WHATIF

i think about what i would do with my time
if i wasn’t a writer and i am pretty sure i’d be a carpenter
but i think i’d probably stop halfway through a project
to go lock myself in my room and write poems
because i couldn’t focus on carpentry
with all this nonsense floating around my skull
yeah
if i was a carpenter i’d probably just be a poet with a bunch of wood lying around my house

if i was the president
i’d be a terrible president
but i’d write some brutal poetry

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

About these ads

i blink and

i blink and
one million people pass by me
at one million miles per hour
as stupid flowers bloom
and brilliant cities are planned
and corrupted
and born again
from the genesis of tragedy

i love in the moment
i mean
i try
but i get lost at sea
with my technology
and my telescope
that can see the wall
at the end of the universe but
only from the perspective
of my sight

and there
sitting on the wall
at the end of the universe
is a manic pixie dream girl
my answer to questions
i should be able to answer on my own
but unfortunately
not all of us are born
philosophers and tech gurus
some of us are just born
starry-eyed idiot boys
forced to pace around our rooms
for 40 days
with no water no oxygen
not an ounce of television
just us our love
and the exhaustion of staring at the
ceiling

i wander drunkenly down the halls of
harvard
i love voraciously as i fall asleep in a bathtub
in your heart
i drive myself insane trying to recreate
the something that maybe
but possibly
maybe not?
i fall asleep with a lampshade
on top of my enlightened head
in the bathtub
of your heart

(what the fuck is he talking about?)

i blink and
i am lost in some sea of angelic
monsters

i blink and
i am shooting downtown
in a metal death shuttle
piercing the skin of den
ver

i blink and
i am lying in bed
reading 10,000 pages
of a murakami novel
not about you
my room was hit
by a tornado
and i really couldn’t
give a shit

i blink
and my sister is marrying
the man of her life
i blink
and she is rosy-cheeked
and happy
and barefoot
and pregnant
and still in love
and she cries at her son’s
graduation
and she holds her husband’s
hand
and she holds her husband’s
hand
as they ascend into heaven
and i blink and i
blink
and i blink
and

i channel surf
the million lives i want to
live
and don’t think about
pink elephants
you’re thinking about pink elephants
aren’t you?
and don’t think about death
oh wait

i blink and
i am driving to saint joseph
to save my lover

i blink and
i am playing pinball
until four in the
imaginary morning

i blink and
i am in the car crash arms
of my saint joseph lover

i blink and
i am playing the white album
backwards

i blink and
i am swimming in my mother’s
chicken noodle soup

i am swimming
in a bathtub
in a hotel room
in your heart

i am charismatic
and charming
and almost out
of anxiety pills

i am down to
my last
anxiety pill

i am
my anxiety pills

i just
don’t know
who what where
when
why i’m at
at the moment
in the
sand dunes
in a hotel room
in your heart

i blink and
i am billy pilgrim
who has come
un
stuck in
time

against my
mother’s wishes
i have stared too long
into the eternal sunshine
of the spotless
mind

i am
jim carrey
in eternal sunshine of the
spotless mind

i am
kate winslet
in eternal sunshine of the
spotless mind

i am
hiding from
the velociraptors of reality
in an oven
on a dinosaur island

i am love
(i should always take a
moment to remember that
because it reminds me
that there is no such thing as
incorrect or irrelevant
or unimportant
you are important
you are too important
and the things that
you say
create waves that last
long after the moon
has blacked out drunk
remember that)

remember how beautiful
you looked
in my rear view window
as i went so very
not fucking gentle
into that good night

i blink and
i am watching my friends
sail away from the shores
of colorado
into the distorted audio
of california
into the arms
of jack daniels
into the eyes
of spiritual materialism
into the death star

i blink and
i am wallflowering
so very well
i am so very good
at wallflowering
when i want to
wallflower
and for the longest
i felt terrible
about wanting to
wallflower
but if time
the liar
has taught me
anything
it’s that i’m allowed
to wallflower
we move
so fast
even when
we’re not in
motion

i blink and
i am beneath your version
of the stars

i blink and
i am doctor gonzo
on a two-week
sociology binge
where the windows
are shattered
and the doors have
been busted open
and i am taking notes
on the human disease
and its beautiful
afflictions

i blink and
i am listening to a
tape recording of your voice
telling me nice things
about myself
and i am still
out of anxiety
pills

(i blink and
I turn off the lights
and listen to
something
and i meditate on
how people would speak
if words were as expensive
as college)

i blink and
call my mom and dad
on my way home from work
in zero degree temperatures
in november where i live
to tell them i love them
and i want to see them
(and i want to see you)
soon
i’m sorry i’ve been busy
and feeling very anxious
and honestly
i feel like if i blink anymore
i might miss

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “FUNERAL”

