ORGAN MUSIC

it’s not always gonna be
some bullshit disney symphony

most the time it’s not

it’s organ music
glass smashed in yer palm
some hidden maestro
in the depths of yer liver
playing doom and gloom

and honestly
that’s the good stuff
that’s the stuff you want

because here’s the thing
it’s a shame to close your eyes
for the drop

put yer god damn hands
in the air

that feel good old timey music
is a bunch of dead people
they were once oxygen thieves too

once pearly whites
and ivory gloves on the teeth
of the piano

carefully avoiding
the black keys

once all sweet love song
and they probably felt it too
it’s a good one

have you felt it

have you come up on love
hands shaking
eyes all tremors and broken breath

and then bam
yer there
liquid ecstasy

unadulterated honesty

but oh the comedown
the second fall

the rekindling
of time
with structure
without
sweet distraction

no flowers
at yer doorstep
just eviction notice
last call to make pay
or evacuate the reality
you forget about

welcome back
this is the face of
heartbreak

this is where you build muscle

this is the part
where you turn down the lights
step into the doldrums

and play organ music

and how fucking gorgeous it is
how raw how honest
grain cereal – no prize at the bottom

just echo

those rusty golden pipes
churning scar to scab
churning misery to wisdom
ugly little honesty
churning the fade to black
into this grand giant loud
obnoxious crescendo
that screams
through the illusion
that you exist
and this organ music
matters

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

METAPHOR.

metaphor.

meta,
from greek
defined as being “beyond.”

phor,
also from greek,
meaning “to carry.”

a metaphor
is something carried beyond.

or maybe
something beyond carrying.

for example:

america
is a bullet that never stops
being fired

or

silence
is the noise beneath
the constant sound
of screaming.

metaphor:

to help give life
to something
by comparing it
to something
else.

a name in itself
can be
a metaphor

see:
Emmett Till.

see:
Trayvon Martin.

you see,
history repeats itself
and you could say
that
is a metaphor
except sadly
no
it’s not.

it is literal.

literally
has recently been
reclassified to mean
figuratively
as well as
literally

because

people
have for so long now
been misusing
the world literally.

literally 50 people
die from gun violence
in japan each year.

literally 10,000 people
die from gun violence
in america each year.

this has literally
got to stop.

this is un like
anything else.

there is no
cute comparison.

there is no place
for figurative language
when escaping reality
is the easiest thing to do.

this is a truth
that is beyond question.

this is a fact
that is well documented
in the esophagus
of every endless
news feed.

this is what we
digest.

this is what
we put on our tongues
like daily communion.

this is heavier
than metaphor.

this

is a weight

that is beyond

carrying.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

THOUGHTS THAT RHYME

i still feel crystal oceans turned to currents in your moon
i tried to hold the door for you but let it close too soon
i wonder where you are tonight beneath this open sky
i wonder if we’ll meet again the next time that i die

i wake to find no peace of mind but constant broken churning
lighting fights with gasoline and fleeing while they’re burning
and from a broken mountaintop looking down on what i’ve done
i’ll come to see, but way too late, that i am not the sun

and i am not the one who’s come to mend these broken bones
but i hope these watered words will drop on broken homes
and be a sweet reminder that there’s life inside each cell
and every single drop of rain has part in dousing hell

and hell is something that i’ve seen but just in flickered frames
safely from the audience, i snack on secret shames
i cry, i sing, i laugh along but when the credits roll
i find it’s time to go to sleep and off to sleep i go

and in my dreams i see your face, it’s smiling like the day
and like the dream and like the sky, it’s quickly gone away
i’m left to find my single self left staring at the man
who stares right back and blinks with me and follows hand to hand

and in this mirror where i stare i see my beard grown long
as my skin begins to wrinkle i can feel my heart grow strong
and the soul left stirring in my eyes still has time to boil
i reap the seeds of loneliness and plant them in the soil

and from this empty plot of land will grow my poetry
but so far it’s just branches so we’ll have to wait and see
if i can push up daisies from the lazy underground
and sprout new leaves to catch the breeze and mirror back its sound

we’ll see if this is possible, and what becomes of you
never in my presence, but forever in my view
if nothing else, the breeze is there, i feel it in my leaves
and if you ever stop to feel, i know you’ll feel it too

