LIFE IN THE TRENCHES: Romance, Rebellion and Running Amok

you know when you have low blood sugar and the day is not done . . . may i suggest

IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU

sometimes i would prefer a pack of wolves over laughter. 
learn to take care of yourself and you’ll know when to walk
away, like me.   

it took a long time to realize its easier to feel at odds with
the world than believe

it revolves around me. 

MY NAME IS BRYAN PRICE, AKA:BP - I AM A POET AND I GET TURNED ON BY WEIRD STUFF

so, this may or may not be weird.  but who cares if it is or isn’t anymore.  i believe in pragmatic resonance and if you talk a lot of bullshit you’ll attract not so mystic demons and if you don’t you me us all that other stuff may have a chance  - like with sexy ideas and progressive thought bombs or what or what not fired from the minds and mouths of idiots (myself included) that may or may not jar something in someone out there with a string of thoughts and a hankering to make some sort of thing happen . … fuck it.  please excuse me.  i am not myself, now.  like the kind of self that kind of sort of feels like taking one of those death clubs the irish bad asses used to carry around back in the days of old new york and bonk the high holy fuck out of the skulls of any j-hole that may or may not have deserved it.  in my opinion, depending on what the day is like and if your girl or guy turns out to be a piece of shit or father cocksuckfuck takes the purity of your little son and teaches him the inquisition born gorked out interpretation of of the “body of christ” any fucker at any moment can get their skull caved in and i  think a nice petrified piece of wood works just fine all nice and up close and personal like as far as those things go. 

i totally give the five or three people who happen to run by this blog the permission to delete my ass back to obscurity because i’ve got nothing insightful to say bout firefinger or some other shit that reminds of of geek assed keg stands back in the day when poor Sheryl stood in the corner barking because everyone felt all smug like because they were too stupid to try and learn her language – because we’ve all go a language if we have the ears and half a shit of brain to realize it and they may be someone watching who can illuminate everything.  if you haven’t seen this person yet, you should check it out to see what i mean.  is pretty freaking cool.  READ ON BUT COME BACK AND TAKE A LOOK.

ITS LONG. YOU MY NOT GET IT OR LAUGH YOUR ASS OFF BUT IF YOU ARE PATIENT, YOU WILL KHNOW WHAT I MEAN.  BUT KEEP READING FIRST.  

in any case i’m pretty grumpy.  my ex girlfriend was a (blood sausage).  she also fancied herself a publisher.  something weird happened when we moved in together where she didn’t like me to write how i wrote because it broke some rules and what not and nobody would ever give a shit  about what i had to say but she still wanted me to sign all my stuff over to her with a thumb print stamped with my blood which i thought was weird when all i was really doing was trying to get the least expensive tuna to make some sort of casserole because i didn’t want her to be unhappy and i was a poor spender when it came to deciding oil water tuna vs. canadian whiskey (the shit cock of the entire universe).  in any case, what i’m trying to say here is that i’m going to write whatever the fuck i want and if you are a friend or not a friend or come across or don’t come across you need to know you may or may not be in here or may not be in here and if you have a problem with that stay the fuck away because i would rather be alone for the rest of my god damn life than feel like a broken retarded emasculated jerk with no magic or north than do the one single solitary thing that has kept me from doing a lot of fucked up shit to a lot of fucked up or not so fucked up people like finding tht irish club and smashing it up against the head of becket – the fucking shitball who does home tattooes at the coffee shop down the street that fills me with a flash of such violence for some reason that i would love to see his head explode.  again.  this may be because i am in a state where my body is like this  andmy pain is like this but . . . whatever.

