I DON’T KNOW

be the savior of my religion
be the hand beneath my pillow
be the paperweight on my papers in the wind
be the kiss that beats my alarm clock

i’ll be the dust on your stage
i’ll be the canary to your coal mine
i’ll be the detour to your house
i’ll be the fire to your attic

we’ll be until we can’t
we’ll move like wind ahead of hurricanes
we’ll dance like we’re drunk
in my parent’s basement

then you’ll be the ghost under my stairs
then you’ll be beneath my flowers and my letters
then you’ll be the flowers that rise to your grave
then you’ll be cumulonimbic swan songs

then i’ll be with you amongst the madness
then i’ll be swimming beside you like two halves
of a pair of scissors piercing through paper chaos
then i’ll remember the way we felt

i’ll remember the way we felt

then i don’t know
i don’t know
i don’t know
i don’t know

we’ll make it up as we go along.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “THE WALL AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE”

About these ads

CALL FOR BLOGGERS

Hi Everyone:

First off, thank you all so much for your support of 02.2013. In my opinion, it was a great success. It was very interesting forcing myself to write something each day, and doing something I really like to, which is trying to widen the spectrum of my poems as much as possible.

Now, I’m beginning work on a new project, which I’m going to give a working title of ANT Magazine, until I have an official title.

I am looking for motivated to people to work for this blog and I am looking for a wide variety of things.

I have decided to drive this blog/ online magazine from the idea that bloggers can post what they want/ when they want. I want my bloggers to have the freedom to do as they please, because I want them to have fun, and in turn, for the blog to be fun. Thus far, I have a couple poets signed on, photographers, artists, and even a pair of guys who are going to write about bad b-movies. Here’s some ideas of what else I’d be looking for.

  • Reviewers (Music, Movies, Book, Calendars, Gyms, Restaurants, Starbucks locations, I don’t care)
  • Artists (I don’t care if you make GIFs,or intricate water paintings or digital art, I could be looking for what you have. I’d really even like to have a talented doodler.)
  • Alt Lit People (If you don’t know what alt lit is, this one doesn’t apply to you. If you do, I want your poetry, I want your memes, I want your short stories.)
  • Film (I am really looking for good youtubers to post videos to the site. Once again, open-minded to what you got. I would love some funny videos.)
  • Photographers (I would love photographers whose pieces stand alone and I would also love photographers who if I said “take me pictures related to “night” or “fourth of July” could deliver them in about a week. Experience does not matter. Talent and motivation do.
  • I would really like to have someone to write on feminism on the blog, as this is a topic that is very important to me.
  • Anything else. If you hula hoop, and want to post instructional hula hoop videos, I’d like you to apply. If you sing and play guitar, send me your videos. If you are a badass list maker or nutritionist or tech geek, I’d like you to apply.

IMPORTANT NOTE! You do not have to be American. I want this blog to have a global community and other cultures and countries are not only requested to apply, but I insist they do. I do have to ask that you can write English though. I’m sorry.

Most of all, I want people sharing their passions. I’m trying to make a community out of this. I want my bloggers interacting with our readers. I want people to have a reason to come back, and I want this to be a blog about sharing with the world, not making money. (haha… blogs making money.)

If you are interested, please send me something about yourself and an example of what you have to offer to bricemaiurro@gmail.com.

I hope everyone interested will apply.

Thank you,

Brice

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

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

DEATH RATTLE

always the bridesmaid, never the bride
he dresses in your sister’s clothes
and sneaks up behind you
with piano wire
he strangles you
just when things were beginning
to go so well.

lies. lies. lies. lies.

it’s life that’s the killer;
so dramatic, so whiny
callin you at two in the morning
when you gotta work the early shift.
calling lonely and horny
when you gotta work the graveyard shift
and shit, man
you know you gotta call in
because seize the day
carpe diem-
am i right?

but no-
death is the asshole.
the one who punches you
in the kidneys,
makes you piss blood
not true!
not true in the fucking least
life has just perfected
her death costumer.

but life is the day
and death is the night
right?
wrong.
if life is the day
and death is the night
then why do you crave
a little more two a.m.
and a little less
six thirty in the godless
morning?

death is your ally.
your friend
who just wants
to get you drunk.
tell you
to dump that bitch.
she’s just playing games
with your head, man.

