02.28

0228

“farewell, my black balloon.” -the kills

(end of the line.)

it was midnight in this revolution of my heart. i fell asleep on the bus ride home and woke up at nine mile station, middle of nowhere, and realized that this nap that sucked me into angelic dreams and dreary lucid mental orgasm was nothing more than a sad escape from reality. i pulled down the blinds over my eyes, turned out the lights in my brain, i threw all the clutter from off the floors and tucked it under the bed of my heart and i just sat for hours and hours listening to “let it be” on repeat staring at the white white white white ceiling of my skull.

let it be. let it be. let it be. it all did amount to nothing. a few dozen scraps of poems on the floor with dust and neglected bills, empty bottles of pills, half empty bottles of booze. i couldn’t even commit to alcoholism.

it was cold. i was at a bus stop. my phone was dead. the twenty-four hour grocery store was closed, and the snow was pouring down like i was stuck in a dry erase board and this magic eraser was quickly deleting my stick figure limbs. the bus driver was gone. careless to the fact that i was faced with stalemate at parker and peoria.

but really i was at the crossroads of adulthood and childhood. where the crayon coloring on the walls scrolled along like stock market tickers. where bouncy balls were filled with the hot air of politicians. where the seesaw wobbled up and down like somewhat productive half-baked socially progressive arguments about race, gender, sexuality, all leading to the inevitable conclusion that we needed to learn how to look at each other as individuals.

but what from there? practice what you preach, but what if you’re an atheist? how do you learn to dance like yourself when you’ve been inflicted with the awkward steps of society? how do you fly a plane when the gravity of the responsibility of love keeps you grounded?

we are expecting bad weather nationwide. internationwide. universally. exponentially. galaxically. i have got to stop making up words. i have got to stop drunk texting my invisible friends in the middle of the night.

i’m buried in snow.

it’s metaphorical snow. did i establish that? i’m sorry. am i breaking the fourth wall? am i breaking the fifth wall if i say i know you get sad sometimes? am i throwing a rock through your precious painted christmastime window? i’m sorry if i ruined the little mermaid for you by analyzing my insane quandry that the disneyverse is just the bible with more colors. is that true? i sound like a crazy person. you sound like a crazy person. we sound like a crazy person.

when i need something to grasp onto i hold your hand. in my head. i take us to the movies and i stare stare stare at the screen. i’ve become tainted by the fact i’m a writer. all i can do is tear apart the character motives and the necessity of certain dialogues. i have been invited into someone’s dream and all i can do is mock their wallpaper and tell them the proper way to entertain their guests. i am the king of cocktail parties

that nobody would want to go to.

but right now, i am bundled at a bus stop. in bum fuck egypt. in the middle of the night. in colorado. on this third rock from the sun. our sun. our holy holy sun that just belongs to me, not you. and it’s taken this. it’s taken all this to remind me

that all i have to do

is point to the sky

choose a star

and walk towards it

until i find myself beneath it

then take the next elevator into space

where hopefully my love is waiting for me

and if she’s not

i’ll deal

because sometimes the best life is lived alone, but only if alone means to you that you never find someone to get stuck on a ferris wheel with and kiss until your mouths are sore. down below your friends are waiting for you.

entrapment is the shiny love that takes you away from all your other loves.

be careful.

carry pepper spray and a strong argument.

box without gloves and ride life bareback.

always have at least two quarters in that tiny little pocket in your jeans.

tattoo your name on your palm, and wear it like an indian headdress.

tread softly and carry a big heart.

happy february,

(brice.)

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

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02.25

0225

(goodbye nightmare.)

there’s a dead deer on the highway of our love
there’s a man in a business suit pretending to be me
there’s a goldfish that lives in my water bottle
there’s a music box ballerina that lives in my glove compartment
there’s daggers falling from the ceiling
and i’m a six year old thinking i can save my self
by hiding underneath my teenage mutant ninja turtle blanket
there’s no room for your family in the lifeboat of our trust

there’s a fly stuck in my skull
and he is driving me up the fucking wall
he is buzzing and buzzing and every hour
i am that much more tempted to just crack my head open
and let the mother fucker out
there are no presidents in narnia or wonderland or heaven
or hell or the matrix inside of my skull
just this god damn fly who is still buzzing
you sound like a mother
do you know that fly?
you keep nagging like a mother
there’s an escaped insane asylum inmate driving the bus
and we’re all going wherever his fancy takes us

