OXYGEN LIMITLESS

and today is the first day I ever walked out the door
not for bread, not for eggs but for the hot hot mess of humanity on the other side
I walk slowly down the sidewalk but really I’m ramming my tongue down her throat
and then a careful glance where your black holes stare straight on into her black holes
and amongst each other’s galaxies you feel meaningful
you are the most significant speck of dust on the dashboard
and rumor has it your hands your arms can reach anywhere in the world but all I do is ask her if she wants to go lay down in her bed
and she says yes yes of course hallelujah and
amen
and I put my outstretched arm around as the other one goes to the store to get some breads, get some eggs and I breathe as if air was free and oxygen limitless

READ “AN OLD WOMAN OF ARLES”

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AN OLD WOMAN OF ARLES

'An Old Woman of Arles' by Vincent Van Gogh. 1888.

‘An Old Woman of Arles’ by Vincent Van Gogh. 1888.

though once
her hair was wild
it is now tamed
seeking refuge from
a long life
in the sanctuary
of a black bandana

her eyes sunken in
like great ships
set ablaze
in the starry night
beneath her eyebrows
like clouds
that dissipate
slowly through time

her wrinkles have
formed like drylands
under the salt water crusades
of lovers above her
long gone
onward to other women
other lives
and down the stairs
six feet beneath the
ground

there is no symmetry
left to her face
there is no falsity
of balance
of give and take
of war and peace
just the residue
of what lost
and what was won

she stares
at the artist
like she is staring
at god
like she stares out
into the great void
that hovers over her
small bed
the great void
that comes whistling
out of her teapot
the great void
that consumes
not only the old woman
but the artist as well
but youth

he does not know
that when he stares out
at the old woman of arles
that he stares into
himself
but god
does he know
how to paint
a self-portrait.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “LIGHTBULB”

RANSOM NOTE

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

WE HAVE WHAT IT IS YOU MOST VALUE.
AND WE ARE NOT GOING TO GIVE IT BACK TO YOU EASY.
WE WANT YOUR EVERYTHING:

YOUR BED AND BREAKFAST
YOUR WIFE AND KIDS
YOUR TELEVISION
YOUR RADIO
YOUR DRIVEWAY AND YOUR CAR
YOUR GOOGLE SEARCH HISTORY
YOUR BLACK BOX OF SECRETS
YOUR IMAGINARY PHOBIAS
YOUR VERY REAL PHOBIAS

WE ALSO REQUEST THAT YOU DELIVER
40 HOURS A WEEK OF YOUR LIFE
FOR 50 YEARS OF YOUR LIFE
IN SMALL BILLS
IN A METAL SUITCASE
TO THE INTERSECTION OF REALITY RD.
AND DREAM DRIVE
BY 0900 HOURS
ON YOUR SON’S
GRADUATION DAY.

WE WILL NOT COMPLY
WITH COUNTER OFFERS.
IF YOU WANT MORE
WE WILL BE TAKING MORE.
THIS IS NOT A GAME.
THIS IS THE GAME.
THIS IS NOT YOU VERSUS US.
THIS IS NOT A WAR.
THIS IS A MASSACRE
AND WE HOLD ALL THE GUNS
AND YOU HOLD WHAT FITS BETWEEN
YOUR PRAYING HANDS.

THIS IS NOT OPTIONAL.
YOU MUST DO AS WE SAY
OR THINGS ARE NOT
GOING TO BE PRETTY FOR YOU.
WE KNOW HOW TO STARVE YOU.
WE KNOW HOW TO CUT OF YOUR
ELECTRICITY: BOTH INTERNAL
AND EXTERNAL.
WE KNOW HOW TO SEDUCE YOU
AND THEN NOT GIVE YOU
WHAT WE PROMISED.
WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.

WE HOPE THAT WE HAVE BEEN CLEAR.

IF WE HAVE LEFT YOU WITH ANY CONFUSION
DO NOT WORRY.
WE WILL BE RAMMING THIS DOWN YOUR THROAT
THROUGH CEREAL BOX PROPAGANDA
AND SCHIZOPHRENIC POSTCARDS
FLASHING SCREENS OF LIGHT
AND JUMBOTRONS OF ANAPHYLACTIC APOCOLYPSE
UNTIL YOUR LAST BREATH.

UNLESS YOU CHOOSE
TO MEET OUR DEMANDS.

WE LOOK FORWARD TO
YOUR PROMPT RESPONSE
AND ACTION.

THAT’S ALL FOLKS.