anyways, so i want to talk about a weird sexual feeling i had in the plastic surgeon’s office yesterday.  you see, over the last two years i’ve lost round 175 pounds.  something like that.  i was 363 pounds.  all along the way i’ve been writing, watching, listening, laughing, seeing, loving, empathizing and quelling a whole lot of violence in me because the amount of variables that leads one up to a place of such complete and total rage and self destruction that they would build themselves into a heart attack like fuck like that isn’t so great and it has taken a lot of calling fuckshit on myself to stop it.  i won’t  pat myelf on the back for it but if anybody is going to do  the high and mighty – dang, man – the body doesn’t mean shit in this world – i challenge you to drop acid and run with the bulls in spain, get into the stadium and tap the ass off a few bulls – get thrown and tell me about the next few hours on the train platform going through what i went through really reconsidering what does and doesn’t matter all man like and rebellion like – i mean – how many of you fuckers would really put it on the line like that all alone where if you were dead and died nobody would be there to claim or know you – just you and the fucking splat of idyllic balls slipping and sliding on the piss, jizz, wine and vomit of a bunch of tourists, assholes and true spainairds who pretty much hate every single on of us j=holes come to their home and culture to prove something that can much easier proved by just being a man – a real fucking man = and living.  another story and another day. 

in any case, i’m in a lot of fucking pain – and i just got a surgery and right now it looks great – and i think somewhere around ten pounds of dead loose skin is gone now and it hurts – god damn it – it hurts real bad and has me thinking things – like about my irish girlfriend – i sure loved her but i was sure fucking stupid and i’m sure as shit glad that i didn’t give her no bloody thumb print but that’s neither here nor there but lets just say that when i was in the  plastic surgeon’s office with olna or ornya (i couldn’t quite place it) she and i sat  there sorta quiet like as she inspected my wounds – touching them – tracing them softly – asking if it hurt – which it did – but not like all the other hurt that i’ve felt – it was a good hurt – a final hurt – a nice clean sentence – a hurt – a hurt from her – and it was shared and she had  these blue eyes and a mind far greater than mind and my ensuing healing depended on a sight that she had but i didn’t.  and i said no. and yes. and its okay.  its okay.  its okay.  and she pulled the tape away and dabbed the blood.  squatting.  on her knees.  doctors jacket pulled up a little.  legs – stockings revealed.  black pumps – not stripper – fuck me pumps but the kind of pumps that have class and the kind of versatility to sit on a subway with her knees touching and toes turned in just enough where there was a destination hidden somewhere behind them – perhaps a man – or a sister – or someplace with oak and soft music or something fantastically german with tarps and a collar of somekind and a goblet full of cum. 

i’m not sure – but i like to think of an oven – and a mother – and a husband – who has no idea – and leaves – one leave found everymorning and lit with with a strike anywhere match then dropped into the open wastebin of some dump basket in front of a school – some poor library that has long since forgotten its responsibility to tell us – all of us = every children and aghast mother fondling a pipe bomb next to their walter’s butt plugs – whre the devil is real and we know the devil because we speak of the devil and the ideas are exchanged and we know where there are heroes and we know how there are good men and women who do horrible things and there are even more wonderful andhorrible creatures who seem right but are the single straight shot that will snip the jugular of that last angel of nothing so that its gone – gone gone gone gone. 

and as all these things ran through my brain and she cleaned the wounds above my cock – gently – looking up at me to see how my face reacted – and we said nothing – it may have been one of the most erotic experiences of my lifetime – and i’m not sure if  there will ever be anything like that ever again – which, in my opinion shouldn’t.  because  then it becomes like some fucking kid from the Midwest with a Mohawk and a nickname talking about blowing peoples minds and making fun of the prudes when the marquis de sade died hundreds of years before their bomb on wheels moved them across the country where they could wear their obviousness like a black flag across their empty, emaciated and obvious chests – devoid of anything of  imagination – and an inner universe of an absolute moment of an intimitately pure and essential question mark to never be understood by anybody – save that illogical but primal impulse to find that club and feel hatred for misguided love and smash every stupid son of a bitch that makes the twinge of fire rise in them with a piece of wood needed a notch marked in it for watermelon popping some son of a bitches head. 

DNA FROM YESTERDAY

3pm - Don L. Smith's Office.  Doctor.  Cauliflower nose.  Brazil-esque decor.  Easter stuff scattered amongst the other stuff.  Cash only.  HMO provider approved.  The building looks like the remanants of a bankrupt out luxury community in La Bufadora, Mexico -- muted, empty, the future of civilization after the coming of the bomb. 

Waiting for my EKG.

THE TIME ON THE CLOCK IS: 10:45?

THE BED IS:  yikes.

