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.

Chase Scene (part 2)

Chase Scene Part 2 (Started in last post)

Part 2
I should have stayed still.
Damn fight or flight reflex.
The second I break into the open
The bird of paradise swoops over the crowd.
It catches me quickly, as flying creatures usually can do.
It’s beautiful tail feathers flowing behind.
It makes it to my ear and whispers
In the voice of my father,
“you know you can’t run,
you know you can’t hide,
She’ll find you.
We can guess where you go,
And watch you from the sky,
From the roots,
From the eyes of marching elephants.”
With an odd cackle it returns skyward.
I never stop running,
And slam directly into the parade route
Through a break in the crowd.
Directly in front of me towers a cyborg
Elephant, marching in loose ranks with the parade,
“Stomp,” I hear him whisper.
The giant head swung towards me,
As I attempted to change directions,
But lose my footing.

Staring skyward,
A foot the size of my chest
Seems to hover above me.
Gravity.
“stomp”

Chase Scene (part 1)

Currently Titled Chase Scene (part 1)

There’s a chase going on,
down the busy streets of an old world city.
I’m sweating bullets in a secondhand,
but well-fitted suit.
My hair is flowing behind me,
in a windblown/disheveled state.
I turn down alleyways that house their
own centuries-old microcultures,
running underneath multicolored clothes lines,
dodging cats and vagrants sharing space on the
narrow slit of pavement.
In my dash, I almost miss the alluring smell of a
slum cooked meal.

There’s pain shooting up through both my legs,
if I stop I’ll double over, heaving and gasping for air…
but they’re after me.
They’re coming.
At the end of the alley, I run through the back of a smoke-filled
business, selling sin like bread in a bakery.
Perfume, sex, and anticipated violence linger in the air,
but I plow through the patrons’ heckles and protests and
break out onto a busy street.

It’s a parade day.
I’m blinded by the colors of the costumes on the street
after the shadows of the alley and the absolute darkness
of the brothel.

I stop to catch my breath because no matter how hard I push,
the crowd doesn’t part.
Maybe there is safety in numbers.
The look on my face, rapid breath, and clenched fists
are the only things that separate me from the crowd.
I am, or at least could’ve been one of them.
Should I blame curiosity?
Should I blame stupidity?
Or jealousy?
Or, as most end up doing, my mother?

I slowly take in my surroundings.
No sign of my pursuers, but they have
a habit of disappearing for moment,
only to reappear around the next bend.
The parade passes.
For the first time I notice the sound
of thousands of drums and horns
being played in a rhythmless orgy
by those marching and those watching.
Unicorns prance by,
followed by robots,
and a chained but menacing dragon,
all surrounded by tumbling musicians,
and music playing tumblers.
This madness, this new rainbow
of weapons of war, festival,
triumph, the modern, and the magical,
has mesmerized the populace.
Over the crowd I notice a bird of paradise
with purpose in its eyes.
I push back out of the masses,
knocking over a woman and child,
I’ll never be one of them again.
They’re still after me,
as I run in no particular direction
but away.



I will add to this in future posts. Maybe I'll escape. Please check my other semi-professional blog on Health and my studies to become a Naturopathic Doctor.

www.learningtoappreciatethesilence.blogspot.com


Thanks,

and cheers!

Bob Fantastic

Summer Sun ins't as inspiring as Winter Rain

Remember, these are all unedited...

Outrospective:

Haven't put my thoughts down
since the sun came out,
Summer's nine month gestation
in light Oregon rain inspire
far more introspection.

Today I embrace outrospection
in the 85 degree perfection and sunshine.
The four unique draw bridges,
I can see with a simple turn of the head
from my park bench,
impressed at how good hot coffee is
even in this heat.
at Tugboats
at everyone's headphones (and what they're listening to)
at dedicated lunchtime joggers,
at the sleeping vagrant's beard and happy mutt
at the train blowing it's whistle.
All impressive, all magic,
All without moving anything but my head.
not even straining my neck.
I wonder what I'll find deeper into the city,
I strap on my helmet, travel three blocks and...

A Eulogy to a Weezer T-shirt:
Oh Weezer Shirt, My Weezer Shirt (thanks to Walt Whitman and Robin Williams)


Oh Weezer Shirt, My Weezer shirt
We are gathered here today, to give thanks to the shelter,
the branding, the false sense of being cool and part of something,
imparted by this black graphic tee, that was somehow more,
somehow a representation of everything good in the 1990s.
It didn’t make me look like Buddy Holly,
or more attractive to half Japanese girls, but it traveled
from state to state, early high school, to college, through marriage,
to post-bac work, and almost made it to medical school.
It made its final stand floating down a river
in a cheap inner tube with good friends and a bag of pork rinds
before it was actually warm enough for said activity.
Oh Weezer shirt, My Weezer Shirt
You weren’t given to goodwill to decorate a new
high school freshman or an ironic hipster,
you faded and deteriorated as I was towed upstream after having failed
to make a successful landing at the boat put out.
One last protection, for one last failure.
Oh Weezer shirt, my Weezer shirt,
How many bad religious and philosophical discussions did you witness?
You were there for me at church camp…and after that went down in
a blazing campfire of revelation.
And one too many viewings of Dead Poet’s Society.
You were there through cases of diet coke,
an attempt at straight edge, cases of beer,
bottles of wine, pizza, suicide attempts, and awful hair choices.
And now you’ve gone away to retro tee-shirt museum in the sky,
And we salute you.
You had little to do with the band that sold you,
and more with a representation of geek chic before it was
the in thing.
Oh Weezer shirt, My Weezer shirt,
You were cool and then uncool, until becoming cool again.
You made it ok for me to read comic books, and worship the
X-Men more than the Bible,
Secure that I’d never lose my insecurities.
Oh Weezer shirt, My Weezer shirt,
Fallen apart at the seams,
Left at peace on the riverbank.
Here’s to one last unironic Kiss song,
and taking my bike to work,
You made it all ok,
Oh Weezer shirt, My Weezer Shirt.