NEWBORN

I locked the doors. Padlocked chained bolted shut the god damn doors and the outside world – cracked wide open a window and I threw out every letter, every picture, every moment of anything that ever meant anything to anyone. Indiscriminate. I took a hammer to the clocks. I threw my watch into the fire. I stomped on a fucking egg timer to make sure there was absolutely nothing left to make that tick tick noise. I shoved open my desk drawer and cut straight down my cheek with a razor blade. I felt nothing at all. I littered the floor with random papers, bank statements, grown-up homework like I was decorating a psych ward. I flipped the couches on their asses, I punched my fist through the television set. I unplugged the fridge and let the useless food begin to rot. I ran all the sinks at once. The gaudy shithole apartment sounded like Niagara Falls. The pipes moaned from pressure and bursted. The ceiling soaked like blood on bed sheets. There I was between fire and water. Between everything and nothing, leaning like the Tin Man back and forth. I felt nothing and it felt so god damn fucking beautiful. I put my rosary down the garbage disposal and hummed along to the sound of God dying. I broke my glasses in my hand like random twigs. I stepped on them like fire ants. I took my mother’s urn off the mantel and shoved it on the ground. I spit on the ashes. I turned on all four burners of the stove. I ripped my brown one-eyed, on-it’s-last-leg smiley-ass teddy bear into bits and sprinkled it on the hot coils. My eyes watered something other than tears as smoke clouded my blurred vision. I’d never seen more clearly. Broken dishes like bad memories and I smashed drinking glasses like I was allergic to thirst. I tore the carpet up and found that buried underneath was a whole lot of nothing. In a matter of what may have once been an hour, I turned a home at war into a mausoleum of peace. I put a record on. It skipped, I watched it mutilate itself. I felt nothing. Not a single drop of loneliness, confusion, anger, turmoil, fear, pain, hate, joy, love or indigestion. The record just kept skipping. I felt nothing and I hardly felt that. And then you walked out of the bedroom, wearing only my business blue banker shirt, you’re legs stemming out underneath like sex, and I fell to my knees on the torn-up carpet and I cried like a newborn fucking baby.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “WINTERSONG”

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HEROIN CHIC

and then they took everything
as lonely people froze in the street
their tongues stuck to heroin needles
the took the clothes of their backs
models doing research
in gaudy gilded golden hotel rooms
with minibars and views
of shitty cities and little mirrors
to put the blow on

please
try the cocaine
really
it’s breathtaking

dark hungry alleyways
become
illuminated well-fed runways

and then they took everything
i double-dog dare the models
to tell the homeless
that they’re dying
for a cheeseburger
milan couldn’t replicate
the black in the eyes of a woman
stranded in the street

rob the homeless
take everything you can
and penetrate price tags
into their tattered garments

a blanket
becomes
a shawl

cardboard homes
become
set pieces

tip the homeless
fashion sense decades ahead of their time
a certain natural sense of
minimalism
a certain natural sense of
deconstructivism
a certain natural sense of
irony

heroin chic:
it’s all the rage

heroin chic
my drug of choice

a sense of ethics
stick it to the man
in a million dollar
thrift store
jacket
andy warhol all over again
(“think rich, look poor”)
take what we already know
and cram it down our throats

somewhere someone is dying in the gutters of america
wearing the same thing as you

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012