there’s ten thumbs where i should have fingers
there’s two left feet where i should have a right one
there’s devils doing angel dust in casino bathrooms
there’s a train station in my heart that’s been closed
for a long, long time and high school kids just sneak there
on friday and saturday nights to get high and make out
there’s crocodiles in the sewer of my bloodstream

nothing is pretty right now and nothing is disney
nothing is saturday morning cartoons
nothing is mister roger’s neighborhood
nothing is monday through friday, nine a.m. to five p.m.
nothing is candygram
nothing is dinner with the family
american steak and american potatoes and coca cola
but not for the kids because no caffeine this late
nothing is that
it’s just a mess up there in my head right now
kurt vonnegut breakfast of champions schizo hodgepodge
there’s some godless hippy waiving an anti-this sign
and he has a point but he hasn’t filled the hole he’s dug
he’s ran onto the stage of my skull
and disbanded the magic trick
but he didn’t put anything in its place
he’s just standing there
like a frickin crack addict on stage
smiling like a moron at the audience
now he’s dancing like the w.b. frog

hello my baby
hello my darling
hello my ragtime gal

goodbye nightmare
hello dream

there’s spare change rattling around my stomach
there’s a faceless image of god on the skin of my eyes
and the television is the best listener i’ve run into
except you, you never seem to say much either

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.26, THE NEXT ENTRY IN THE 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

02.21

0221

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(the etiquette of anger.)

you move like tarantulas across the ocean floor
you take love from my veins and i beg you to take more
you twist and you shout
you twist and you shout

you’re a catalyst for nighttime and a beast in the sack
you’re raging in my covers and your covered in smack
you’re dying for the grit of the gravel
we’re all dying for the grit of the gravel here

come inside my house with me
come inside my house with me

you’re turning my stomach like battery acid
i’m leaning on your fencepost til it falls to the ground

you leave me sore on the everywhere
you kiss the wound with salt on the rim
you go through men like a chain smoker
you exit the building like you committed a murder
but when you enter
you come crawling across the floor of my bedroom
forever the etiquette of anger
forever the etiquette of anger

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.22, THE NEXT ENTRY IN THE 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

02.19

0219

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(in limbo.)

we were sitting on the swings at a park in the aftermath of a snowstorm. you asked me if i had any cigarettes and i told you no. i don’t know how many times i’ve told you i don’t smoke and i don’t have any cigarettes, but it never seems to strike a chord with you, and i guess i get that. smokers have a certain sick sad desperation to their vice. wow, that sounds redundant. what i’m trying to say is despite the insurmountable odds that i don’t have a cigarette, you still always ask me if i do. maybe it’s not desperation. maybe it’s hope. faith in what is most likely not true.

you were glowing. you were always one of those girls who made sense bundled up in the middle of colorado winter. your cheeks looked good with a little extra red to them.

“that’s okay,” you said about the cigarette, “because i have this invisible cigarette.”

you spared no artistic expense with this. you reached into your jacket and pulled out an invisible package of cigarettes. you pulled out one cigarette.

“phew. last one.” you said, “unless you want one, in which case i have one more?”

“no, i’m good,” i said. you looked a little disappointed.

you put the invisible box back in your jacket and swinging a little you pulled out an invisible lighter. i watched you actually inhale. you were smiling. one of those good smiles. one of those true smiles that wasn’t based on some social situation that makes you feel obliged to smile. you were experiencing actual joy, sitting in that park, freezing our asses off.

and then for the high point of your performance, you blew out cold air, and i swear to god, you somehow made it billow like actual smoke.

“very well played,” i said.

“thank you, thank you,” you threw your fake cigarette onto the ground, “fake cigarettes aren’t the same though. they don’t have any sense of danger to them. you don’t feel any fire in your lungs,”

“i wouldn’t know. i’ve never smoked,” i said.

“yes, you have,”

“no. no i have not,”

“you’re a fucking liar,” you said, “i distinctly remember last time we were drunk in denver, you were chain-smoking,”

“i don’t remember this at all, so clearly it never happened,” i said.

“you are a liar,”

“why are we out in this?” i asked.

“because we both are twenty-four and living at home,”

“yeah, i didn’t see that one coming,” i said.

“you have nothing to be ashamed of,” you said to me, in that sympathetic way you say everything, “you are just in limbo between places,”

“i guess that’s true,”

“i, on the other hand, am a bum,”

“no, you’re not.”

my sympathy didn’t sound as good as yours.

