NOVEMBER

here we are again, beating heart
from the silence rose an opus
and from the opus rivers of blood
flow eternally to the tips of fingers
to the skin of lovers
outreached to the angry sky

this poem will not solve love
love cannot be solved
only this can be said of love:
it is what it cannot be what
it wants to be when it isn’t
it acid burns in the stomach
it rises from the seas like
the krakken and it crashes down
on sirens and sailers alike

here we are again, november
i have pulled the death card once again
upside down inside out
lost in the heart of america

they say the great wave will take us all
they say that love is fleeting
they never shut up and listen
he asks me “where are the crickets?”
and i imagine they’ve packed their shit
evicted from my skull
and i am left with this awkward silence
and november is my april
my cruelest month my favorite album
i’ve played it so much it skips and skips
and here we are again, november
will you love me the way i want to love you
or will we draw a big black x on the calendar

here we are again, november
in the year of our lord 2014
blessed be the saints in my head
and the demons on my finger tips

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “STUPEFACTION/”

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STUPEFACTION/

stupefaction/ the act of being stupified/ the art of allowing your power to be turned off/ the dance of dissolving into the group/ disconnection from society/ disenchantment/ disengagement/ love lost/ heart gone/ your breaths go shallow/ your eyes roll back in your head/ you wake up in a national chain hotel with nothing but your socks on/ you go over and open the blinds/ you stare out at a brick wall/ stupefaction/ the process of throwing away one of life’s greatest gifts/ the evolution from man to straw man/ from man to tin man/ from lion to coward/ to give your spare change to a thief/ to toss your winning lottery ticket in the garbage/ to truly decide to not exist and to not take the opportunity to exist/ to not speak up in public/ to not sing during sex/ to not make love/ to not make anything/ to take your leftover ideas and wash them down the kitchen sink and turn the garbage disposal on/ to leave your mind out in the sun too long like a dried out sponge/ to dismember your own limbs/ to smash the metaphorical lightbulb over your head with your sledgehammer hands/ stupefaction/ to look into the void of a human life and turn away/ to binge watch commercials for 100 years/ to dust your ceiling/ to confuse mindlessness with mindfulness/ to confuse a handshake with a shit show/ to remain unchanged/ to save up your pennies in your piggy bank/ then to smash said piggy bank/ to buy one’s self another piggy bank/ to cheat on time with an incredibly manipulative prostitute who is actually time in disguise/ stupefaction/ complete inaction/ and improper inaction/ to sit in the shower/ until the water goes cold/ then turns off/ then your lungs stop pumping/ then your heart stops churning/ then your life stops lifing/ the words stop wording/ and regret/ regret is the uneaten peach/ so dare eat the peach/ choose/ anything/ but stupefaction/ period.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “THE MAN FROM THE FUTURE”

THE MAN FROM THE FUTURE

i was on the light rail one day
didn’t know where i was headed
just one of those days where the sun
wasn’t gonna come into the house
so rather than waiting for the
floodwaters of introversion to rise
i rode my bike over to the train
and hopped on towards denver
away from the television and the bed
and there across from me on the train
was a young boy, maybe 9 years old
in a business suit, reading the paper
he read from it with the focus of a monk
turning the pages in established ritual

excuse me i said to him
he looked at his watch then up at me
“it’s 9:47″
no no no i said
i was just going to ask
aren’t you a little too young to be
on the light rail alone
“too young?” he inquired
with a stern gaze
yes, i said
you must be no older than 10
you’re just a boy
“i am not a boy,” he said,
“i am a man from the future,”

he’d stolen my tongue
i wanted to say
and i’d wanted to say
but i ended up not saying
because he was telling the truth
and in that moment
the glare of the sun
piercing the train windows
i felt as if
i was just a boy from the past

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014


READ “WELCOME BACK, ASSCLOWN”