FUNERAL

let’s see where do we start
the wooden walls take in the cigarette smoke
you can’t see shit
someone’s playing broken piano on the creaky stage
but you can make out the face
just the silhouette of a man in a hat
there’s flies buzzing in and around the swinging lightbulbs
the barkeep is mopping the floors up with beer
the backdoor is open
you can hear drunken demons laughing in the alley
but as far as you know
you’ve got the bar all to yourself
you and your well whiskey
you and the weight of every one of your years
and you can’t face it you don’t want to face it
but every single failure every single success
has lead you to this hard seat beneath the moon
that can’t shine so harsh on you from inside of the bar
the barkeep wipes down the glasses
the barkeep washes his hands incessantly
and you just keep testing your liver
the smoke goes blurry
you see a face that you don’t want to remember
you feel her hair in your hands
you’re up and dancing alone
in the middle of the smoke filled bar
your eyes are as red as revolution
your bones are as dry as dust
the lights are swinging and so are you
you’re throwing punches at your own damn face
and it’s last call and tom waits and more well whiskey
and the lovely women of the world are everywhere but here
and you forget your name
and you laugh in the bathroom mirror
and you rub your eyes and don’t recognize the face
unshaven unclean unwell unsober unforgiven
you rub your eyes and you don’t recognize the face
and you’re staring at the flickering halogen lights
on the bathroom floor as the water runs over
and you’re every drunk american piano song
and you’re a modern day john the baptist
and this is gonna sting in the morning
if the morning ever comes
but you’re fading to black end credits
exit music for a film
the white names scroll across the black screen
and then nothing
you’re stuck with nothing
and you better get the hell up
and do something about it
there’s a time to mourn your death
but you better get the hell up before last call

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “TO MARLA”

TO MARLA

i think about it sometimes
messaging you and saying
“wanna take off
where we left off?”
i would play charles bukowski
and you would be marla singer
and i would attack you
the moment that you walked
through the door
your coat hanging recklessly
on a chair somewhere
thumping footsteps up the stairs
the bedroom door slams
and there we would be
young and stupid in an instant

afterwards i’d crack a window
so you could smoke
i can’t stand cigarette smoke
but i’d stand it anyways
and you would be coy
using your arms and legs
to cover yourself
and i would just lay there
and stare up at the ceiling
and the stucco images
that don’t really seem to form
anything
just random images
there for the sake of being there
and in one moment
sunglare piercing
i’d see your eyes grow wide
as mine grew small in their reflection
universes expanding
contracting
and i’d be in love
incredible original love
then boom it would be gone
and i’d realize
that i don’t want to play
charles bukowski
and i would offer you breakfast
no
i don’t think i could
offer you breakfast

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “TINY LITTLE MOVER MEN”

TINY LITTLE MOVER MEN

any creature
that has had a fruit
in a tree
that it cannot reach
and will never be able
to reach
understands that circumstance
can sometimes
have the upper hand
over passion

sometimes you have to go hungry
to remember what it feels like
to be truly full

sometimes your soul is evicted
tiny little mover men
meandering up and down the staircases
in you chest
packing your lovely shit in boxes
and pulling up the carpets

sometimes it’s the big one
crashing down like loud loud reality
sometimes you have to sleep
outside of yourself
but remember you can see the stars

you say they are eternal
i say you are a liar
you say i am a nihilist
i say i pulled the death card
you say i’m just in transition
i say way too much
but i do understand
those words never really were
my fruit to begin with
and you still dance
in the giant ballroom
down the hall of my heart as
tiny little mover men
meander up and down the stairs
carrying boxes in and out

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “DRESSER”

DRESSER

i’ve had this dresser for over half my life
wooden six drawers little knobs on the drawers
rectangular it is so very rectangular
and i love the thing really i do
it’s hard not to love something that’s been so loyal
and in my room i’m lying on my floor for some dumb reason
and i say to the dresser “i don’t know why i love you, dresser,
you’re just a vessel full of all the things i’ve gathered,”
and the dresser says “just like you, asshole,”

that was the last time my dresser and i ever spoke
but i’m not going to get rid of it, obviously

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “NOT ENOUGH WATER TOO MANY BEERS”

NOT ENOUGH WATER TOO MANY BEERS

i’ve had
lots of conversations with women
in my life
i am not the type who is afraid
to look em dead in the eyes
and call them on their bullshit
but the thing is
i am the type who is afraid
of getting twisted up
in the bed of a woman
who i don’t really love

so often times
where other men would pull
them in
i tend to have to draw the line
i know too damn well
what it is that i want
and a conversation is one thing
but waking up naked
beside a woman who you don’t know
and it doesn’t matter
you could ask one like this a million questions
you’ll never know her
but waking up naked
beside a woman you don’t know
is another thing entirely

i have seen conversations run dry
i have seen myself flourish
giving a woman i don’t love attention
and watching her love the attention
and her probably giving me attention too
but there’s always that weird aftertaste
like not enough water too many beers
there’s that weird aftertaste

you both know you’ll never make love
or maybe just i know that
or maybe i really don’t know that
but my point is
that’s the kind of ideal candidate
for some men
the woman who just wants to be loved
in that moment
not for a lifetime
the woman who just wants to pour alcohol
into a black hole with you
the woman who just wants to hit the lights
and be anonymous monsters
there’s a time and a place for everything
but i get stuck in the story
i get lost in those eyes i mentioned
that i’m not afraid to stare down
and it scares me not knowing
the next time i’m gonna
run into a woman
who stares back harder
and sees past the conversation
and into the awkward physicality
the words not spoken
the odd pacing of a romantic poet
in a world that says
we need to listen more to women
because the conversation is the foreplay
and i hear that sex
isn’t as good without foreplay
but i wouldn’t know
i’ve never tried it that way

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “CHOCOLATE”

CHOCOLATE

they are fighting in the front seat
about nothing
absolutely nothing
arguing about where to eat
or how to drive
or what weather patterns are predictable
in the jungles of tanzania
and which ones are less than determinable
you missed the turn back there
stop smacking your gum so loud
can we not listen to this song again

and i am tucked in the backseat
hard hard candy in my mouth
and all i can think
is why the fuck
isn’t there chocolate?!

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “(FAST POST)”

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/”