come now and gather round children
and i will tell you the tale
of a wind that is bound to blow in
and the way that the wind will wail

see i too once was a baby
rocking away in the bough
when a breeze came along and it shoved me
down down down

and i fell from the arms of my mother
i fell from the limbs of the tree
and this wind that keeps on blowing
will never let me be

when i sleep it scratches my window
and it wakes me from my dreams
this wind never gets it answers
at least that’s how it seems

this wind is a storm in the making
and it follows me like death
and i’m worried that this poem
will be my final breath

and i’m worried for you dear children
that’s why i sing this story
of the wind that never softens
of its evil endlessly glory

it will follow you
it will follow you
it will follow you to the graveyard

it will follow you
it will follow you
it will lead you to the end

it will follow you
it will follow you
like a song lost in your skull now

and the thing about
this wind called death
is he is your most loyal friend



i had this dream that i walked out into the ocean
arms at my side at night i just kept going
there on the shore you stood watch
arm stretched out before you you sang to me
but i was entranced, lost to the rhythms of the sea
i stepped out further, cold water at my ankles
i stepped out further, cold water at my knees
and the whole time you sang to me arm stretched out
i did not see, i did not hear the song you sang
i just walked further and further into the tide
i stepped out further, cold water at my hips
eyes glazed over with the mist of salt
i did not know where i walked to
i did not know if i would ever look back
i just continued to walk out into the ocean
the wind blowing on my face and the
sun pressed down upon my bare shoulders
i seeked the black mystery of leagues deep
i seeked to be a dark submarine traipsing
through fog and algae and in the distance
the demon eyes shining in the rocky caves
i stepped out further, cold water at my back
cold water at my shoulders up to my neck
and just then. the moment before the ocean
sucked me in to the unanswerable question
i heard your sweet songs skipping on the waves
and it hit my ears with hallelujah and amen
sweet siren singing me away from shipwreck
i turned around cold water off my shoulders
off my hips my knees my ankles and the sun
of your love i remembered i remembered
once and for an eternity i will recall
that the mystery is there within you
in each breath in and out like the crash of waves
the deep caverns of your love
your ocean fifty million leagues deep
i placed my hand on the soft of your outstretched arm
and i dived deep into your song for this sailor
this lonesome wanderer lost in the maybe
but forever found in the constant rhythms of your moon
and the sea in my soul that sways to its sound



congratufuckinlations, sir
you are the hoo rah mayor of selfie town
you have become so damn good
at taking the spotlight
and cramming it up
your own asshole
you are your own personalized
votive candle
complete with holy sticker of yerself
plastered on the side

your wick is burning

no one gives a shit

and when the long day is done
when you retire from the soured limelight
to your king-sized bed
you snuggle up nice and tight
beside yourself
big spoon little spoon
you coddle with the one you
love most dearly
and when the lights turn out
you continue
your vicious ritual
of stroking your own

congregation of one
you are your own moon
you are your own sun
but there is not
a single star in your sky
you light the void
like a bonfire
in a garbage dump

you taste your own death
on the tip
of your own sucker

you strap soup cans to your mouth
and ears
wired together entangled
entranced together
and you claim to hear god

the world sleeps in
lost in a raw dream
of static and painful love
absent of kings and jesters
and kings and jesters

write down your legacy
and use it to cushion your coffin

hoo rah mayor of selfie town
la dee da king of the fun house mirror
drown in the alphabet soup of yer name
show strangers the pictures of yourself in yer wallet

have fun on the thin road
that leads to a thinner road
that leads to a thinner road still



and in the middle of the night
the boy sneaks back into his poet soul
out of nowhere
he climbs into the rib cage of his heart
pulls up the skin of his arms like sleeves
and finds his electric fingers bouncing on the keys

sometimes the brain packs up its shit
lifts its trousers and two little suitcases
and hops on a plane to nonsenseville, nowhere
sometimes it’s meditation
sometimes yer running from a life yer afraid of
throwing on kicks and pushing off the ground
into the dark forest
push through to spectre
where some blonde girl throws yer sneakers up on the line
sometimes some times some times
blah blah blah

here we are
you and me. a fireplace. a bottle of whiskey.
a really fucking big bottle of whiskey haha.
you and me.
(it’s inescapable really the way i think about
but dear reader it’s you too!
it’s you i love too!
you’ve been so patient with my anxious stupid.
you’re always there for me.

i am sorry if i’ve been an absent father of a poet.
life isn’t always linear.
in a world where we are multiple people
there’s a lot of group therapy to be had.

my path has never been that of a paintbrush –
i’ve got bills to pay
debts from past lives
(kind of makes me sound like a drug dealer)
but the truth is
i’m more of a free spirit
with its ghostly tail attached to a dollhouse.

but i’m here to visit.
here to say hello.
to shake the hand to kiss the baby
to go around the wedding saying nice things
to dance with the bride
to love the way the love manual tells me to love

but then
in the middle of the night
i pull my heart up from under the floorboards
throw it in my tin man chest
and i splatter my red all over the walls
i graffiti the city and i flood the streets
and the townspeople will awake
to find christmasday in july
to find the sonic echos of my soul
and a dead poet in the street
then buried in the ground
then mixing with the worms and the roots

that is how they will find me
and you and him and her and the mailman


i am unafraid to say to you.

