The First Book of You

By Bryan Price

Hello, my name is Bryan Price. I go by Bob the Butcher of Bliss. This is a book recounting the many different manifestations of the proverbial "you" on the road towards true love. Whatever that may be. I began this book four years ago when I was in love with a girl I could not have. This is an attempt at reconciling that pain as I recount, in 70 different stories/poems, the utter triumph or failure of those gifts of mist -- those endeavors into romance -- those near misses and cataclysms of great substance and crumbs. Maybe, you'll recognize someone important to you here. Maybe, you'll recognize your story within my trials and tribulations. Hopefully, as you trudge forward, this will serve as a source of fuel for you . . . as you make your way to what's important . . . to that final manifestation of "you". This is chapter one of those crimes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257473953

Book preview

21st

1.

you gave birth to me.

2.

i saw you born.

3.

you were my first date.

my first glimpse of underwear.

the beautiful taboo.

an eyeful.

my first endeavor into crime.

stealing you.

choo choo trains.

engines that could.

to this day i climb stairs looking for smoke

and listening for whistles.

god damn its good.

you’d orchestrate games of dungeons and dragons

with no game boards

or rules

or cards with characters on them.

pure imagination.

the great escape.

you’d be leah.

i’d be luke. sometimes han.

rarely chewy.

never 3PO.

never R2.

they were saved for whoever came late.

with you, i was always on time.

i was afraid of standing barefoot on grass then.

but i’d wade knee high in trash dodging water

monsters

trying to escape before the walls closed in on us.

they could not take our freedom.

it was stars and stripes for cornflakes.

a nutritious start to every day.

4.

you were the most beautiful thing i’d ever seen

with the same last name of an ice cream joint in

pasadena.

a place for birthdays and big bowls

of goodness.

more ice cream than i ever needed.

or could eat.

syrups of sweetness.

creams and candied fruit.

ragtime hats and armbands.

beating drums and crashing cymbals.

speeded out sparklers in place of candles.

proclamations of joy.

the archetype of every party

celebration

and good time to come.

never could find my way there on my own.

still don’t know exactly where it is.

where i should make a right or left.

could call 411.

could ask my parents.

but what fun would that be?

i’d rather tell stories about it

mixing fiction with truth and nostalgia

letting it reside on the corner of myth

and mind.

downtown. uptown. crosstown.

pinero’s lower east side.

one of my favorite corners.

a street lamp poem.

a batman beginning

with a red phone booth

and a black cat named floyd

and a half opened can of sardines

left by somebody’s lonely,

good samaritan grandmother.

bricks and cumbersome window

air conditioning units

hum hum humming

making the nine to five acceptable

and gpc cigarettes the king’s most valued booty

mandating the construction of

drawbridges and moats

and overtime.

the blinking eye of a neon green

insurance sign written in spanish.

saying, seguros.

seguro?

i don’t even know for sure if that is

the word i think it is

and suggests.

so what?

from mexico to l.a.

tequila bottles wearing sombreros

on computer/math wiz/

kik em karate/dog eating

asians’ coffee tables

scream

ole. ole. ole.

a lovely mystery.

a gut instinct.

an unbroken promise of something undefined.

5.

you were pretty lady.

i was parachute man.

together, we were

pretty lady and parachute man.

the first game.

the first step into role playing.

blindfolds.

bondage.

booming heartbeats.

hoo waw!

calack-calack-calack.

crack-crack-crack.

you know what i mean?

i spent time hanging from a water hose.

hanging from the price’s ghetto swing.

dangling from the world’s

most famous

avocado tree.

as tall as pluto.

as tall as uranus.

as tall as uncle phil.

a personal reference just for me

and you

if you fill in the blanks

with some figure that fits

his face.

branches, leaves and fruit

stretching up and breaking

through the streets of gold.

god’s private stash of fresh guacamole

that he harvests from the top,

from the crown

which is bountiful

and never goes rotten.

it is something that never gets old.

and i would swing and dangle and spin

plummeting from the sky

towards death.

my chute would barely open,

slowing me enough

to keep me from liquefying.

in need of medical attention.

healing.

a revival.

a miracle.

redemption.

.

she’d find me.

she’d call at me.

poke me.

touch me.

inspect me.

make diagnosis.

place leaf and mud

band aids and wraps

and shoot me up

with twigs full of perfect drugs.

it was 911 before 911.

healing wounds one by one.

nothing would do the trick and save me.

heal me.

revive me.

make me as good as new.

then,

she’d realize the one place

she did not look

or study.

either that or she was intensifying.

saving the best for last.

for her or me or both I can’t tell you for sure.

then,

there it would be.

eureka.

you found it.

THE ORIGINAL WOUND.

fulfilling the title of pretty lady

she’d bring everything out into the open

and

with a zip predicated by an un

she’d

give it air

and a kiss

and a breath.

and i’d breathe

big fresh lungfulls