AND THESE LITTLE ORANGE PILLS ARE STARTING TO DISSOLVE IN MY STOMACH

and it burns like a bad relationship
i need a cigarette i need a cigarette
the whiskey cabinet’s empty and some voodoo
horror ghost has replaced my water of life
with tequila
and the tequila tastes like sand and dead dry cacti
and the truth tastes as synthetic as sugar-free bubble gum
when i said goodbye to you, i seemingly forgot to open my mouth
and since then, my mind won’t shut the hell up
and it’s taking moves back in a chess game it lost a long time ago
and you are a dent on my driver’s side door that i keep for character
and i carry on the way cancer does
and i carry the weight of the featherwords i’ve wasted on my skeletal back and bare a demon child on my hips
and lust is just love that is more fun to rhyme

these people on the television are trapped and none of us can get them out
al bundy watching us watching television with our hands down our pants
and the television is just the middle man
forced to talk; never knew it could plead the fifth
and the fifth of whiskey is gone
and i’m forgetting what i’ve already mentioned
and it’s 11:14 and it’s the witching hour
and somewhere in the world it’s 3 pm and christ has just died
and somewhere in the world someone someone loved
and somewhere in the world someone someone loved
had some form of something happen to them
yes – i am – affirmative – positive reinforcement backed up only by centuries of black plague barn burning flames of fires ashes to ashes dust to dust
beginning to end and in the beginning someone had to be there to tell the story
who wrote down the story of adam and eve?
who heard god firsthand?
the world’s longest game of telephone
who heard god firsthand?
i hear him firsthand everyday
dead white male
seeks
living black female
seeks
salvation from this sideshow circus that was created by the people who brought you
absolutely everything
baby-back ribs made from bunson burners
and love made from sound filtered through the tiny holes of a car radio
and the bass bumps
and the bass bumps
and everyone has a headache
and people don’t know what a migraine is
and we are all the 1%
yes
we are all the 1%
and through the eye of the needle, america is too obese to fit itself
and i am typing this; thank you, google, thank you, dell, thank you hp and mac and electricity and edison and/or tesla and panasonic and whoever it fucking was
who wrote about adam and eve
we need to set up tents in the caverns of our robot hearts
and reteach them to beat involuntarily
we need to reteach our bodies to climax without two-dimensional naked fairy tales
and we need to remember that the greatest search engine is communication
and social networks are talking mouths
sleeping narcolepsy
haunted coffins
turn your cell phone off
(the show is about to begin)
walk naked to your neighbor’s house
shovel their sidewalk
and don’t stop when you get to the concrete
i couldn’t decide what to wear to bed, and i can’t decide if these little orange pills in my stomach are god or the devil
but i do know the color of blood when i see it
and i know human beings produce tears because they are sad, or sometimes cold
and i know that these thousands of towers that we built were built of hopes and dreams
and men turned to dirt so steel could stand
and i know that lobbyists just want to be cowboys like the rest of us
and i know that the seats in the senate house have cupholders
i know this, because we know this
and you can occupy route 66 from one end to the other
and you can occupy every store front and back alley of new york city
but when the twin towers fell, no one worried about the printers and the copy machines
no one worried about the papers and no one should have
these towers are lifting us towards god
and we can keep continuing being groundlings babbling about these suits with ken-doll haircuts
their briefcases filled with secrets and repressed orgasms but this fight is as faceless as the fire we all threw our cigarette but’s into
and whined about the high price of gasoline to feed it
you can occupy any place on earth
but i ask you, orange pills or no orange pills
please, occupy yourself
occupy you wife’s bed, and your husband’s tombstone
occupy your daughter’s baseball game and your son’s ballet recital
occupy each and every one of your fibers of skin as they are touched
we can expand outward to the universe but we will never conquer every frontier
it’s time we implode, two-at-a-time, and occupy ourselves

these little orange pills are to help me focus
these little orange pills take away the deficit attention
these little orange pills help me build cross streets and crucifixes
over weeks and weeks
and they are little and they are not perfect but they occupy within me
and one by one allow my fingers to type individual characters on this alphabet piano
let your enemies be faceless
we are all good men
and we need to rebuild these skyscrapers
not crash into them

