RE: RE:

to V.T.S., who i hope will dance with me a while in this boxing ring

i drive my car
like i’m stuck in traffic
behind an old lady
or maybe a young lady
who’s convinced herself she’s old
i’m antsy
i shake my steering wheel
and don’t get why i have to go
the speed that she’s determined for me

it makes me want to smoke
but i’m not a smoker
not after sex
and not stuck in this traffic either
it takes more
than someone else’s stubbornness
to make me consider breaking habit
that being said
i can’t stop saying cigarette
the word haunts me
i swear
it sneaks its way into my letters
it highlights itself in my vonnegut novels

america is shit
maybe
depends how i’m feeling
on any given day
or how i’m dressed
or what organ of it’s body
i find myself trapped in
vonnegut got the bowels
from what i’ve read
it’s not hard to see
how he could have concluded
that america is in fact
shit

it’s not all true
but
america is shit
it’s a lot of fun to say

america is shit

writers do keep saying it
god damn broken records
sitting at their typewriters
in a beat-up apartment
in new york
smoking a cigarette
but records keep on skipping
until someone
gets up out of their lazy boy
and moves the needle forward

cigarette

whoops there i go again
america is shit
i’m young and angsty
and america is shit

but i’m not america
and i try not to get mad at her
when she goes all manic on me
and keeps saying the same things
over and over

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “CIGARETTE”

About these ads

CIGARETTE

you’re home late one night
sitting on the couch
and you’ve had a stressful day
and you don’t have a plan for the evening
but you jump in the car
and you drive down the street
to your local seven eleven
where the nice man
behind the counter asks you
what he can get you
and you say
can i get a pack
of
marlboro
red
one-hundreds
and he reaches for the box
and he sets them on the counter
and maybe he asks to see your i.d.
and you grab a white lighter
and he rings you up
as across the register screen flashes
MARLBORO 5.39
unless of course
you are a camel person
in which case you see
CAMEL 5.39
if you smoke turkish royales
because everyone knows
those are the best
and you sit in your car
and you roll down the window
and you smack that pack
of cigarettes against the dashboard
and you smack and you smack
packing those cigarettes
in ritual
beautiful american ritual
and you undo that gold string
like you are undressing
a beautiful hooker
and you open the lid
and you pull off the front wrapper
and you blow on the nicotine sawdust
and there before you
are twenty
pristine
white cigarettes
and you take one out
and you flip it over
and that’s your lucky cigarette
and you take that lighter
and you use your car key
and you rip off the safety
and you stick the cigarette
into your mouth
and you turn on your car
and you roll down the window
and you take in
the very first puff
of a pack
of twenty cigarettes
as the little bit of wrapper
with nothing in it burns
and there is fire
at your beg and call
at the end of
your cigarette
and you hold the smoke
in your lungs
and you let it out
and a cloud of white
sneaks past your lips
and out the window
into the night
that doesn’t feel so lonely now
and you put the car in reverse
and the window is down still
and the wind blows
and you put the car into drive
and you’re driving back home
and you’re taking another drag
and you let it out
and watch it roll out the window
behind you
out into the world around you
and at the stop light
you don’t look over
but the car beside you
has no choice
but to note
that you are smoking
and you turn your stereo up
just a little
and you feel like a bad ass
and the light turns green
and cigarette-in-mouth
you take off
a little faster
than the cars around you
and you get to your place
before you finish your cigarette
so you sit for a minute
you and the radio
and you watch
as the paper wanes
if there’s words on the side
as the words burn away
you make something disappear
and you feel the buzz
your headache is gone
you are lighter
a little bit dizzy
a little bit high
you care a little less
you eat your stress
and it burns a little more
and it burns a little more
until you’re left with
the butt of a cigarette
and you throw it on the ground
and you grind it with your foot
and you are a little taller
your pocket filled with a box
of nineteen more cigarettes
and you think to yourself
i’ll do this again sometime
and maybe you do
and either way
you’re right back on your couch
right where you were before

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “CHESS”

CHESS

it’s denver in january cold

at the bus stop
there’s a man
in work boots
with a lunch pail
and he looks cold too
his lips pursed
hands in pockets

and there’s a woman
with her two daughters
sitting on the
cold metal
bench
reading them a
story

and there’s a kid
with a baltimore ravens
hat
on backwards
who is pacing
like he’s waiting
for the super bowl
next sunday

there is gum
all over the ground
gum and cigarette
butts

now here comes the blind man
cane in hand
he can’t see me
as i sit here
still
and frozen
does he know
i’m here?

