Yelling

Screaming doesn't do any good and getting pissed is usually pointless.

To be read to this song

Yelling

The cumulative effect of yelling loudly at rocks stubbed toes flat tires dog shit cat pee rotten fruit spilled milk traffic bad radio limited warranties broken glasses bad coffee overflowing toilets awful drivers damn kids on your lawn to-do lists moles computer virus clutter dishes laundry broken spokes assholes diarrhea pop quizzes bosses faulty internet burnt toast the man taxes republicans skipping records ruined dinner allergies smokers hoboes commercials athlete’s salaries your salary corn syrup Justin Beiber new Saturday Night Live alarm clocks Mondays Wednesdays Sunday nights people crafty people crows attractive people the filing cabinet musicians batteries bad bikers calories skinny jeans money sold out events wasted food wine by the glass mark ups sexism racism classism fraternities hipsters hippies punks bros women men old people young people Christians Atheists Jews Muslims Communists Capitalists the sun rain snow home-ownership renting hot coffee cold coffee mild salsa spilled salsa stained sweaters dirty sheets stale chips head phones that only play in one ear the third world humane society commercials red hot chili pepper songs grammar spelling the education system America Europe math oxford commas me, and you is just a fowl mood, high blood pressure, a twitchy eye, and a ruined day.

I Don't Need Sleep

Revisiting a common theme.  Insomnia.

I don’t need sleep,

I just need to lie in bed,

Staring at the ceiling,

Listening to music all night,

Thinking about possibilities,

risks, the past and every person

I’ve ever accidently wronged.

If sleep is for the weak,

Obsessive reconsideration

of the past present and future

is for the concerned, introspective,

overanalyzing, deep thinkers.

I don’t need sleep,

I need a time machine

And a clinical trial on re-dos,

Make-ups and sneak-peaks.

Tonight you will be visited by

Three ghosts says a

haunting regret holding

a fresh pot of coffee:

Ghosts of Insomnia

Past, Present, Future

When the grey light finally

Comes through the window,

Announcing a rainy

Morning will I roll over

Or step out,

Let the rain soak my hair,

My clothes, and remember this

Is what it means to be alive?

I don’t need sleep,

I need nightly reminders

Of the context.

Switches

This one is about constantly feeling like you should be able to flip a switch and change things, when you should just slowly stumble forward till your eyes adjust and you're out of the dark.  It's not subtle.

Switches

Switches and dimmers line the darkened hall.

Some are old fashion on offs, pull chains hang

            Getting tangled in my hair.

I have four remote dimmer switch controls in

My pocket.  A few of the switches are lit.

I’m sure others are 3-way.

All these switches,

So easy to flip,

But the lights stay off.

Trying to find the right button,

            The right quick switch to hit,

Instead of just stumbling in the dark

Until your eyes adjust

And you make it outside.

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

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Surprise! Baby Shirt

Surprise! Visit from a friend

This year will rock.

Another Haiku

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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)

 

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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.