EL CHAPO

but part of me wants to root for
a drug lord named el chapo
who dug his way out of prison
and is on the lam
somewhere in mexico

there’s a certain romance
that blooms it petals
over the thorns of giving a shit

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

SAINT ROBOT

if i were a giant robot
i wouldn’t ravage the city;
that is just a stereotype
of giant robots

i would just sit and meditate
in the middle of
central park

i’m sure a few park-goers
would be crushed
beneath the extreme weight
of my shiny metal ass

look
i’m a giant robot
trying to obtain enlightenment
i’m not a saint

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

LISTENING TO WARPAINT

i have only one single tear for you
the one that you left behind
and as it falls down my face
twists down my shoulder
then my arm and off the tip
of my fingertip i realize
that what we had was a war
and i never meant to go to war
but i did and what i found
is that when we both
want to be at war
it’s probably because we’re both
afraid of what peace
would look like
i think this thought
and then i let it go
off of my cheek like the single tear
which is now gone
staining the cardboard bottom
of the box of your stuff
as your aura
evacuates my apartment soul
and you are somewhere else
and someone else i hope
i hope i made you someone else
which is a weird thing to hope
but when you’re sitting around
listening to Warpaint at 2:30
in the dark pupil of the night
back and forth in a hammock
and across the black river
in a rowboat of your doldrums
sometimes you hope for weird things
and these weird things you hope for
are things that you never hope for
when surrounded by reasonable company
at what has been deemed
reasonable hours to keep

thank you for your time
and your kind donation
to the dismal poetry
of my restless bum poet soul
which is my favorite to write

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

A SUNDAY IN JULY

i woke up this morning with different hands
i just sat in bed for fifteen twenty minutes
studying the new length of my fingers
the new grit of my touch
i traced the lines up and down my palms
trying to decode whose lifeline i was looking at

i walked around the house with someone else’s bare feet
my calloused toes meandering the cold wood floors
i paced endlessly through the halls of my home
my home can i even call it my home
i try desperately to understand this new balance
i don’t recognize the air that enters my lungs
or the way my body sends it flowing to my foreign joints

i look into the mirror at a face that is not my own
crow’s feet squatting on these unknown power line eyes
i look so tired, so much older, when did i become this devil
this angel, this woman, this man, this child
this soul stuffed into some strange vessel
this ghost hand playing puppeteer

what of the things i was
what of the people i knew
the loves i’ve had
the love i have
what of the walk to the mailbox
what of the drive to work
what of the days spent churning and churning
what did i ever make

who’s voice am i speaking?
i shuffle through photo albums
and i start to feel the photos are not of me
what did i do
really what did i do and where am i
i close the blinds and crawl back into bed
i wrap myself in blankets
as if they were some magic cocoon
that works in reverse

some days we are someone else
and it can be such a brutal voiceless battle
to remember anything about the person
we’ve got so comfortable telling ourselves
that we are

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

AND THIS IS WHAT YOU DO WHEN WRITER’S BLOCK

To Maxwell Tilse, never too much.

and this is what you do when writer’s block you type and you type and then you keep blood flowing you suture your wounds you tighten your stitches you arm wrestle the hands of the clock you push through and you create the mounds and mounds of bullshit but maybe you’ll fertilize a small dandelion and that small dandelion will catch in the wind and those little fluffy parachuters will create new dandelions and spread and spread like jelly on bread and you push through and you’ll feel that black shadow of a ghost hovering over you but you can’t pay him no mind you don’t have time and it’s laundry day and what the fuck else are you gonna do it’s laundry day when you leave colorado and you’re in the middle of nowhere wyoming on the way to san francisco you get super excited for the gas stations for the windmills for the human decency to leave some land uncivilized no matter where you are there’s life to be experienced you don’t need drugs you don’t need a passport you just need to know that there are planets and stars that orbit inside you constantly and on these planets and stars are elephants holding flowers with their trunks and on these flowers are lives screaming for you to speak for them we must be louder we must always be louder in hopes of getting some silence but if the silence never comes we will at least have this lullaby to lull us to sleep and in this sleep we will dream of a world of silence where love is unspoken because it is everything and we’ll wake up and there we are there is that world and there’s a lot of hate to see through but i beg of you see through to see your own love and if you feel blocked like you don’t know how to speak just start talking and there may be nothing or maybe just maybe lost in the haze you’ll find a lighthouse light to guide you through the dark night of the soul and into the yellow morning with ya ginsbergian stanzas of gibberish and your uber apparent moonlight motherfucker.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

JUST A QUICK BIT ON LOVE

It’s amazing to be alive on a day where love has been allowed to be free. Have you ever been told you’re not allowed to love someone the way you want to? Have you ever been denied that you could actually love someone? The problem with trying to contain love is it can’t be done. The more you push back on love the closer it will embrace you. This is where I find my hope for humanity. Freedom, beauty, truth and love – and the beautiful thing is today’s ruling to make gay marriage legal in all fifty states will make this country more free, more beautiful, more truthful and of course more full of love. I am beyond elated. Let us not put down our hearts just yet. Let us keep fighting for that which is unarguably good. Let us carry a torch that will light all the dark corners of this world and when there are no dark places left, we can rest. Love is painful, love is work and all that pain and work is worth it on days like today. I love you all. Have a free, beautiful, truthful, lovely weekend.