i am some weird caricature
to all of them
lost in my headphones
and underneath my hood
and thom yorke
is going crazy
in my ears
singing my iron lung
they have no idea
he’s whispering
and screaming at me
in the corner
of an asylum
on the other side
of the headphones
he’s desperately singing
with desperation
about desperation
he’s moving me
but he’s not here

there are five other hearts
at this bus stop
waiting to share
the same submarine vessel
to take us to
somewhere else

and it’s cold but not too cold to talk

and i’m off in the asylum
with thom yorke
and i’m twentysomething
in a hoodie
lost in headphones
and as soon as we violently
tug the pull cord
on the bus
and exit
professionally
we will be off to live
our seperate lives together

thom yorke is screaming at me
from some supermarket in england
with his wife
but we are all silent
faceless chess pieces
faced with the same war
but stuck
within our black
and white
spaces

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “BLOOD ON THE AMERICAN HIGHWAY”

BLOOD ON THE AMERICAN HIGHWAY

there is blood on the american highway
red paint splattered on white median lines beneath a blue sky
we run from coast to coast
we take off in the night, trunk left open, and we fly through the eye of the needle
into the rocky mountains in search of the final sun
that sun which burns brightly dying for california
we kiss the hills along the way
we salute the cold night concrete with lit cigarettes left to ash
we don’t know where we go
we just do as the green signs tell us to

the lostest of the lost pioneers
disoriented we are disoriented we follow the smoke signals
we drive right through the indian ghost the song of the past
we just blast the radio as if we could fill the sky with sound
great american rock sound
blaring guitars, raging drums, and the bass that moves
like a convertible through the wind
the sound through your head

this is our american song
rewritten and rewritten again
we search for freedom in its bars
independence in four four time
this is our american song
waking up in motel sixes with no cigarettes
and the t.v. is on for noise
and the sex through the wall
and the jingling of slot machines down the hall
and the hum of the ice machine
check out time is eleven o clock

we wrote our song into our constitution
first we decided we would be free
then we decided we needed guns
and we threw a couple to alabama
and we threw a few more to texas
and we boarded up the borders that we broke down

there are lights in fields in plains of kansas
to light the gymnasium swaying to high school dance
we move our hips like pioneers
we throw our hands up in the air
and when the music dies down
we drive to the tops of hills that look down on the nothing
and we kiss like we have to

then we’re off again
down the bloody american highway
through cities and deserts and fields and mountains
and more cities and we’re going where no one else has gone
at least that’s what we tell ourselves

we throw on our kerouac hats
and put an eighth of ginsberg in our glove compartment
we load up our hemingways into the trunk
and we drive
we drive into the most unnatural horizon
we move down the bloody american highway
tank on e, stuck with the am radio through the worst parts of utah
we move at so many miles per hour
of course
there is blood on the american highway

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “BEN”

BEN

we were gathered around
the four of us
in standard party circle
beers in hand
when he interjected

“the hardest thing
i’ve ever had to do
is to deliver a flag
to my friends’ parents.
i had to stand there
saluting
straight faced
while i waited for them
to finish balling hysterically
when just days earlier
my friend had said to me
if i die
i want you to deliver
the flag to my parents.”

it came out of nowhere.
nothing prompted him
telling us this.
there was no rhyme
or reason
to it being entered into
the conversation
but i’m glad it was.

amongst the alcohol
and stupid balloons
the chit-chattering
and the laughter
all that laughter
we needed a moment
of truth.
a moment
of raw
visceral
unapologetic
humanity.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “IN CRAZY”

CHECK OUT MY UPCOMING PROJECT “02.2013″

02.2013

02.2013

Good Morning.

I wanted to take a minute to let you all know about a project I am going to be starting up on Februrary 1st. It’s called “02.2013″ and the concept is fairly simple: I am going to chronicle my experiences daily through the month of February here on the blog.

Other than that, I don’t know what will come of it. I’d say the biggest difference between this project and my normal entries is there should be a more cohesive element to the 28 poems I intend to write.

I hope you all will check in daily with me, and join me through this journey. Should be a lot of fun.

Love,
Brice

1994 SEATTLE LOVE SONG

seattle

minor chords amongst the dust
i’m the only one who comes to your show
the ground is littered
with empty bottles of cough syrup
i stand among the wreckage
and i watch you destroy yourself
i can’t look away
from the mirror you hold to me

i can’t escape the morphine sea storm in your eyes
envy’s eyes are as green as yours
envy’s eyes are as green as yours
you’ve got me wrapped up in your small pox blanket

you’re a newspaper fire burning in a rusty trash can
a shopping cart in hashbury at night
you’re not as glorious as i’ve made you out to be

i’m a gas fire and you’re the water
i’m a gas fire and you’re the water

i’ll burn like big giant factories
i will give you a sunset
the color of chemicals

minor chords amongst the dust

you left your phone in the car
along with our 1994 seattle love song
our song of retribution in a wasteland
we are just getting lost in different drugs

what happens when glass slippers slide
on black ice

we are the sound
of an i.v.
drip

i swear you smell
like kurt cobain

you taste like
sonic youth

someone popped
every single one
of the balloons
at our birthday party

someone left the car on in the garage

envy’s eyes are as green as yours
i can’t escape your morphine sea storm

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “TOO FAR DEEP”