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

MA JOLIE

so pretty the roads that lead to nowhere
so handsome the dim sky in winter
the grey snow on the sides of highways
the trash and needles in abandoned buildings

so unforgettable are the eyes that poured into yours
some great transference of sad souls before splitting like atoms
so beautiful the squirming amoeba beneath the microscope
beauty in the smoke that rises from the trainwreck

beauty in the heart that cringes up and stops
beauty in buildings collapsing in slow motion
there is beauty inside the reels of fast motion too
when you blink and the hand reaching out is gone

so pretty a dream achieved and the silence thereafter
a standing ovation a wind-down an empty auditorium
a bus packed full of strange people who do not exist
a walk up the stairs to the hanging rope of a table
with only one chair

so beautiful are we the chorus of the slowing dying
so strong the song we sing as we rock our own cradles
as we dress our own wounds as we dance the way
that we are supposed to dance at a funeral

we humanity are supposed to dance at a funeral
we’re supposed to dance on hot coals and cold beds
we are supposed to dance over the ghosts in voicemails
the dark flowers that bloom when we’re never ready

we are never ready to be thrown against so much beauty
we never think that we will be the victims of so much love
we never think that we will be the victims of so much love

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

MY SOFT TONGUE ROLLED OUT BEFORE ME

wherein my tongue rolls out before me
like a great delicate scroll of paper
like a languid love letter yellowed with time
each syllable a worm digging through my stomach

and the crows come along
and they pick at my lengthy tongue
each one snagging a small segment
of my soft pink honesty

my raw delicate marriage to uncertainty

and when the crows have had their fill
i cross the warped floorboards
of my crooked house
teetering on the top of a thin mountain

wherein i roll my tongue back up
into the hardware of my guts
the strange wiring of my innards
where sparks fly like desperate traffic
at an intersection

and in my jaded bed i dream

i dream of a reality where i do not question
the period beneath my question marks
where the laws all make sense
and more than strange suggestion

i dream in worlds where the bleeding hearts bleed

a great still lake where each and every pixelated
square is covered by handcarved canoes

and when ever the wind blows through
the canoes move in succession like music
and the storms come and the storm passes
and when it’s all over the canoes sit still

never having to flinch at a raised hand
or a dark comment or a loud voice
just canoe after canoe on a vast quiet lake
moving in succession like music
through time and space
through grey thought and afterthought
my soft tongue rolled out before me

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

MY SWEET CHRISTMASTIME LOVE

my sweet christmastime love
you are the north star burning
anchoring my heart to your light
you are the fireplace that wraps around me
warming my soul my fleeting feelings
that everything won’t be okay
you are the hand i hold
the sky i see when i close my eyes
i want nothing more than to lay beside you
on cold winter nights in the cocoon
of lovers making sunlight
through the longest nights

the words fall short
there is no way to say
the things i feel so deep inside
so in hopes of expressing
what i cannot
here is a $25 gift card
to buffalo wild wings
i love you

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

LETTERS

So,

I’ve always wanted to do something like this, so I’m going to start light. I like writing at someone else’s prompt. I used to hate it, but after writing a lot of poems you start to learn your own tricks and themes and sometimes it feels like you’re writing the same poems again and again. (Good chance to write something completely outside of your comfort zone, in my opinion.)
Anyways, I would like to say, if anyone is interested, send me an email at bricemaiurrowriter@gmail.com and tell me a little bit about the poem you would like for me to write. Could be just one word, a theme, a style, anything is fine. Just give me some kind of prompt. I am going to choose my five favorites and mail out poems to those folks. I can’t wait to see what you guys come up with and see how this goes. I’ll keep it open for one week! So send your requests on over! This should be fun.

Please include your mailing address! Can’t wait!

-Brice

AMNESIAC

are we so quick to forget
what happened yesterday?
we walk
right foot left foot
one behind the other
in swift reverse
after each step we take
the broom and dust pan
and wash away
our footprints from
the dirt

we take bleach
and ammonia
and we wash the blood
from the carpet
we scrub vigorously
at the vivid reminder
of that one time
that we blacked out
and did some shit
we shouldn’t have

we got so drunk

wouldn’t you hate
for us
to get drunk again?

a contraption!
a mirror put behind
our backs
so that when we look
behind us
all we can see
is the future

terror
is the pill
of the future

it’s what
we wash our mouths out
with

it’s what
lulls us to sleep
beneath the sound
of

well, you know
you can hear it

if you just know
that you could die
at any minute

so where
are we?

who
do we now
pretend
to be?

where
can we go
when we live
on the hollow point?

we dip
our calloused feet
into
an acid bath

we bingewatch
the deathclock ticking

now packaged
individually

priced to sell

i forgot what we were
talking about

must have slipped
my mind

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015