-Brice

LIQUIDATION

“We are addicted to our thoughts. We cannot change anything if we cannot change our thinking.”
-Santosh Kalwar

i set the fire and i climb down the fire escape
the metal frame rattles as i descend away from my own madness
i cannot tell you how long coming it has been
i jump onto dumpster lids and climb back up onto random rooftops
i stare at the dirty city beneath me
drunk fucks pissing down back alleys howling at the absent moon
clothes strung out on frayed lines
dry but covered in the smoky claws of the sewers
i don’t know how i ended up in this city
i’ve never been here before but the grit is so damn appealing
it’s unwarranted and i’ve been taking action warranted so long that
i am starting to see why some people sleep in gutters
squat in broken bomb shelters and kiss death in the secondhand sheets
i get it i get it i get it’s appealing really it is
you can be a stray dog you can be at the whim of the tobacco wind
throw your watch in the gutter and drive off in some stranger’s sportscar
drive off i’m always talking about driving in my poems
it’s my american song i guess my blues my rock and roll my black metal
my flag hanging out the window as i speed into the blissful absence
to go so fast to miss so much to be so cocooned in adrenaline
as you fall to the floor your eyes roll back to make love to your third eye
you arms go numb your legs go numb and you melt
persistent time gone impersistent
television static floating out of the bluetube and into the ether around you
your shoulder bones writhing your idea of you gone as you watch a breath
the breath the only breath the last breath take you hostage and bam
your gone and then it’s symphonic it’s dylan-gone-electric matador red
blood stampede heart chasing heart chasing heart tom and jerry
and whiskey love nightmares and orange vast sky drowning it’s
crayons on walls of skeleton skulls and chinese lamps floating up
into the mouth of a giant whale swallowed swallowing space ships and
to walk around in the ocular cavity of god to taste her stale morning breath
to hide in the walls for a thousand years and come out a bearded fool
and to see that it’s all gone disappeared like looters came in the night
for an unexpected liquidation sale and stole the very foundation you ran away from
what you got now, old man? where is your dream? where is your nightmare?
when you awaken to find that it’s over and an old drunk bastard says “it’s too late,
and there’s nothing worse than too late,” but we had a good run didn’t we? you
hear someone whisper but you’re just talking to yourself again because who the
fuck else is around?

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

A SELF-ANALYSIS

some days i leave my arms at home
to give other people the chance to show me
how to conduct a symphony

i am an owl in many ways
but most of all the way i like to be alone
at night
staring out my window
sitting on my tree branch
waiting for the field mice to come to me

when i look at the hairs on my legs
i see a thousand tiny trees and i think about
the day each seed was planted
i think about the way i am so very large
because i am one billion things so small

i have a hard time with spiders
because i don’t want to kill them and
i know that i am ultimately unimportant to them
but i feel them crawling up my leg in bed
and when i look they’re never there
but my vulnerability is sometimes counter-intuitive
to my survival instinct
there is a certain amount of acceptance of death
that comes along with trust

i refill ice trays in the freezer like a madman
like some great fleshy robot filled
with a singular algorithm to make sure there is never
one moment where this house will be without ice
i don’t drink enough water

in the middle of the twilight i talk to ghosts
they carry all these stories about regret and war
and i’m just trying to sing myself
to sleep with songs of faith and renewal
but they clean their guns on the edge of my bed
and sometimes i like to swim
on top of their uneasy oceans

i papercut my finger
on my contract to myself sometimes
and when the blood begins to run
i put it beneath the cold water faucet
and watch as it pours down the drain
and sometimes the water rises
and the sink fills up and the bathroom floods
until i’m underwater in my apartment
scuttling along like a crab
on the warped wood floor
but i do not drown i sleep best in rip tide
i dance in disaster

sometimes i fall asleep to radio static
there is a room so quiet you can hear your blood
in your veins and the silence will drive you mad they say
i talk so loud about how good i am at silence
how american it is to always know what to say and
that’s the thing i think i’m an auditory citizen of the world
until it gets quiet and i can hear the national anthem reminder
that i don’t know how to sight read a page of rest symbols

i dance like i am protesting dancing
like if i flail my arms enough they’ll call it satire

when i dance with women i follow their hips
and pretend i am so keen to the difference between
control and influence
maybe i should take a class or two

sometimes i get stuck in the middle of a poem
and i don’t know how to end it
sometimes i’ll get real cute
and just throw out a one-liner like something
oscar wilde would say at a cocktail party
but sometimes i’ll just take a minute to be in it
i’ll walk around the poem like an empty apartment
opening the closets looking for clues about
the person who lived here before
and sometimes i’ll find that there’s nothing but
wire hangers in the closet
or sometimes i’ll run out screaming
chased by skeletons

not tonight.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

I DON’T REMEMBER WRITING THIS

i hit the bottle and punched the forest
and then bam it came pouring out
like niagara fucking falls
verse after verse of subjective majesty
it came pouring out
tears to my ears
it just ran rampant across the page
like a street dog through suburbia
and i loved it
a snowstorm in a warm winter
a drastic makeover to my soul
i call her elvira
you can call her whatever you want
it’s just a god damn soul
the point is
pouring out
like niagara falls
crazy kerouacian
bordeline ginsbergian
not to compare
just the same amount of i don’t care
it came pouring out
smoke and whiskey
lies new religion
like pure ecstasy
like something to stick on your tongue and treasure
and will it happen again?
when the yellow morning finds me
will i be radiant red
or blue blue blue
in the face face face?

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015