TOO FAR DEEP

and it’s getting
darker
and darker
by the
second
redefining
the concept of
black, the blackest of
black
and i’m not afraid

don’t
misunderstand me
for one second

i am not afraid
in the least, i am
content to
listen to the
sound of water
dripping
from
the
walls

i am happy
to listen to the wind
echoing circular

i am lost deep
in too deep
way too deep
too far deep

i’m running away from
something
into the arms of
death

i am trapped
inside a rising bottle of
poison
i am kissing
alice through the
looking glass

we are falling, our
guts in our mouths but
we are falling together
and i’m crossing
the line
the line
the edge
the point
where reason melts
like clocks
broken hands
of a clock
black eye
on its face
and seconds
are beats
in this
symphonic
movement

i am wide awake

i do not need light
to see i am everything

i can imagine myself
to be doors left open
the wind catching on the shades
red silk shades blowing
i am lost amongst them
whiskey dreams
absinthe nightmares
marijuana reality
the onyx shine
of the inside of
a beautiful
mind

skeletons
running on
treadmills
glow in the dark
thousands
and thousands
and thousands
around me
burn
down
the
curtains

my dear,
we don’t need them
let the stars dance with us
i can never be alone
as long as
you’re in
too far deep too
and you
are the muse i’ve made
you’ll never let go

a codine buzz
a disdain for yesterday
and i’m on it
i’m in too far deep
and my intent
is not to climb out

my intent
is to keep digging
until i get to
the
other
end
of my
reality

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “THE HOUSE OF GOD”

THE HOUSE OF GOD

someone’s in the kitchen playing the guitar
lovers in the bedroom reading dead playwrights
someone’s in the shower marinating musicals
someone’s in the basement carving up god’s face
angels in the mirror slipping into dresses
someone’s in the garden impregnating the soil
someone’s in the laundry room painting up a portrait
demons in the cellar pending on funeral flowers
someone’s in the billiards room punching holes in walls
someone’s in the closet interviewing skeletons
someone’s in the fitness room chiseling skin
pergatorians in the elevator shaft making urgent love
someone’s in the dance hall staring into eyes
someone’s in the sitting room spitting stand-up
someone’s in the coat room closing their curtain eyes
someone’s in the skull commanding the hands
this is the house of what is, not what is not
this is the house of god.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “WORD SALAD”

DAY DREAM SONATA

can you hear my heart palpitating?
i assure you. it’s like this all the time.
it’s reckless. it’s without rhythm.
it’s breaking the laws of its own nature.
it’ll stop for days on end. it’ll begin again
in the middle of the night when dreams come
with you in them and there we are
sitting on a cosmic swingset hand-in-hand
and we’re talking as frankly as we do during the day
we’re floating through space hand-in-hand
we’re floating

we seem to be traveling down rivers together
we seem to be angels stepping harmlessly over broken glass
we’re ignoring the walls of perception
we are laughing at the way the bus is always five minutes late
but sometimes i wonder if everything was on the schedule it says
would i ever have had the chance to meet you?
what did i do to deserve any of this love?
i chew on it when i’m hungry and i spit it back out

if you had a grave, i’d bring you flowers
i’d go there and just talk to you for hours
i’d sit beside you during rainstorms
while your bones swelled up underground

this is my simple request: nothing.
there is absolutely nothing more i could ask for.
i am so so so very blessed
and blessings don’t get passed around right
so whatever you’ve got to give, give it to someone else.
drop that coin into the jukebox
and let the speakers of the world pump its vibrations everywhere
dance dance dance dance dance dance dance dance
until you’re sick sick sick sick sick sick sick
i’m getting a little stir crazy, i know
but we’re not all perfect and what the hell does that mean anyhow?
take your predispositions and defenstrate them out the window
throw them out the window watch them catch in the wind
watch gravity, selfish gravity, selfish selfish gravity
take its course and swallow us all whole
i’ll be here still dreaming
dreaming of flying cars and ambiguous culture
dreaming of graffiti on the moon and a spotlight on the sun
let’s give it our light for once

and you just keep on smiling and dancing on the water
your love reminds me of what we can be made of, if we want to

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “CAPTURE”