WHITE LINGERIE

They say it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, but he saw her anyways. She tried on her dress for him, and he told her she looked beautiful.
She was nervous. He could tell.
“Hey,” he said to her, lying in bed beside her, “You’re gonna be fine. It’s just a day like any other, and you look gorgeous,”
“It’s just…”
“Haven’t you heard of cold feet?” he placed his hand on the outside of her thigh, his thumb playing with her white garter belt, “You’re gonna be fine,”
“I’m just glad I can be with you tonight. I don’t care about tradition, any of that. This feels right,”
“This feels right?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t be going through all of this if it didn’t…”
The bed squeaked. Its metal frame was painted white and wasn’t the sturdiest of things.
“What happens tomorrow though? Do you and I change?”
“What do you mean?” she said, looking into his eyes, the way she had since the day she met him.
“You shouldn’t lay on your dress. You’re going to get it wrinkled…”
“Do you really care?” she said, standing up.
He sat up on the bed, facing the bathroom, and the empty closet.
“Maybe we should just forget the whole thing. Call it off. You go your way, and I’ll go mine,”
“I can’t believe you’d say that…”
“I’m sorry, I just know tomorrow’s a pretty big day, and if you’re not certain about everything, I…”
She removed her dress, laying it carefully on the cot. He lost his thought, as through her reflection, he saw her, drowning in white lace – a firm bodice fading down into sheer white stockings. She looked like an angel. A virgin.
“I’m certain about this…” she circled around the bed to his side. Her expensive heels brushing against the cheap carpet. She grabbed him by the tie and kissed him the way she always had. Like she knew for certain he was the man she was supposed to marry. The love of her life. He fell back on the bed, her body grazing over his. She ran her hands through his thick hair, but he places his just above her hips, stopping her,
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” she said, disenchanted, “Who could it possibly be? You can be so paranoid sometimes…”
A knock came at the door. He buckled his belt and opened it, leaving the chain on. A cold winter draft snuck in as he said,
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, sir. There’s a call for Mrs. Lereaux…”
“Alright, well, thank you, you can send it through to the room’s extension…”
“We tried, sir – it didn’t want to go through. I believe your line may be unplugged,”
From the bathroom, she yelled to the doorway, her voice echoing,
“Who is it?”
“A mister James Thomas…”
“He’s probably just calling about the wedding tomorrow,” she said, “Tell him I’m asleep, and I’ll handle it in the morning,”
“Will do, Mrs. Lereaux. Mr. Lereaux, I apologize for the disturbance,”
“Oh, um…” he laughed under his breath, “That’s fine, thank you for stopping by,”
The door shut and the gentleman left, but the cold draft remained in the room. She was in the bathroom, wiping off her makeup, and he turned on the television.
She came out, a cotton swap still wiping her face,
“Really?” she said, “The night before the wedding and you’re turning on the television?”
He didn’t waste time with justification. He turned the television off and he smirked, because he knew he had her already. He looked straight on at her now plain face, and he said,
“You look gorgeous,”
She blushed.
He took her hand in his holding it up, and he said,
“May I have this dance?”
She nodded, smirking a bit herself, and she said,
“Yes, you may,”
They swayed back and forth, careful of the bags on the floor, cautious of the nightstands.
“I’d like to turn on the television again, but I know you won’t disapprove…”
“Fine…” she said, curiously.
He grabbed the remote off the bed and pressed the power on. He pressed a button or two more, one hand still on her waist and he threw the remote back down on the bed.
“Ooh…” she said, “What’s this?”
“Big Band, swing…” he told her, “They have music channels added to the hotel’s programming, just for moments like this.
“Do you have a lot of moments like this, Mr. Harrison?”
“Never,” he assured her, “And I doubt I’ll ever have a moment like this again.”
“What about tomorrow night?” she said hopefully, tragedy on the tip of her tongue.
“I’m sorry, I can’t…”
“And why’s that?” she said, her face pressed right up to his.
“I’ll be at a wedding…”
“Oh, really?” she played along. She always did.
“Yes, really…”
“And who’s getting married?”
“You are,” he whispered in her ear, “You are.”
She grabbed the remote and turned the volume up as high as it went.
“We might disturb somebody…” he said.
“I sure hope so,” she said, “We’ll never get another chance.”