SINCERELY,

- – - – - – - – - – - – - -
COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “HAND TAKES WHEEL”

NAGASAKI BABY

you look into the camera
like a deer in headlights
your eyes shine bright and lucid
your skin looks as soft as lonely madness
your breasts come together
like strangers making a drug deal
in central park

like this reminder that if you had nothing
you would still have this body
these fiery cheeks
this smile like old film actresses

but behind that glimmer in your eyes
behind your shark white smile
there is something dead
the aftermath
the radiation
from some nuclear explosion
and i don’t know what it was
but i know it is there

and all the guys lining up down the block
think they’re the Hiroshima boy
to your Nagasaki baby

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “MAJOR TOM TO GROUND CONTROL”

CLOPENING

Me Bathtub

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

there is no sun and there is no moon
just the light of a thousand stars condensed
into one giant phallic beam
that illuminates the grassless carpet
and the songless day
and the songless night
and the wake up get dressed head out the door
and the get home take your hat off masturbate
and go to bed

rinse and repeat
in the situation that you find
in the situation that you find
that you are trapped on a feedback loop
(feedback loop)
and you cannot exit the zenless circle
squeaky hamster wheel
in the situation that you find
water cooler conversation
sit and please remain seated
and face the faceless electric void
the empty fanatical empire of garbage
and type
at a minimum speed
and type
at a minimum speed
(feedback loop)
of sixty words per minute

and wait
just you wait
for that coming morning
when you open one eye
afraid to hear an alarm screaming in your ear
but it’s not there
it’s just you and bed and sun and life
and day off and breakfast in the aFternoon
and conversation over steam in the late late evenings
that turn into mornings
boiling with smiling regret
boiling with smiling regret
and a sweet little mason jar
waiting for you on your doorstep
filled with sweet, sexy freedom
yep

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “POEM FOR A LOVER IN MY FUTURE”

elevator music.

Image

We made out in an elevator for seventy two hours straight and it took us until 48 hours in to realize that the elevator had broken down. I spoke orange juice and you spoke gasoline in a diet cola world and surprise, surprise we made napalm. We made intricate solar vibrations of trash can drums beating in your empty room of a womb. Feminine claw against masculine skin. Angel dust and devil’s food cake and grandstand bandstand orchestral chords of symphonic orgasms splayed out across the starry night paint smeared and transient as oceans in wind. You throat punched me in the heart. You brilliant manifesto of bitch. You beautiful garbage disposal of fantasia. You sickening amount of whiskey spins and vodka breath and then existential hangover. And then the hangover from the hangover. And then the awkward silence. And then we’re sitting on separate hills looking out at different reality mountains and then the elevator doors opened and we got out.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

THE BLUEST SKY THAT YOU COULD MAKE FROM SCRATCH.

there is a dog in the yard
on a leash that is tied
to a tree
and it’s trying to get away

the sprinklers are running

there is a white fence
there are cars driving by
and there you are
behind it all
staring out of a window

staring out at the flies dying
the concrete heating in the sun
the bicycle tied endlessly
to a telephone pole with one tire
never to be rescued

you are staring out at the birds
shitting on your driveway
and the dandelion poofs that just
float on by
the ones that don’t give a shit about you

and you are still sitting there
behind that window
behind that prison of a window
where you just do nothing
just wait for the mailman to stop by
with a big brown box
and inside of that box
is the dream that you ordered
when you were a twelve year old girl
and it fits just right
red and slinky and crawling down to the floor
it fits you
like it was tailored perfectly to you
and you deserve it
for all your hard work
all the days you’ve put in
all the tears you’ve cried
and the sweat that you have sweat
this dream is yours

don’t wear it in the rain
it might shrink
it might get dirty

do you even remember how to jump in puddles?
do you even remember what a mistake tastes like?
do you even remember how sexy a voice can be
when it is hoarse
and dry
and thirsty
for someone
or something?
do you even remember what it feels like
to taste a cake that you baked yourself?

you just dance on the roof of this house
that someone else built with their hands
with your dream
your pretty red silk dream
amongst the white cotton ball clouds
and the bluest sky you have ever seen

the bluest sky that you could make from scratch

if you look there
across the way
you’ll see an apartment complex
and on that third story there
in the window
is a man sitting exhausted
at a computer screen
crunching numbers
his eyes swollen and red
his fingers moving like legs
on a thirty day hike to survive
do you see him?
or is he an invisible ship
crashing onto your shallow shore?

he is looking for the right algorithm
he is putting pennies into the machine
hoping that the copper can form pipes
pipes that can send water
where water is needed

he is ticking away
like a time bomb
he just moves on
to the next sentence
and you are so pleased with yourself
congressional medal of honor
for the way you sat at that window
waiting for life to come to you
shrink wrapped
bubble wrapped
preserved on ice
but never fresh
never raw
never wriggling in your soft hands
just served on a silver platter
that someone else made

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “CONVERSATIONS WITH BRIAN ENO.”

