LIFE IN THE TRENCHES: Romance, Rebellion and Running Amok

These days the words fail

And this is the part of the night when you play the records you want and those of endurence instill love and you have no care for the morning.

And this is the part of the night when you play the records you want and those of endurance instill love and you have no care for the morning.

11:15 + other notes.

11:15 + other notes. I've got nothing and that's ok. On the lighter side I have enough dough to buy a nose hairs clipper to trim my pubes. ATB, BP (Bryan Price)

QUICK THOUGHTS ON TECHNOLOGY, LABIA HANDLING AND THE PRESIDENCY

got a real quick post about my recent adventures and deep thoughts getting my teeth worked on by dr.. staph. 

a:  i've had my temporary veneer break 3 times and the "permanent" once.
b: having your dentist located in orange county has the tendency to add to one's general irritation. driving down to get your grill fixed pretty much fucks your day.
c: i am really impressed with dr. staph's grasp on new developments in dental technology. during the span of two  weeks he discovered and implemented a new method of taking a mold of my chompers.  it was surprisingly comfortable and relaxing - no nasty gagging and imaginary john rambo putting gunpowder in his arrow wound with a soldier's endurance to pain psychodrama/game needed. 
d: i find myself getting sleepy while getting my teeth drilled.
e: i had some interesting thoughts about barak obama and his own grasp on new technology in meeting the trends of now to facilitate his winning campaign.  the fucker was on twitter.  all i got to say is that anybody who knows enough about enough to utilize all the tools of the g.d. pallete is pretty alright by me.  i mean, fuckers who are or were belly aching about "this guy - he's only been around for a couple of years" like it was a bad thing are pretty retarded.  i mean, he's only been around for a couple of years (argumentively) and look where that son of a bitch is now.  thank you dr. staph.  you and barak are pretty cool fuckers and i only hope my future molds and international travelling experiences have some sort of congrous result. 
f:  it does no good to yell at susana.  even though i didn't yell.  i waited a week or two - fuck it - actually four months after i got shanghai-ed into getting my tooth fixed - it was stricken from the "record" and yet the process started.  i felt like - even if i wasn't sure what the final decision turned out to be (the folks were funding the whole process and the last i heard we weren't getting the smiley smile fixed and yet dr. staph's chart keeping capability as well as the (susanne's) grasp on keeping the files current sucked balls.  i mean - if that happened in a hospital and they removed a testical or something heads would roll.  i swear to god.  that isn't cool. 
g:  the last time i was getting my tooth fixed i had a strange moment where the dental assistant (a lady) took over for the good dr.'s task of holding my lips open with a rubber glove. the difference was that they had completely different "touch" to the task and i started to get a boner (and an education) when i realized that what i was feeling was the difference between a man and a lady holding the lips of a vagina open.  strange, with thoughts on barak obama and getting my teeth molded but that's just the way it goes and this stuff has been on my mind for a while. 

thank you for letting me vent. 

bye. 

i am a better man today. 

YOU’RE NOT TAKING ME ALIVE COPPER

lying in bed in the dark with my pen. 
using the force to scribble it down. 
thinking about my hair.
i’m losing it.
which strikes me funny
because
it has been a long road
to vanity
and
losing my hair is supposed to be
some sort of
a genetic impossibility
because i’m half asian.

not so much. 
it looks like i will not end my adventures
with a superior mane.
son of a bitch. 
but not. 
it could be worse.
or better.
i’m not too concerned about it. 
i could be wrong.  which is wonderful.
there are more pressing issues at hand. 

i was told that losing my hair can be attributed to:
rapid weight loss after gastric bypass surgery,
being put under twice for two 8 hour stretches at a time,
real life stress, physical pain, disillusionment, the ensuing
learning curve with the mandatory rapid adaptation,
a familiarity with alcoholism, bitch boy death, poetic rebirth,
insomnia, consciousness, pawnshops, the memory of them,
feeling sick, internet education and lack of sufficient nutrition . . .

(i am not always able to afford the finest of ingredients
but do my best.)