let each day work towards my freedom
let each moment in love be unabashedly sincere
let each porch swing swing high into the night
fly off its ropes and ascend graceful into the heavens

let there be flashfloods of hope
lightning storms of abundance
angels dancing like hipsters in the flat
of some famous dead poet

let us kiss like we just discovered this. lips
let us bust through the ropes that contain
our cocaine hearts
let us be ready to face our new love

let the birds free from the chapel
traveling through time to a holy grave
soldiers falling for the future
as one ascends into existence in this white light symphony
this giant sandbox of death and orgasm

let die the dying dog
pour water on the campfire and get some sleep
take moments to just be
tear them off the paper on the bulletin board
call the number listed

let lay my head beneath you
i do not fear how tall you are
i am unafraid to say to you
i am unafraid to say to you
i am unafraid to say to you
how deep your rivers run through my limbs

let down the moon from drunk denver
let our steps be chaotic, unplanned and together
let lay we against the timeless brick walls
let lay we lost in the cosmos above oz

let we move
not forward not backward
not any way in particular
let we dance yes dance
dance veronically for the world
let we dance for the stoplights
for the lost generations
let we breathe this gospel in
let we scatterbrain talk
let we automatic touch
let we semi-automatic breathe
let we swallow these great sighs like buildings falling

these tied up wildflowers
i am unafraid to say to you
i am unafraid to say to you
i am unafraid to say to you the end.



Hey guys,

I’ve decided I need a break from the blog. I’m sorry to do this in the middle of the 08.2015 project but I need to take my writing in some new directions. I’d like to focus my attention on a novel and feel like having my writing on a public forum has become a deterrent to me being honest with my writing. Not sure how long I’ll be off the site but I wager like 6 months. I think I just need to try some new things. Thanks for understanding and to those of you who have always supported my blog, I appreciate you guys and know how much you’ve become a kind of online family to me. Any of you are welcome to shoot me a friend request on Facebook.

Brice Maiurro



you bought a house
then decided to take a wrecking ball to it
and i stand before it and you
a peaceful protestor
hands flailed open eyes stern
against your eyes hoping you’ll hear me say
“stop this now”

that’s the thing i liked about you
you were ferocious
unafraid to work hard
unafraid to let the world splatter paint
at your abstract painting
but the gallery has such weird hours now
and rumor is it’s shutting down

don’t do it
it’s not a game
it’s a symphony
it’s not a chessboard
it’s your fucking life
and you can chase gold
but you’re missing the rain
identify the beads of sweat
that pour down your face
are they crocodile tears
or jet fuel?
your choice

but i’m hoping you don’t, man
it’s your decision but i hope you don’t
we’re children thrown into the lion’s den
but while we’re shivering in the shadows
we can at least practice our roars
and i know it’s in ya
i can see the cacophony percolating in your drum
there are monsters waiting patiently
in your tarpit stomach

when the earth opens up
they will stare in awe at the titans
that you send sprawling from your arms
but if you don’t
maybe i was wrong
maybe it’s not your time
but fuck it
answer me this riddle that perplexed my bones
for two solid decades –
when will it be?




can’t fuckin pin me down
i wander up the sides of denver buildings
i walk slowly smoking someone else’s spliff
up towards the stratosphere
out of this coughing grey cloud cover
out of this shit hole city
that i love
the one that found me crawling into its bosom
twelve and skinny and awkward
no friends just a basketball and too much gel in my hair
and here i am bald and charmingly depressive
it’s a funny feeling when people you think
curmudgeon old man is a face that you put on
when in reality that’s the truth
you are that curmudgeon old man
you cover it up with witty optimistic young suitor
but that gets old
so you slap on another wall of grumpy
you piss and moan around your one bedroom apartment
fans blaring
guitar gathering dust in the corner
you read the ingredients of the back of yer toothpaste
while dostoevsky turns yellow on the bookshelves

living the dream
another day another dollar
same shit different day
we’re so good at finding grace
in our repetitive dance steps

the record skips
you write tired poetic cliches
stars and flowers
beautiful women that remind you of roses
looking out the window at the rain
la dee fucking da

sometimes it’s organic
and that’s nice
i’m talking poetry and love
when it comes natural
and sometimes you find yourself looking at it
like a fucking denny’s menu at 3 a.m.
and yer stoned and the waiter is drunk
and he’s wandering around with yer chocolate milkshake
lost in the forests of narnia

is that the one i want?
is that the candle i’ll burn?
my favorite stick of incense
i like the roma tomatas better than
the cherry tomatas
what’s yer favorite color?
i like green
they say geniuses choose green
well, they did
until they realized that any idiot can
become a genius
just by thinkin to choose green

you’re the sally to my jack
you’re the nancy to my sid

yeah what’s that all about
choosing our idols based on mugshots
idolizing addiction
the music sounds better
when the album ends with a shotgun in the mouth