CONVERSATION WITH BRIAN ENO.

hey.
how’s it going?
i don’t really know you.
i think i missed just about everything
that you ever did.
sorry.
i’m working on getting caught up.
but right now.
i’m just listening to your ambient stuff.
it’s become an archetype really.
the band musician who goes on
to make the kind of dreary music you hear
in the background of artsy films.
trent reznor must have gotten the cue from you.
not to assume.
i mean
maybe he has no idea who you are
and what you do
but that seems very unlikely.

please don’t get me wrong.
i’m not insulting you by any means.
as a writer especially
i appreciate the ambient stuff.
so many artists just want to cram agenda
down your throat.
personal agenda.
definition of love agenda.
political agenda.
existential agenda.
i know.
i’m a poet.
i’m a hypocrite.
and i’m guilty of having agendas.
i think it’s impossible to be a poet
and not have an agenda.
even not having an agenda is a bit of an
anti-agenda.

i think it’s impossible to be a poet
and not be a hypocrite.

it’s hard to not be a hypocrite
in general.

did gandhi ever have a cheat day
when he was fasting?

sorry.
that was rude.
you don’t even know me.
now i’ve gone and made some terrible impression
on some bald artist i don’t even know.

it’s okay.
i’m bald too.
us bald guys got to stick together.
this song of yours has wind chimes.
very clever.
no, seriously.
i’m not making fun of you.
i’m just jealous is all.
i have to try to capture moods with words.
i can’t do anything musical.
i had a short stint with a guitar
but it ended like a lot of my relationships;
i got bored and just forgot it ever happened.

ever just have a day where you just don’t
answer your phone?

i think i’ll have one tomorrow.

is eno really your last name?
seems too perfect.
like lana del rey.

but sincerely.
i like your stuff.
i’m curious why MGMT wrote a song
about you.
i’m curious why you’re so famous.
curious being the correct word.
not confused.
i just know you did something important
but i don’t know what.

i was watching a documentary
on national parks
and they talked about teddy roosevelt
and i realized
that i never realized
what a badass he was.
he basically was president
and spent the whole time camping
and reminding this country
that we were the western western world
and that we should just try to hold on to this.
make some effort to not screw it up.
human nature, i guess.
wait for the last opportune moment.

but anyways
my point is
i never knew.
teddy roosevelt.
now my favorite president.
maybe you’re my favorite musician
and i just don’t know it yet.
i’m looking forward to hearing
what you have to say, brian eno.

okay.
now it’s your turn to talk.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “MY NIGHT WITH A CUMULONIMBUS CLOUD”

MY NIGHT WITH A CUMULONIMBUS CLOUD

i hope you’re happy
i can’t go to sleep because of you
i can’t even close my eyes because of you

i can’t dream because of you
i can’t reset my soul
or digest my day
or forget the moments of terror because of you

i can’t shake these grasshoppers in my jar
i can’t shut off the rush hour traffic in my head
this red eye flight seven-thirty-seven
crashing against the wall of my skull
i can’t float down this night river because of you

i can’t sleep with the television turned off
i can’t sleep with the television turned on
i can’t god damn do a thing but type this god damn
poem
this stupid fucking poem and my eyes are so heavy
and my neck is so soar
and the nightmares just float on the ceiling of my room
and the ghosts of my ex-girlfriends lay starry-eyed beside me

it’s all backwards
someone left the fridge open
i can’t get out of bed
the house is so god damn cold
i can’t stop thinking about you
i can’t forget this adolescent reckless rock opera
that i spewed at you as if i could carve you into loving me
with the sound of my voice
and this was ages ago
and who you are is ambiguous
even to me
nothing is clear
i’m just living inside of this heckling
cumulonimbus cloud
this cumulonimbus cloud that just fucks with me
and i’m drowsy
nyquil drowsy
driving on coffee fumes through utah at night drowsy
less than a quarter tank of gas
and it’s running out
the belligerence in requiem form
i can feel it running out
but my old bones in my young skin still ache
my old soul in my battered rib cages still coughs
and sits by my fireplace heart
and rocks in his cliche rocking chair
and why won’t you let me sleep?
i just wanna sleep
i just want need to not be in this world
for a few hours
eight or six
i’d even settle for four
anything
to help me remember how much i love this world
anything
to help me remember
and to provide the eulogy
for this ugly cloud
this stupid cloud that just thunders
and never has the courage to lightning

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “HIROH KAKAI”