I SAT IN TRAFFIC - on the two plus hour ride home.  I hate driving to the OC for any health matter but that's where my permanent mailing address is and in a week I'm having a huge surgery.  I lost 175 pounds over the last two years.  Doing that so rapidly leaves a bunch of loose skin.  I got over being self conscious about it and comfortable naked with the help of a lady.  The rewards of the surgery comes in the form of the physical things.  Simple gifts like being able to shit in any public bathroom and sit in a chair with no fear of it breaking or coming with you.  You learn a lot about human nature and the people you're with when that happens - you get tough with the humiliation also you become a little screwed. 

At this point in time, I just want to be able to button up a suit.  If I could, I would wear  one all the time - like the men from the fifties stepping out to buy a pack of camels and tomatoes. 

I'm afraid.  I have to tell you.  Its a big old nasty surgery.  If I'm repeating myself here forgive me, but you know its pretty major when the staff keeps saying - its one of the more uncomfortable surgeries. 

gulp.

One lady - the financing lady - I caught her smiling a bit when she knew I didn't buy the - Its pretty painful, like childbirth - but just think of it this way - when you are done you'll be a new man - speel. 

We laughed real hard about that one. 

Back to Don, though.  In spite of the fact that hiz bio-hazard waste basket looked like the kind that Oscar the Grouch lived in, Don was excited for me and as I was leaving mentioned that the surgery date was 8-8-08.  Exactly two years from the date the deal was done.  A man of whimsy and attention - god bless.

THE DRIVE HOME WAS A SON OF A BITCH. 

Two and a half hours later I'm breaking into a friends home because I had a situation of absolute curiosity and he wasn't there.  I am able to do this because of a nice lady who knew how to do things like this.  Unfortunately, he wasn't there.  Fortunately, she isnt'.  But, eventually I found him.  We both have fought hard.  Things are on the god damn precipice.  I am doing the best to get out of my own way. 

ITS TOUGH WHEN THINGS GET GOOD AFTER BEING DOWN AND OUT for so long because it implies taking a good long look at the ass kickings that compose your the sum of your life that has culminated into a flashing point big enough that it has WOKEN YOU THE FUCK UP - its hard to take a good and honest look at it.  It clarifies the state you live in and the fuck ups and decisions you have made and you forget your triumphs.  it can be disconcerting and is the DNA of the phrase: "I got to stop getting in the way of myself."  It has gone on for so long.   

Its strange when it becomes more than just being alive.  It is a noticeable shift when one realizes that the next trip one takes is not to find his place in the world but take his with him.

Another story.  Another time. 

And now . . . here's the end of the night.

This is the DJ booth at the Hyperion Tavern. 

Apparently my DNA is fond of music. 

In parting, I would like to share with you a poem from the morning.  Or maybe, a morning before yesterday morning.  I'm not sure.  I don't know what this has to do with anything other than I want to post it.  And there is a linear logic to these things.  It is the DNA of me as well.  The other side.  The guy who searches for THE EVER ELUSIVE PEANUTBERRY. 

let's begin:

FOR FIVE BUCKS IT COMES STUMBLING FROM A CUP

this morning a spilt cup of coffee demonstrates
the power and grace of a natural disaster.

it yanked everyone out of their longing and got
them talking. 

she chirps, “i did that in an airport and it sucked”. 

no shit. 

smiles come and there is laughter. 

this guy with a smoking sailor tattoo
stands there frozen, staring at the table of
misfortune:

it looks like he’s waiting for something. 
pulled out of his stupor yet stupefied,                        
nonetheless. 

(connected.) 

the coffee here costs five bucks a cup,                     
still we come. 

it barely makes sense to anyone. 

the other day a 5.8 earthquake shook the
city.  i was buying a sandwich – ten dollars –
it had the same effect.

phones blew up – calls were made – everybody
eager to say that they were alive and doing well.

(those from ohio were particularly radiant.) 

strangers gave birth to family.
the experience was absolute. 
we all had a story to tell.
and it had nothing to do with
anyone.

which makes the world a better place,
somehow.

like coca cola and mercenaries.

but,
if i had my druthers
i’d choose a good California
earthquake over being
up shits creek
for five dollars.

either way i am capable enough
to see and seize it.

like my outfit from the other night
that i got cracked on and called
“Dead Poets Society” taught me.    

An earthquake is never wrong.