LIFE IN THE TRENCHES: Romance, Rebellion and Running Amok: PHOTO/ILLUSTRATION/POEM/BLOG ENTRY

My name is Bob the Butcher of Bliss, aka: BP (Bryan Price). I am from Los Angeles. I am a poet and in my poetry, I call out "The Elephant". This blog is a hodgepodge of a lot of different "categories" of writing - poems, short stories, drawings, essays, observations, pictures, illustrations, literature, humor, emotional terrorism, satire, confessions, rants, philosophy, diaries, verbal diarrhea, personal journals, anthems, prayers, handshakes, war cries, hard-ons, heart flutters, lamentations, aspirations and proclamations. I have a strong sense of authorship and handle on the absurd. I say a lot of glib shit to keep a sense of humor about things that I probably shouldn't. Sometimes I drop the glib and lay it out there naked, sloppy, intimate and raw because it facilitates my true intent. Hope, love and beauty comes in the form of "The Elephant" when somebody says, "What the fuck is that" and the other says, "I see it too." I acknowledge "The Elephant" because there is strength in the "The Elephant". "The Elephant" has no shame. "The Elephant" feeds and is fed with those moments of "oh" and "me too." It gets rough sometimes, right? This blog is part of a concept/experiment based on an interaction between a stranger in Amsterdam armed with a sack of bird seed, a crowd of nasty hecklers and a flock of hungry pigeons with a strong sense of self. :)

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April 20, 2009

PHOTO/ILLUSTRATION/POEM/BLOG ENTRY - This Morning at The Brite Spot

Brite Spot is a diner. The ketchup bottle was on the table. My burrito was pretty good. I can't sort through my thoughts. Lately, (today's choice description) I feel like the air has hair and every sound (both sonic and otherwise) pops through my thoughts - sometimes with a hint of chlorine and a pocketful of quarters (the singular hum of complete and total disappearance; bowl cut chub boy with half deaf asian ear on hot concrete - hummmmmmm - you bet). sometimes, not so much. I want a new drug. More time. Less care. Long life. Less razor - and my finger with a smile scrawled with sharpie on the tip of it to be pressed on the spot that does not eject, destruct, activate, demarcate, stop, start, whine, bitch, rant, rave, hug, love, fart, frankenstine, fumble, crumble, illuminate, elevate, sanctify, blame, postulate, theorize, spar, flick, tickle, topple, tag - the thought that scrawled it.

Posted by Bryan Price on April 20, 2009 at 02:27 PM in CONFESSIONS OF A TENDER PONY - the heart spews_ | Permalink

Technorati Tags: blog, breakfast, illustration, journal entry, photo, poem

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LIFE IN THE TRENCHES: Romance, Rebellion and Running Amok

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