“yeah, i kind of am. rich parents are a blessing and a curse. the blessing is they show their affection towards you through money, the curse is the same,”

“your parents love you,”

“i’m not denying that. some days it just feels like their world is moving too fast and sometimes it’s a dry cleaning ticket that gets lost in the madness, or a pair of car keys, but sometimes it’s me,”

i don’t think you, or most people for that matter, realize how often they talk in poetry.

“wanna make out?” i asked, smiling some deadbeat frozen smile.

“you’re funny,” you said, but i wasn’t trying to be funny. maybe it was a poor word choice on my part, or maybe we were just gonna keep on living in this land of indecision. maybe we’re destined to swing back and forth together in this white nothingness at some time between night and morning.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.20, THE NEXT ENTRY IN THE 28 DAY 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

02.18

0218

(how i love.)

there are books
that i’ve bought
that i was excited to own
and i took them home
and looked through them a bit
scanned them
read the first couple chapters
and they just ended up
on my shelf

and when i got low on money
i took them back
to the trade-in store

sometimes months later
as i browsed the shelves
of the trade-in store
i would see that book again
looking as sweet as candy
and want it

i’ll think to myself
“i used to own this.
this
has been in my home.
i should buy it.
it belongs to me.”

but i know
if i bought that book again
i would just be wasting my money
and her time

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.19, THE NEXT ENTRY IN THE 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

02.17

0217

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(psychedelic fish.)

one fish
two fish
we’re so damn
selfish
let’s try
selfless
i’m sick of
reckless
that’s just
left us
begging
for change

one fish
two fish
we seem
clueless
to the
way this
could be
flawless
let’s applaud
the strange

one fish
two fish
on your
necklace
is a
priceless
locket
with this
picture
of us
inside

what we could be
where we could go
what we have been
before we lost sight
let’s bring it back
right now
right here
tonight

don’t tell me you’re broke
i won’t tell you i’m ugly
demons aren’t afraid of priests
but they can never break through
prayers shared on holy lips
let’s kiss
we’ll feel god at least

throw your wallet in the wind
fold your insecurity up
like a sheet of paper
eight times over and flick it
into the cosmos
forever floating endlessly
far out of reach from your hungry eyes

one fish
two fish
homeless
toothless
careless
bruiseless
hands that
scoop this
dirt beneath
our feet

one fish
two fish
we just
blew this
but let’s not
blow this
new day
swim through
fish bowls
aimless
break the
glass and
make your way through the air
like the psychedelic fish you are

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.18, THE 18TH ENTRY IN THE 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

02.14

0214

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(lovey dovey love love love.)

i love you so much
some nights i just stand outside your window
and watch you sleep
in the middle of winter

i love you so much
i have wired your entire house
just so i can hear every last word you speak
i love you so so much

there ain’t no mountain high enough
ain’t no valley low enough
ain’t no restraining order effect enough
from keeping me from getting to you, baby

i love you so much
that i slashed your car’s tires
just so you’d have to call in to work
and i could continue to watch you
from outside of your window
in the middle of winter

i love you so much
that i replaced all the mirrors in my house
with murals of you
that i made myself
my favorite one
is all of them

i love you so much, baby
that i have our kids name’s picked out already
i think we should name them fred and wilma
because you watch the flinstones alot
i’ve noticed
when i watch you
from outside of your window
in the middle of winter

it doesn’t mean a thing
that we’ve never spoken two words to each other
it doesn’t mean a thing
that your dad has kicked the shit out of me
true love conquers all

i love you so much
that i haven’t worked a normal job
in several months
i’ve been way too busy loving you baby
from outside of your window
in the middle of the night

you remind me of my mother

i love you so much
that i knitted these little sweaters
for all of your cats
all six of your cats
i can’t wait until all six of your cats
are all six of our cats
when do you want to get married?

i love you so much
that all i want for valentine’s day
is for you to lift this restraining order
so that i can knock on your door
and give you this giant teddy bear
and these dozen roses
and this box of chocolates
and this collection of seven thousand poems
that i have written for you
while standing outside of your window
at midnight
in the middle of winter

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.15, THE NEXT ENTRY IN THE 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

02.09

0209

(empty head.)