it’s all sugar donuts
it’s all candy cereal and three thousand
types of vanilla ice cream
it’s 300 pack crayons and condoms
that are ribbed for her pleasure
it’s antipsychotics and the pills that ya gotta take
to counterbalance the antipsychotics
maybe you were just dehydrated

i just
fuck fuck fuck
this fuckin thing
still going
here we are
chapter thirteen
in which the writer divulges his ennui
from always writing about his ennui

ennui was a word invented
by some french asshole
who was too fuckin pretentious
to admit he was fucking confused

he weeps beside the seine
smoking a cigarette in a beret
black and white
striped shirt
playing the accordion
he looks up from the rainy streets
now and again
to see if any girls are watching

he writes poetry
and he throws on his best red plaid
blue jeans
the vanishing american hobo
beat up hat
poem that’s kind of jazzy and has phrases like
kandinskily he crosses the mad river of society
yeah man
he’s pretty cool
just about fifty years too late
to be properly redundant

he looks up from the rainy streets
now and again
to see if any girls are watching

a zoo
all the cage doors lift
flamingos vaulting across the concrete
zebras galloping across the street lights
a lion roars but is nowhere to be scene
monkeys swing from urban jungle gyms
emus do emu things
elephants trumpeting down mainstreet at night
this is my brain
aren’t you so jealous

a tap at the door
who would that even be?
i don’t know anyone
i’m not the booty call type
i’m no drug dealer
just a poet
which is kind of like
an unsuccessful drug dealer
who’s at the door?
who’s at the door?
is it the ghost of thelonious monk
come to collect royalties from cruella deville?
who’s at the door
it’s 9:30 on a monday and i have no friends
i did but i got so busy
with my paradoxical nonsense poems
but they’re beautifully rhythmic really try this one on:

cornerstone mad case madness
operatic opera operating on a dime store decision
beautiful chaotic symphonic nostradamus
mad jester of the case of the hardy boy blues
this america ain’t no america at all
it’s all just riot and shitty press
it’s all just chaotic pencil pushing
hounds on the search for the last true american dollar

tell me
tell me how do you find the time to sleep
tell me how do you find the time to sleep at night
there’s so many huff post articles left to read
there’s so many ted talks left to be heard
npr’s and hannity and colmes and fox news
and the blues oh the endless facebook blues
jack’s scroll ain’t got nothin on my newsfeed
the amphetamine dream don’t give up
it bounces on and eternally back to february 4th, 2004
a post-pubescent white rich american man-child
sitting behind a keyboard
no, i’m not talking about myself
i’m not rich

god help us
we’re in the hands of

but john
when the pirates of the caribbean breaks down
the pirates don’t eat the tourists

there’s another example
see here
now i’m sitting by myself
talking to myself

that’s chaos theory


This poem is part of the 08.2015 project, 31 poems in 31 days. To read the poems from the beginning click here.




dedicated to Mitch Anders and Esme Lewis

and then out of nowhere it happened
the couple crawled up onto the table
smearing the mashed potatoes with their knees
cranberry sauce tipped over mixing with spilled gravy
they began to make out ferociously
lips and tongue and sixty-four teeth
the family stared on in awed silence
as they began to undress, chucking plates at the wall
button by button she removed his oxford white
as his hands began to slip up her pencil skirt
stiff china crashing onto fancy carpet
his head fell down against the turkey like a pillow
as she viciously straddled him
her left knee by her mother-in-law
her right by his great uncle louie
and there they were
heavy breaths beneath the chandelier
rising and falling at thanksgiving dinner
eyes closed then open rolled back in ecstasy
some of the audience left the dining room theater
some just stuck in breathless paralysis

they broke off the off-switch on their love
they drove separately to the dinner party
but you can believe they came together

when dessert was served
it went on in a silence where even breaths were hushed
the clinking of spoons in coffee cups
chairs pushed gently away from the table
when the evening was over

and no one ever really was sure
if they broke a commandment
or started a revolution


This poem is part of the 08.2015 project, 31 poems in 31 days. To read the poems from the beginning click here.


08.01 (Sorry, I’m late)


set the guns you call arms down
swallow the powder on the top of your tongue
stop stepping to the rhythm of war drums
the great turrets in your chest are raised
lower them as well
there’s no reason to continue this show
this parade this decadent destruction
it’s all fun and games
until someone gets hurt

there’s burning buildings in your eyes
tear gas comes pouring from your ears
deep in your throat there are trenches
where some soldiers may never get out
they just drown in the muck of the things
you should say but never do
because your stubborn ankles
are held to the ground
by the anchors of warship

your eyebrows sink down like missiles
your finger tips just march on and on
you ball up your fist
like the congregation of troops
your voice box a megaphone
commanding the whales out of the water

when your body is a war
sleep is a luxury you can’t afford
but i say this to you now
from a dream where you could be
you can sleep when you’re dead
but trust me when i tell you
it hurts to dream of what could have been


This poem is part of a project I’m doing for the month of August called “08.2015” where I write 31 poems over the course of 31 days. To learn more, click here.