Tertiary Angels and Swiss Cheese Kings

By Bryan Price

Poems of Los Angeles poet Bryan Price (aka; BP) (aka; Bob the Butcher of Bliss)compiled from a series of popular readings from 2000-2005. A long awaited release, Price's work deals with the challenges of schizophrenia, depression and alcohol and drug addiction. Humorous, absurd, intensely visual and sometime's nightmarish, Price's language and dedication to hope makes this work accessible to us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257521753

Book preview

you.

where to begin

where to begin?

ambient sound down.

cue music.

music cued.

soundtrack up.

and

voila.

a grey sunset over the ocean

no land in sight.

gigantic cumulous clouds

blanketing the sky

allow pinhole shafts of orange

to extend like laser beams

down to the ocean blue.

voices of angels

multiply in power

as orange conquers grey

and darkness is put off

for fifteen minutes.

usurped by a zapata day.

i lay on the couch smoking a cigarette

as

credits from a movie travel like raindrops

down my television’s screen.

i search myself for an opening.

a club footed retard with a helmet

trying to jump into a double dutch game.

i search my pockets for a ticket.

the usher went home years ago.

vines and weeds consume the rotting iron of a turnstile.

petrified horses and lopsided ferris wheels

wait for me on the other side.

let the day fall away.

tabletop tremors demolish playing card cathedrals

and elaborate hoaxes

that con men spin.

hiding a ball

beneath

one of three

traveling cups

for a dollar

to buy coffee, cigarettes

and fast food sandwiches.

a placated cow grazing

in an endless meadow of green.

put on a cape and tights

become bulletproof

have x ray vision

fly

and save kittens from trees.

put to rest peter parker

little boy.

awake from this dream

of digestible truths

and slowly reveal

the unrestrained you

that has been hidden

from all the breathers of

the world.

you are a breather,

aren’t you?

yes.

yes.

i am magellan after slumber.

socrates after drinking.

the first footprint on the moon.

i wade waist high through the ocean

as a giant

cutting through continents

creating coral reefs the size

of footprints

leaving a trail of

self likeness

wherever i go.

closer.

closer.

always closer.

back to the beginning.

to that amniotic sac.

a world of water

and matronly sustenance

curled up like a pea pod

feeling the warmth of my knees.

regressing to that day before nurture

to that unfettered

unimpressed

unintellectual

illogical me.

a time of pure emotion.

a time before lies.

a time of realized subconsciousness.

a time of concrete honesty.

and then i can sing the song

of legions of angels

who whisper the secrets

to all the unanswered questions of the heart.

i will be able to put love in a

car and drive it to kindergarten for

show and tell.

i will be able to take a snapshot of

my soul eating watermelon and put

it up on my mantle to be viewed by

my friends.

i will finally be able to squeeze the

breath out of faith as i hold it closely

and securely in both of my arms.

i will decode every misinterpreted statement

and moment of misunderstanding.

every stuttering, stammering, clumsy

miscalculated sentence that’s ever come out

of my mouth.

i will untangle every tongue tied moment

and begin to speak like king and i have a dream.

i will be able to give a name to every emotion.

unify the gap between head and heart.

to paint a picture without illusion.

to carry on without memory or expectation

and float on my back at sunset

in the orange waters of now.

and then,

only then, will i begin.

my living room smells like garbage

my living room smells like garbage.

my bedroom smells like sweat.

the whole place smells like an ashtray.

i’m the captain of this boat

and i will go down with my lady.

i’ll go down on my lady.

eat her like thirty ravenous pigs.

a whole litter of puppies.

a whole family of runts.

trying to gain enough weight

to avoid the sympathetic eye of a dirty hippy.

a poster child for p.e.t.a.

a motherfucking bleeding heart.

no, i’d rather starve in a corner neglected

than be adopted by a martyr.

can’t stand martyrs.

good samaritan dental flossing fools.

give me a sturdy farmer with a twenty

two and the resolve to put a bullet in my head

and

i’ll lick his balls until they shine like kojak.

remember who loves you baby.

i love you baby.

i love you.

i love you, my kitten.

i love you too.

we’ll lay in bed naked and read books until four in the

afternoon.

drink slimfast all day and eat sensible dinners,

fabulous dinners set up on orange crates.

candles and jazz and non alcoholic beers.

we’ll put on blindfolds and try to open each other up

like piñatas.

every day is the fifth of may.

a happy new year.

a thirteenth birthday.

a reunion between an abandoned child and a whore

mother.

welcome home, johhny.

welcome home, mom.

no questions about why and what happened.

only the bliss of unanswered questions.

conflicted emotions.

something lost being found.

amazing . . . . .she sings.

amazing . . . . . .he sings.

amazing . . . . . .we sing . . . . .

grace.

how to master time

easy. first, you must find the

ever elusive peanutberry.