WELCOME BACK, ASSCLOWN

welcome back,
assclown
thanks for remembering
that doing this
is an inseparable part
of your character

you just needed a break

no, i get that

except that you’re a liar

you’re being lazy

and you need
to get
your shit together

this

this is an endless war
there is no armistice
there is no eye of the storm
there is maybe
a time to prepare
and a time to rest
but time is a shitty date
and he will abandoned you
through the bathroom window
at a fancy restaurant
leaving you with the check
and no ride home

but seriously
welcome back
it’s nice to have you here

it was a very long summer
but the winter is starting
to look pretty badass

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “THRILLER”

THRILLER (WHY DON’T YOU MOTHERFUCKERS LIKE POETRY?)

oh man
you motherfuckers love your live local bands
and your froyo shops
you watch hbo religiously
and you love to throw packets of color
at each other
you love your dubby step
and your sufjan fucking stevens
so why don’t you motherfuckers like poetry?

you love your new age
mind expanding we are all one concepts
your love everybody and your empathetic swansong
you love all of this
but you refuse to hear it out of the mouths of
gibson arkind williams kerouac the other williams
and a lot of other really talented motherfuckers
who do give a shit about poetry

did high school shake it out of you
do you hear glade commercial haikus
and militant douchebags challenging math
when you think of poetry?

you ever think of john coltrane
or steven colbert or your idiot little nephew
trashing your bathroom
for the poetry that it is?
look
poetry doesn’t have to rhyme
it will not bite
except for that’s a lie
poetry is not dead
it is undead
it is crawling out of the ground
like the zombies in Michael Jackson’s
thriller video
yeah you know
shit’s undead
and it’s not sleeping well
because the internet
is the graveyard
and poetry
is the singing-and-dancing
super star zombie
Michael Jackson
from the video
for his 1983
hit music video
thriller

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “BLUE HOSPITAL SIGNS”

BLUE HOSPITAL SIGNS

those blue hospital signs always
try to point me towards the drunktank of your heart
submerged for months
in your chinese water torture cell
i dreamt a blue dream
but the audience was watching and waiting
they always loving a ticking clock
so i had to escape

and now i drive down streets
and i rename them whatever the hell i want to
and i take my own detours
around the memories we staked into certain crossroads
like housing developments
dirt holes with pregnancy tests and empty shooters
but i drive around them
i do what i can to drive around them
but those blue signs are everywhere
and i don’t know if the h is for heaven hell or hospital
and i don’t know if i’m the visitor or the patient
and i don’t know what i don’t know
and i don’t know what you know

or if you’re at boston logan airport
sitting at the arrivals exit
or if you’re still chained to a bed
in flashlight city
but i do know most days these things don’t bother me

but those blue hospital signs always
try to point me towards the drunktank of your heart

those blue hospital signs always
try to point me towards the drunktank of your heart

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “I WANT TO GET FAT AND GRUMPY WITH YOU”

I WANT TO GET FAT AND GRUMPY WITH YOU

i want to get
fat
and grumpy
with you

i want to
eat ice cream
from the tub
as we
sit together
in our tiny home
watching twin peaks
together
on the couch
and you’ll have to
explain the
whole damn thing to me
because
i’ll be old
and i won’t know
really what the hell
is going on

i’ll make us cookies
but they’ll probably be
burnt
and taste like cigarette
smoke but you’ll eat them
and when we’re done
with the television
we’ll walk around the neighbor
hood and talk about whose funerals
we’ll have to go to this week
and we’ll walk in silence too
and i’ll love you
you know that
i’ll always love you
even when i’m fat and grumpy
and can’t remember shit

i’ll drive us down the road
at twenty-five miles per hour
on a forty-five mile per hour road
and we’ll listen to bob dylan
like it’s bobby darin
and i’ll hold your dried-up hand
in my dried-up hand
but i’ll probably have a stick shift
because i’m planning on being
a stubborn old man like that
but you’ll smile
and i’ll smile
and we’ll smile
and death will be napping in the back seat
with the air conditioning blowing on him

i’ll tell you i love you
and you’ll say what, i didn’t hear you
and i’ll say nevermind
because nevermind you know i do
because i told you a long time ago
that i wanted to get fat and grumpy with
you