life.
shit, man.
life is your friend
sometimes.
death is always waiting
by the phone
for you to call and
hear me, you:

when life stabs you in the back,
when she
sleeps with your best friend
and turns off your alarm
so you’re late for work.

when life cancels your insurance
just before driving your car
into the first brick wall
she finds.

when she strikes you
with sodium penethol,
truth serum,
just before
your lifetime achievement speech
and calls your mom
and tells her you murdered someone
and the cops catch on
and they break into your house
in the middle of the night
and arrest you for the crime
that life committed,

hear me, you, brothers and sisters.

death will be the friend
who takes a taxi
to the penitentiary
to try and bail
your sorry ass out.

life is the terrorist who hijacks the plane.
death is the friend who is waiting
on the other side
with a sign
with your name on it.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “BEAUTIFUL HOUR”

Interesting in submitting to Flashlight City Blues?

MY GREEN FAIRY

the absinthe drinker. viktor oliva.

the absinthe drinker. viktor oliva.

some days
i just
fall
down
the stairs
and i
just
keep fall
ing through
smoke
and mirrors
i travel through
this
funhouse
and past
the golden gates
to the other side

of reality
where she waits
for me
my green fairy

she dance for me
my green fairy
crazy ballet of fire
on her glass stage of desire
she dance for me

her wings in proud display
naked and raw and hard on the throat
she walks across
the good and the evil
of my spectral shoulders
and this she says to me:

“calm your head
your days will collide
if you do not.

close your eyes

feel me running up and down
your spine
this waltz
in waltz three quarter time

taste my heat upon your lips
feel me burning on your breath
sugar cubes and billowed smoke
white lighters and youthful death

open your heart
let me in
the ceremony
is about to begin.”

and i listen to her
my green fairy
my blue delusion
my red midnight
my black confusion

she dance for me
in sacred gardens of the mind
waltzing in three quarter time
she moves the moon along the sky
visions of toxic absinthe why
channels of unrequited love
dirty water, holy dove
she dance for me
she lie with me
and every night
she die for me

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “EARTHBENDING”

Interesting in submitting to Flashlight City Blues?

CRICKETS

it looks like it’s just me and the crickets tonight
the crowds poured in like flash floods
they shook, they rampaged, they rumbled the house
they spilt their drinks all over the tables
they danced on the wet tables
they kissed in my closets
they unhinged my doors and they set my clothes on fire
they blew out my speakers with their digital tribal anthems
they cursed the name of daylight
their hands reached out towards the night sky
the room filled with smoke
the intercourse of chattering, the music of heart
they filled the crevices and corners of my life
the kissing gourami wallflower star-crossed lovers
who wake up demons with bad breath and hangovers
they clawed at the walls, they clawed the ceilings
they hung their reservations from the ceiling fan
and watch as it shredded them to dust
like leftover confetti on the mardis gras ground
i slipped into my bed, slipped into my mind
as the world turns turbulent around me
as the clocks lost track of time
and the freezer began to fill with pairs of keys
the morning came like snow on january first
and the floor was littered with bodies in coma
slowly they dwindled, they faded, they disappeared
out into the long line of cars
out into the systematic revolution of deadlines
and bus schedules and inevitable responsibility
now you listen to me and what i have to say
until you too wander off out into delusional reality
and then, as it always end up,
it’s just me and the crickets tonight

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “WINDSTORM (A DREAM)”

Interesting in submitting to Flashlight City Blues?

A TOAST

lift up your spirits!
to this cataclysmic evening!
this parade!
of howling wolves! and monkeys!
to the altered perspectives!
of angels!
and their subjective
paradise!

let our warped worlds come together!
like pangea in reverse!

let all religions reside within us all!
and all around us!

this is my wish for you.
and all of you.

let us toast!
to the fact our irises
are all different colors!
and our pupils are
all
the
same!

let’s get lost!
in the rambunctious sound
of
actual
reality!

and remind our souls
that love
is not just romance:
it is
every breath
the flowers give us
and each one
we return to them!

parks
that are dead
in winter
and alive
with lush green grass
and wide-
eyed people
in summers!

let’s toast!

to the smell of rain!
to the taste of laughter!
forever! tonight!
and ever after!

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “SHOCK TOP”