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “DEAD POLAR BEAR”

About these ads

NEW YORK, I WANT YOU SO BADLY

new york, i want you so badly
i’ve never wanted anyone this bad
you’re dancing around in my dreams at night
you’re running your ghost hands up and down my spine
when i close my eyes i see you
i taste the smoke of brooklyn on my tongue
your legs hanging out of your t-shirt
as we lay on your bed in my mind
you traipse about the high rise apartment
like a cat that stalks the room
you’re everything i’ve ever wanted
your words are all surreal
mostly because i can’t believe you said them
when we made love
it would be as raw as lenny bruce
we would burn like buildings
it would taste like late night coffee and cigarettes
we’d sing like it was raining
and we were drunk and high
on life and laughing on park benches
and loving each other
and we dance on the rooftops
above us the stars in the ceiling
below us the stars in the floor
i would have you right then and there
hundreds of feet above the concrete
god, i have to have you
i have to run your hair through my fingers
i have to grow old as you grow older
i have to die in the arms of the city that was meant to have me
i have to die with you

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “SEVIER COUNTY”

SEVIER COUNTY

i followed endless yellow lines endlessly
through a ghost’s shadow in utah and
there were no crickets and there was no god
pushing endlessly through the endless stomach of
the pupil of eternity; i was alone the way you think of
a lighthouse as being alone
and in the onyx smoke of sevier county the headlights
of my vehicle only reminded me that this place
this gun buried in a bible
was never to be found
i was a bullet in a dusty barrel
and the moon was swallowed by the sky
one hundred some odd miles
no services
the analog clock on my dashboard
was irrelevant numbers
and the oldies radio station was the muffled voices
of dead people
drowsy drivers cause crashes
warned that sign that grew out of the earth
and my eyes acknowledged
two voids staring hollow into the void staring back
i was draining like a dirty bathtub
and from the desert night road to ghost rocks
a pair of headlights blinked at me from the margins of existence
i won’t stop i said out loud to my self
and in my rear-view mirror i saw those phantom eyes
fade into non-existence
in dark roads and dark rooms alike they will always haunt me
blinking forever, lost in never.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “ROGAINE”

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ROGAINE

i am balding

made fun of my dad my whole life for his bald head
and now karma’s come with a lawnmower
laughing all the way to the madhouse
the hairs that sneak by strangely follow karma
running in fear from my forehead
this is the way each square day on a calendar
is a texas funeral box for me
this is the way the world wilts before you
the slow death of petrified wood at the hands of nazi bugs
don’t get me wrong
this isn’t ‘woe is me’; this is just ‘everything fades’
the fish steal the ocean back from us
katrina drowns jazz in the sound of apathy
tides slide back to the ocean
they slither away like scared snakes

i am balding

and the news reports say loud men are still looking for peace in the barrel of guns
god can fight his own wars
and usually passes his fist
2012 ticks by like a mayan time bomb
if i look at the calendar, watch-the-clock
it’ll be december now
as more hairs freefall disattached from my skull
nature mimics machinery
we play minesweeper and call of duty to relax
modern warfare is our escape to a classic idea of peace
cameras zoom
guns fire themselves biting the hand that feeds them bullets

i am balding

my mother brushed my hair like she was trying to kill it
and in a weird way it’s clear she succeeded
i’m not the type to rub lab-tested chemicals on my head
like the new version of those old sideshow miracle elixirs
that we all know were just piss and ‘here’s hoping’
we eat that shit up like little debbie snacks
the lights are just brighter now
the signs are bigger
the gods are charming cereal box creatures
balloon animals and one thousand identical
anti-fear insurance companies
the commercials fade to black
nothing lasts forever except human stupidity
(and the notebook died laughing at me)

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “RED EYE FLIGHT TO MEDIOCRITY”

BOOK UPDATE AND SOME RANDOM STUFF

I’ve got a lot on my mind, so I’m just gonna shoot from the hip.

Book will come out in October. Tell all your friends. I am not going to sell 100 copies of this book either and call it a success. That is not the person I am. I am going to sell the shit out of this book of poetry, if for no other reason to prove that you can sell a book of poetry. I am going to make Barnes and Noble crave my book of poetry. I am going to win over the hearts of the non-poetry readers and I am going to establish myself as a Denver poet.