and the grandkids will come over
and we’ll bore them out of their minds
with our great stories with huge gaps
in the middle of them where our memories skip
like old records
and they’ll be thinking about their ipads
and their yolos but we’ll make them
hear our love stories
where i’ll make up a bunch of bullshit
because the details will be long gone
but the feeling sure as hell won’t be
and i’ll cook them meatloaf dinner
and you’ll teach them how to play
checkers and i’ll look at your beautiful face
and try to recall what i did
to give you each and every one of your
lovely wrinkles
and your eyes will be no less bright
no less beautiful
and they say women don’t age well
but that’s bullshit
you’re beautiful
you’ll always be beautiful
even when you’re fat and grumpy
and teaching the grandkids checkers

we’ll go to flea markets
and barter the cost of a new toaster oven
and we’ll go to movies at ten in the morning
and we’ll laugh at the funerals
we’ll smile at the funerals
because we’ve been to so many
one for your old pal chuck
and one for my old pal douglas
and we’ll drive hand-in-hand down the road
and into the mouth of the great black something
and if it swallows us whole
or if it chews us up
it doesn’t matter much to me
because i won’t remember much
except that you were the one
that i wanted to get fat and grumpy with
and that was nice

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “THE CITY AND THE MOUNTAIN”

THE CITY AND THE MOUNTAIN

your love eclipses me like a shadow
like six months of winter
like warm death and whiskey dreams
your snow falls like fragments of white time
like picket signs gathering in peaceful demonstration
the wind is our carrier pigeon
and i do nothing all day long
but write you love letter after love letter
after love letter after love letter
you lift me a mile off the ground
you make my breaths short and intentional
beneath your rocky skyline
beneath your metallic peaks
i am beautiful and inconsequential
your love is forever
and your forever love is the sound of air
against a car window

a winding road / a one way street
a pedicabber / a ponderosa
a deer in headlights / a jaywalker
a flaming crucifix / a lookout mountain
a homeless man / a mountain man
a book on a shelf
and a book in the dust of the dirt
a petroglyph / a river
a bottle of beer smashed on a dirt path
an empty city / an angry sandstorm
an acoustic guitar / an electronic machine
a gypsy / dancing to the future soundtrack
a robot / dancing in the light of lumineers
a light show / an aurora
a sunset / a dubstep drop

smoke
smoke from the city
smoke from the mountain
smoke from the mouths of tiny buddhas
smoke from the mouths of giant fools

you catch me always unprepared
without a sweater without a hand to hold
without a lover to keep me warm
without a care in the world
you catch me you catch me
like a glancing stranger in a lucid dream

i run my calloused guitar fingers
up and down your spine
and you run me back and forth
between your head and your heart
this balancing act
of freedom and love
the city and the mountain

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “I CAN’T AFFORD TO DRIVE TO HANGING LAKE”

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Love,
Brice

I CAN’T AFFORD TO DRIVE TO HANGING LAKE

i’m in la la land
with the angels fresh off the greyhound
and the devils that grew from the dirt
with the monkeys swinging from the chandeliers
and the alcoholic typewriter
the ghost in the machine
the ravers in the skeleton ballroom of my skull

i can’t afford to write this poem

i can’t afford to drive to hanging lake
let’s face it, i can’t afford to pay attention
i can’t afford to drive to work
i can’t afford to go to the coffee shop
and buy a cup of coffee to help me write my way out

i can’t afford to watch the television
i can’t afford to miss you as much as i do
i can’t afford to dream
and i’m far too tired to sleep

at hanging lake there’s a vertical road
that waits patiently for me
and i will ascend it like mercury in a thermostat
and when i get to the top
i will see the waterfall at the top
(naked and waiting
texting me at one in the morning
asking me to come on over)

and i want to go really i do it would mean a lot
but i can’t afford to drive to hanging lake
and hanging lake ain’t coming to me any time soon

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “KALMIA”