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

About these ads

TRACES OF YOU

traces of you remain in this scantily-clad burnt-
down apartment
unfinished glasses of water (melted ice) frazzled bed
sheets hanging on for dear life
my hands smell like your perfume
i don’t think you wear perfume
your harsh red lipstick stains my white cigarette
your words click through my head and
they click through my
head and
they click
your ghost arm keeps me warm at night
momentarily
and then
i wish you were here god
damn do i wish you were
here
queen-sized beds are substantial enough irrefutable
evidence that god does not want us to be alone -
shut up
and you said you didn’t want to be
white trash and leave your bra
here
(will i turn every woman into a poem?)
(i start to wonder with that – am i an
assembly line chauvanistic asshole but
then i remember how these poems write
themselves)
“slow down” she said, and my tin man
mechanical heart died trying to alter the
natural pace of the universe
i didn’t make you breakfast – bought a
bagel – orange julius – at two p.m. in the
morning and
oh god
do i want a million restless nights for you
for you
and i am putting on my shirts
backwards
and i am so terrified of
hurting you
and having to watch you
cry
and this is what we do
and these traces of you are everywhere
i find your bread crumbs leading me in circles
i am saying
yes
to our arrhythmic kisses, my
fault
and you
you are
incredibly explosively indefinite car crash
heroin supernova fleeting angel that i caught
in my net
animalistic instinct tells me to push
through
because i
am in love, but thus far,
only with the
traces
of
you.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

PORNIFICATION

i went to the grocery store today
and i ran into a woman
in a vinyl maid’s costume
as she rounded down the cereal aisle
she adjusted her garter belt
and pushed her forty-year breasts into cleavage
she ran her finger down my chin
her red nails scratching my beard

“hey big boy,” she said.
“cut the crap,” i said.
“what?” she said, “am
i too old to be sexy?
are maids not a fantasy
of yours?”

she grabbed a box of
captain crunch and
put it in her overflowing
shopping cart.

“I haven’t had sex in fifteen
years, three days, seven
hours and thirteen minutes…”
she said.

“are you married?” i asked
her.
“don’t ask questions you
know the answer to,” she
said, “of course i am.”

“price check on aisle
twelve,” said the overhead
speaker.

i saw the register girl
start stripping on the check-
out counter.
a man
threw money at her -
well,
to pay for his eggs
and milk.

then he got the hell
out of there.

“see!” said the middle-
aged, leather-clad, house-
keeper, “you men
are afraid of sexuality,”

and i said,
“first off, we
are not ‘you men,”

she winced at me.

“second,
we are all
afraid of sexuality,”

“i’m not!” said
the maid, wrapping
one of her
legs
around me.

“stop it!” i
said,
“that
is not
sexuality. we
have
all
been
pornified!”
“pornified?”
“pornified,

objectified.

fed cereal box caricatures
of what sex
actually
is,”

and then a scantily-clad pool-
boy bought a
banana.”

“pornification!” i said.

“come with me,” i said.

and i grabbed the vinyl
maid by her soft
hand and we ran through the
store until i found a
man
shirtless,
carrying an ax.

grizzled and manly
he said,
“hey there, sugar.
what’s your name?”

and she said,
“whatever you want it to be…”
she bit her
lip.

“no!” i said,
“no! no! no!”

“what?!”
they said,
together.

“what
do you want?
lust or love?”

“love,”
they said,
together.

and i said,
“good,
you.
lumberjack -
take her on a
date.
dress nice.
wear a
god damn
shirt,”

everything has taught us that sex
is all about
sex.

that sex
is saturday morning cartoons
mixed with
saturday night skinemax,
but despite
what you’ve learned
sex is communication.

it takes more guts
to lie naked in the arms of
someone you have true feeling for
than it does to play
make-believe.

pornification.

we all feel sexy.

we have
high heels and
gritty colognes.
we need to remember
what
happens when the heels come
off and our natural scent
creeps through the artificial
chemicals.

why would anyone want to make love?
hollywood does such a stand-up job
on their own.

i caught my breath.
the man and woman stared.

“mommy…” a voice came around the
corner, “can i
get some fruit
snacks?”
said the tween, dressed
like a victoria’s secret
angel.

pornification.

robot whore houses.

the below-the-
waist version of tv
dinners.

sex sells.
we buy.
love dies.

pornification.

a generation of desensitized role-
players.
take off the costumes.
turn off the lights.
begin the conversation.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012