then, search for the highest

building you can find.

once you find it, jump.

it is very important

that you

take photographs of yourself

with a disposable camera

on the way down.

preferably one of those that

has a flash and can go

underwater.

no real reason for the

underwater variety

other

than those kind of cameras

are really cool

and are usually found in

tropical areas near the ocean

or some body of water

in some touristy area

or point of interest

that mandates the production

of their

own

mass produced

snapshots that they

place on postcards

to make the kids back

home jealous

while they look over

their mail while eating

spamburgers;

a sunday night tradition

treat and delight.

and as we all know,

there is no substitute

for grace

class and style.

take to writing your

secrets on walls and bathroom

stalls and elevators

and escalators

banks and park benches

anything with a shelf life

and an owner with rules

and contracts

and an agenda to keep

beauty a virgin.

to keep beauty groomed.

do all you can to confuse the

reader with pretty but meaningless

words.

stuff to be interpreted.

read into

and stimulate

the imagination of idiots

and absolutely

nothing in the minds of the smart.

honk your horn at

hearts

adorning lightposts with

flowers and burning incense.

altars and memory

and vanished voices.

a big pink neon arrow

pointing to the ground.

a testimony

to be understood as a realization

that these strange

newly discovered skulls

knew how to

harness electricity

to light the curves

and keep clean the foot.

a sweeping generalization.

unification in the afterthought

of a belch

sent off in a room

with no one left

to sit down

and split a bean.

a vacated apartment

where carcasses

are left unidentified

with the integrity

of being called a carcass

and scraps of paper

that have been

unceremoniously

hand shredded

and

scattered about

the floor

evoking memories

and hallucinations

of rose petals

and roses

and buds

and thorns.

eat only what you like.

chew suckers and suck on gum.

ingest anything edible that

people turn their nose up to

because it has touched ground

or the surface of a public table

wet with some unknown substance

and scarred with some unknown

grime or ink.

orphans are much tastier than

kids with soccer practice and toys.

leave your legacy

with black ink

on black paper.

sleep only when rested.

fall into a coma

at least three times

a day

then relearn how

to walk from

a wheelchair

with legs

and steel braces

screws

and bent spines

and orthopedic shoes

that spring to life

in spasmodic

stepping dances

that keeps you waiting

and filled with anger

once the red has

left and gave

way to green.

read a spanish

version of don quixote

to a mexican

who

no habla espagnol.

ask for directions when

you are not lost.

go to the court of law

just so you can give the judge

a thumbs up.

find the most boring

and musicless hymn

you can find

and sing it to your

children

or others’ children

just sing it to the children

any and all children

when they gather

and want to be left

on the corner to walk

their way without you

so that they can be

more evolved than

their language allows.

follow closely and

scream it into their

cowlicks

with a kazoo sized

megaphone

in a bad australian

accent.

make the british proud.

get tattoos

on the bottom of your feet

and the inside of the eyelids.

something cute like a

happy face

or a tube of

preparation h.

shower only when you are

certain that you are not going

to entertain anybody

and spend the night in

smoking cigarettes

and writing a to do

list on all the x’s

of a calendar

from a year

at least nine decades

before you were born.

give free drugs and alcohol

to crossing guards

conductors

and traffic cops.

answer rhetorical questions.

point at things that are not there.

rebel against beds

repel and rebuke the floors.

champion couches that smell

like sweat

and an overture to isolation.

exercises in the acceptance of gravity.

vigils held for the recovery of love.

never empty ashtrays.

leave that to souls longing for purpose.

spend all your money

on clothes and things of high fashion

then borrow

your friend’s favorite t-shirt

and pants

most comfortable socks

and fastest pair of shoes

and

wear them everyday

until they disintegrate

off your body

leaving behind

a fetid

fetid

smell.

this is the great arrival.

once you’re naked,

burn your wardrobe.

and yes,

i am aware that i left out underwear.

you don’t need it.

it is the bane of all human

existence.

frivolousness.

a waste of time.

truth.

carry a book of matches

with you at all times.

when you see something

flammable

left in an alley

or a curb

or under a freeway

or some cultisac with

graffiti and brown weeds

spark one of those bad boys

up and throw it on the

object of your affection

with good wishes

and hope

for ignition

and

the gift of a good healthy

irresponsible

and

subversive

burn.

become a born

again christian

or priest

or nun

or monk

or any holy type.

something spiritual

with a vow of celibacy

and if not

celibacy

at least chastity

and high morals

then fuck fuck fuck

until you

get a strange and gooey discharge

coupled

with some

sores

and some interesting

strange growths

that pulsate in green

and red

luminescence

when you pee

and shed tears

because it stings.

study and extol the honesty of a poser.

the fraudulently unabashed.

only drink water from the sink

or

small stagnant still