. . . . i was told that each of these things are enough in an of
themselves to create a state of emotional mange and they
say if i want to fix it i have to take better care of myself
on all fronts.  

ok.  thanks.  i’m doing the best i can.  its not about the
hair.   

i have ideas about how this sort of thing works,
speaking of remedy and or reconciliation and
for the most part i am internationally known as a
power lifter but the way things are taking shape
these days all i can say is that my skills are most
definitely waning because no matter what
these eyes of mine are unshakeable and
locked on to the prize.   

in other words, some nasty stuff is coming for me
and i know it.     

tonight, in preparation i did push ups and practiced
martial arts in my apartment. 

yes, i was drunk at the time
and i was smoking a cigarette
but the act was nice
because it embraced my eastern roots
and i thought that it might be enough
to flatter the gods of kahn and inspire them
to wave their magic wands and sprinkle their
nun-chuck dust all over me to
resurrect my tresses.

i’m not joking. 
i know it’s coming for me.   
fear.
i’ve known this for while.
the dread.
i know its close because
my trick elbow hurts
from throwing punches
without stretching
which is good because it
freaks me the fuck out
enough to listen.  

i know
there is no way to beat the non negotiable. 

ignoring the non negotiable is
the path to happiness over and
over again.

shut the fuck up.
i think this much.
i feel this much.
sometimes what i feel is too much.
or not enough
but too much of not enough
and this is where i’m at.
the specifics do not matter.
this is not a joke.
the non negotiables have strung
together everything. 
every state.
every shade.
every idle stretch and lateral movement.   
the non negotiables have been my
north and that sweet mean son of a bitch
and has gotten me through in
every way even if i lose track
the way it works. 

from time to time it
is and always has been about
happiness. 

i say, you can’t beat the angel of death
make nice, move on and get happy. 

over and over again.  in schism there is
no schism.   

i don’t want to give into the muck side of my eye
and give it momentum.

i don’t have time and i’m tired and i don’t know if i’ll
make a speedy recovery if i do.

but
i’ve noticed its been creating new and
interesting emotional experiences which
has been an unexpected development.  

last night while watching two friends beat
the hell out of each other like grown ups
as they played a video game i felt like i was
going to burst into tears while laughing my
ass off.  

i was having fun and i was present but while
all this was going on i felt like a crack team of
jehova witnesses were lining the insides of my eyes
with c-4 and at any moment they were going to bust into
my apartment with ill intent and spray the room
with watchtowers.

i’m tired.  paranoid.  short fused and drunk with
misplaced aggression.  i’m legitimately angry.  your
schisms demand more attention than mine and i am sad,
disorientated and from suburbia.  make no mistake.
i am confident. 

i feel panic.  i feel ache.  i feel anxious.  i feel dark. 
i am unable to knock love off of the pedestal.

i am stubborn in my silence. 

tight lipped and clammed up i know there is no diffusing it.
i’m not an idiot.  

yes i know. 
that’s life.
it’s just life. 
all in all it doesn’t matter.
and
everybody knows this. 
frank sinatra knew this. 
he sang “that’s life”
as the chorus
in that song
about this and
the mob loved him because
of it.

right now, i hear him sipping tea
with the jehova witnesses
just outside my door.

i feel a dance routine coming on it’s making
me sleepy.     

yes.  i know.  that’s life.  i get it.
but getting it and finding solace in it
falls flat
like a proverb.

i understand a proverb.
i understand that a proverb holds human
truth and these kind of truths transcend
everything, thus the human angle, 
but my true champion is the temporal
and my heart is capable of both stroke
and strangle and this is where it
lives

and guides me.
it pulls me through.  

the non negotiable.  the irrefutable. 
impervious to momentum with no
need for motion.     

in this freedom
i skip and sing
and go tinkle with my
wee wee.  i do cartwheels
in the Guggenheim
and
blow shit up
in Pennsylvania. 

i
sleep thirty four
hours in a day
and fuck
six thousand times
a minute. 

i have come to understand
the wrath
of
spending too much time
eating the ass out of
a sherpa.   

i won’t do it. 
i don’t want to lay in my bed fretting about my
hair in an attempt to ignore that the fact that frank
and the witnesses are coming to get me.

they are.  i’m here.  so are they.    
what am i to do?
i don’t know what i’m going to do.
i know i don’t want to give in
but i don’t want to break while doing it. 

i feel it coming.  i don’t want to be dramatic
or get lost in pop psychology so i’m doing all i
can to let it come and go without too
much weight
but it’s seeping through.
and i can hear them. 
they are here.
those loving fuckers are here.

and
while i’m light in what i write
i promise you that it is not and
what i feel is sincere.

i am not being funny and i am afraid
and when i tell you that i have
been practicing my punches,
kicks and doing push
ups in the middle of the
night in my apartment

i mean it.  

so if you decide that it’s a good idea to
come knocking on my door i suggest you announce
yourself and enter quietly with care.

i’ve been practicing. 

(don’t make any sudden
moves.)