i got nothing for you today
you might as well leave now
there’s no words of wisdom
no witty stories or clever anecdotes
it’s just dust and air up there
it’s an unimportant february the ninth
never ever admit you’re bored
never let anyone know you’re bored
well, that is just too damn bad
because i am bored

this is a laundry day
one to sleep off
run mundane errands
make phone calls to bill collectors
watch b movies by myself in dirty pajamas
i couldn’t bring myself to be interesting

i’m sorry
i warned you
there’s nothing here
i could dance for you i suppose
like those monkeys in the circus
with their stupid cymbals
uncomfortable in their stupid hats
god, it would suck to be that monkey
if you’re a monkey you don’t even get paid
you just get bruised-up bananas
for dancing for the masses
always expected to smile your monkey smile
and retire at the end of it all
to your tiny monkey trailer
where you lie down in your tiny monkey bed
and turn off your tiny monkey light
and dream about the space monkeys
floating amongst the stars endlessly
far away from the shit show
and the mindless audience

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.10, DAY 10 OF 02.2013

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

02.05

02.05

 

 

(letters to a young poet from a young poet.)

i’ve heard too many times
“i am not very good at poetry,”
that is like saying
“i am not good at breathing,”
you’re going to do this
whether you want to or not
so you might as well
make your breaths deep
take in the fragrance in the air
along with the carbon monoxide
write your poetry
like a carpenter would make
his own crucifix

if you are uninspired
and you are a poet
it is time
to start sneaking into movie theaters
time to drive your car home in reverse
spend a day trapped inside your home
dressed like emily dickinson
stalking a housefly
attempt to roll uphill

your blood is eighty-five percent water
come to a rolling boil
you were not made to be luke warm
if you are body temperature
you are denying yourself
the chance to be something other than a body

you will write shitty poems
you will have shitty relationships
and shitty jobs with shitty bosses
and sometimes the most precious of poems
gets damaged in a move

you are not a poet
until you type your soul on a screen
and forget to save
but when that computer crashes
you will learn
that some things cannot be taken away from you

there are plenty of people out there
who won’t want to hear your poetry
but you do not speak for them
we all speak to the ears that want to hear
there is a method to the madness
of bees and their flowers

you do not have to share your poems
but document your heart beats
and your heart murmurs alike

sometimes a bad poem
is the prosthetic legs
of a good poem

as far as love
you have to love
loneliness is a bitch
big, big bitch
the fat kid in class
who steals your lunch
because he can’t get full on his
but you have to love
throw yourself into uncomfortable

pad your bed with broken dreams
make strangers less strange
and embrace their stories as your own
because time turns us into alphabet soup
and no one can claim the letters as theirs for long
your mouth carries the fiber of the universe
your dreams form our reality
speak now
or forever hold your peace

write everyday
write with borrowed pens on napkins at diners
and write with scratches on the backs of lovers
tiger stripe God’s car
throw eggs at his driveway
ding dong ditch his front door
leave a flaming bag of dog shit for him to put out
God knows only how to smile
at the precocious little monster you’re being
someday you’ll just be glad you made some memories

a poet is one hell of a hard thing to be
there is no health care, no 401k
no big benefits package
you don’t get sick time
but you will make money off of it
you’ll just be dead by then

the wealth of a poet is measured
in the lint in your pocket
and the gems you’ve placed
in the pocket of the hearts
of those around you

a friend once said to me
the worst thing someone can be to you
is bad poetry
and i believe that to be true
i cannot unhear what i have heard
and you cannot say
what you decided to let be unsaid

take a second
close your eyes
and take in a deep breath
now
before you start turning blue
let it out

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.06, DAY 6 OF THE 28 DAY 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a thirty day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

02.04

02.04

(feeling like a burn out…)

i am trashcan scratchpaper
i am goodwill artwork
i am unfinished dishes
and i am sawdust from the crucifix
of the thief beside jesus

i am stems of marijuana
i am clicking alternator
i am shotgun shells
swept off the floor
of a shooting range

i am the skin of onions
i am the aftertaste of alcohol
i am a wax candle
where the wick has been snipped

Ii am a cardboard box
with the bottom cut out
i am the foreskin
of the son of Abraham
i am the baking soda
used to cut the cocaine
i am one third
of a one dollar bill

i am an outdated damaged copy
of an encyclopedia in a dead language
but somewhere
a dead man wakes
lost at the crossroads
of dementia and amnesia
and he finds me in his pocket
and i am his salvation
i am the book he holds in his hands
until he become useless white dust
in the stupid brown dirt

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.05, DAY 5 OF THE 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a thirty day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE