,

But I did come from the future,

Or at least I can predict it.

I’m the Funklator,

And I’ll rhyme some more later,

If you give me a chance,

Invite Funkulator to the afterhours

Poetry dance party

I’ll shake my stanzas

And thrust my poetic license,

At my audience,

Heard all the way in the back,

Like a Greek Amphithearer,

Let’s ride home,

On my two-seater

Bike.

Change out of this fancy doublet,

If you like.

Because.

I’m the Funkulator The Poet.

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.