It’s going to be the most terrifying experience of my life.

Next note. Writer’s block. It sucks. It happens. I wrote hundreds of poems this year. As of lately – haven’t written anything. Well, I write stuff, but it’s not worth its weight in… anything. I am in transition, got a lot of stuff going on in my life. I’m trying to lose weight. I’m trying to be extremely outgoing instead of slightly outgoing. I’m trying to get out of debt. And I’m starting to hit bonus at work again, which is great because it helps fund my passion.

Each day I’m a step closer to writing as a career. A step closer to making my passion my job. And god would it be nice. (I know, lofty poet dreams of writing poetry for a career. Doesn’t happen, but – I will try and! I have short stories and a novel in progress to help.)

Did I mention this post is ADD-fueled?

My blood is Cherry Coke Zero right now.

I received a rejection letter today on my poetry, and I’m sorry but those still burn. They will always burn. You mail your heart off to some indiscriminate land where you have no idea what they are doing to the poor helpless creature and two months later, you receive a kindly worded rejection letter. It’s a rejection letter. How could that not hurt? Imagine if you got an e-mail that said you weren’t a very good lover. Imagine if you got an e-mail that said the foundation that you have built your life upon is a bedrock of lies. I know; my pieces just weren’t right for you. Please submit again. What it is more than anything is the moment before you open the rejection letter and that happy fairy flies into your soul through your ear and you think this is it, and then you open that e-mail and the fairy dies because no one is clapping and no one believes in fairies.

Take a breath.

Okay. Next topic. I am so excited for this blog. I have a habit of travelling through things at 150 miles per hour, but burn through my tank of gas way too quickly. I’m excessive, then I fizzle out. This blog will not fizzle out. This blog will only get stronger. So on that note, I ask you, dear reader, what do you want to see? More contests? More poetry? Does anyone want to interview me? I’m not famous but I’ll try to be interesting for you. I am a writer in search of an audience and I want to be a gear in the conversation machine.

Because when it all comes down to it, I agree with my college professor; the biggest disease of humanity is loneliness. Let’s talk. Let’s break down walls. Let’s not be afraid to be our ugly beautiful selves. Never be afraid to whore yourself on my blog either. If you’ve got something you want the world to see (and it doesn’t belong on a porn site) show it. That’s what this is all about. I want to help foster this.

I’m gonna start reviewing stuff. I’m reading Bukowski (again). Be ready for a long review on The Pleasures of the Damned.

Really, this is it. If God is gonna pull the plug on my poetry machine, I am going to manually power any machines I can by stationary bicycle. I think a break from poetry will be good anyways. I want to take this chance to stop writing alone in notebooks and start writing out loud to the world. I want to end the monologue and begin the dialogue. I want to listen more than I speak.

And I hope you’re still reading this. I look forward to getting to know all of you better.

Sincerely,

Starry-Eyed and Running on E

RED EYE FLIGHT TO MEDIOCRITY

attention all passengers/ please fasten your seat belts and return your trays to their upright position/ we will be flying the skies alone tonight/ through the dark clouds into sure mediocrity/ do not ask why/ there is no rhyme or reason here/ we just float along/ cheersing our alcoholism to desperation/ we comb through the skies like we’re looking for something/ but all flights are destined for the same location

i ask you this/ take a minute to look out the window/ see the man-made wings that lift us above the graves of our ancestors/ see these lights that shine through as we travel at night alone/ the children have all fallen asleep/ the lights inside the cabin have all been dimmed

i can’t help but notice the cabin pressure/ these molecules between us that fill in the distance/ i can’t help but wonder if this is where i’m supposed to be/ if this is who i’m meant to be/ out here in the middle of the ocean/ we have no radar to guide us home/ out here in the middle of the ocean/ we are at the whim of god/ as we approach the edge of the western world/ we fear that maybe there are no worlds left to conquer/ some monster of the sea just waits to break our vessel in two/ some devil clings to the ceiling of our airplane/ the edge is sharp and the sky is breaking/ the channels are changing themselves and the world is imploding and exploding at the same time

the world is imploding and exploding at the same time

for those of you visiting, enjoy your stay/ for those of you who live here, welcome home

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “DEAD POLAR BEAR”