08.2015 – Daily Poetry Project

08.2015

Hey guys,

Happy August. It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve written poetry and I’m looking to get back on the horse so I’m going to be doing a project called “08.2015”. I did one back in February of 2013 appropriately titled “02.2013” and it was very encouraging. It holds me accountable to post a poem everyday and it challenges me to think outside of the box. One day during the 02.2013 project I was feeling super uninspired and the fact I was forced to write something resulted in one of my favorite poems, called “EMPTY HEAD“. I hope you guys will join me through this journey, whether it be reading each day or stopping by now and then to make sure I’m being true to my word! The poems tend to become slightly cohesive as they are so back-to-back. I love this, and look forward to it. Thanks for reading.

Love,
Brice

If you’d like to read the 02.2013 poems from the beginning you can click here.

JULY 17th 2015

the vines grow so quickly now
this summer feels so much like autumn
like the sun is never rising just always setting
i walk aimlessly around this creaky old home and out the window
i swear i can see snowfall
there’s a strangeness in my own life
there’s oms of lightning in the clouds in my mind
it’s like a depression without the sadness
but it’s not an indifference either
there’s nothing apathetic about the way i feel
it might be contentment
i’ve realized i’m not good at being happy
my mind wanders i get bored i need challenge
i prefer the direction from having something wrong
to the paranoia of being at peace with myself
it’s like when you’re home alone and you think someone
is in your house
i need to work on sitting still
but it makes me feel so damn lazy
i feel like i could build a house from scratch
i have been thinking about those men in history
who built palaces and giant monuments for their lovers
that makes sense to me
i guess i don’t really know what i’m feeling
and maybe that’s what’s got my wires mixed
could i actually just be in the moment?
is this the moment everyone always says to be in?
being in the moment isn’t good for poetry, you know
maybe it is
can you reflect on something as it’s happening?
is it okay to think about the past?
what would the world look like without history?
pretty redundant i’d imagine
those vines grow more each time i look at them
i swear they’re more alive than i am
and i feel really alive
i think

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

11:30

two birds on top of a burning building
they pay no mind to the fire until they have to
they are red-breasted and consumed
by the mad sweet company of each other
a snapshot from a much longer film
they plant their feet like trees when they touch
because there’s no time to get carried away
and when the time comes
feathers ruffled. dizzy and imbalanced
away from the flames they caused
they fly separate ways
and it was worth it
it was worth it
it was worth it

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

SAINT ROBOT

if i were a giant robot
i wouldn’t ravage the city;
that is just a stereotype
of giant robots

i would just sit and meditate
in the middle of
central park

i’m sure a few park-goers
would be crushed
beneath the extreme weight
of my shiny metal ass

look
i’m a giant robot
trying to obtain enlightenment
i’m not a saint

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

A SUNDAY IN JULY

i woke up this morning with different hands
i just sat in bed for fifteen twenty minutes
studying the new length of my fingers
the new grit of my touch
i traced the lines up and down my palms
trying to decode whose lifeline i was looking at

i walked around the house with someone else’s bare feet
my calloused toes meandering the cold wood floors
i paced endlessly through the halls of my home
my home can i even call it my home
i try desperately to understand this new balance
i don’t recognize the air that enters my lungs
or the way my body sends it flowing to my foreign joints

i look into the mirror at a face that is not my own
crow’s feet squatting on these unknown power line eyes
i look so tired, so much older, when did i become this devil
this angel, this woman, this man, this child
this soul stuffed into some strange vessel
this ghost hand playing puppeteer

what of the things i was
what of the people i knew
the loves i’ve had
the love i have
what of the walk to the mailbox
what of the drive to work
what of the days spent churning and churning
what did i ever make

who’s voice am i speaking?
i shuffle through photo albums
and i start to feel the photos are not of me
what did i do
really what did i do and where am i
i close the blinds and crawl back into bed
i wrap myself in blankets
as if they were some magic cocoon
that works in reverse

some days we are someone else
and it can be such a brutal voiceless battle
to remember anything about the person
we’ve got so comfortable telling ourselves
that we are

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

JUST A QUICK BIT ON LOVE

It’s amazing to be alive on a day where love has been allowed to be free. Have you ever been told you’re not allowed to love someone the way you want to? Have you ever been denied that you could actually love someone? The problem with trying to contain love is it can’t be done. The more you push back on love the closer it will embrace you. This is where I find my hope for humanity. Freedom, beauty, truth and love – and the beautiful thing is today’s ruling to make gay marriage legal in all fifty states will make this country more free, more beautiful, more truthful and of course more full of love. I am beyond elated. Let us not put down our hearts just yet. Let us keep fighting for that which is unarguably good. Let us carry a torch that will light all the dark corners of this world and when there are no dark places left, we can rest. Love is painful, love is work and all that pain and work is worth it on days like today. I love you all. Have a free, beautiful, truthful, lovely weekend.

-Brice

LIQUIDATION

“We are addicted to our thoughts. We cannot change anything if we cannot change our thinking.”
-Santosh Kalwar

i set the fire and i climb down the fire escape
the metal frame rattles as i descend away from my own madness
i cannot tell you how long coming it has been
i jump onto dumpster lids and climb back up onto random rooftops
i stare at the dirty city beneath me
drunk fucks pissing down back alleys howling at the absent moon
clothes strung out on frayed lines
dry but covered in the smoky claws of the sewers
i don’t know how i ended up in this city
i’ve never been here before but the grit is so damn appealing
it’s unwarranted and i’ve been taking action warranted so long that
i am starting to see why some people sleep in gutters
squat in broken bomb shelters and kiss death in the secondhand sheets
i get it i get it i get it’s appealing really it is
you can be a stray dog you can be at the whim of the tobacco wind
throw your watch in the gutter and drive off in some stranger’s sportscar
drive off i’m always talking about driving in my poems
it’s my american song i guess my blues my rock and roll my black metal
my flag hanging out the window as i speed into the blissful absence
to go so fast to miss so much to be so cocooned in adrenaline
as you fall to the floor your eyes roll back to make love to your third eye
you arms go numb your legs go numb and you melt
persistent time gone impersistent
television static floating out of the bluetube and into the ether around you
your shoulder bones writhing your idea of you gone as you watch a breath
the breath the only breath the last breath take you hostage and bam
your gone and then it’s symphonic it’s dylan-gone-electric matador red
blood stampede heart chasing heart chasing heart tom and jerry
and whiskey love nightmares and orange vast sky drowning it’s
crayons on walls of skeleton skulls and chinese lamps floating up
into the mouth of a giant whale swallowed swallowing space ships and
to walk around in the ocular cavity of god to taste her stale morning breath
to hide in the walls for a thousand years and come out a bearded fool
and to see that it’s all gone disappeared like looters came in the night
for an unexpected liquidation sale and stole the very foundation you ran away from
what you got now, old man? where is your dream? where is your nightmare?
when you awaken to find that it’s over and an old drunk bastard says “it’s too late,
and there’s nothing worse than too late,” but we had a good run didn’t we? you
hear someone whisper but you’re just talking to yourself again because who the
fuck else is around?

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

I DON’T REMEMBER WRITING THIS

i hit the bottle and punched the forest
and then bam it came pouring out
like niagara fucking falls
verse after verse of subjective majesty
it came pouring out
tears to my ears
it just ran rampant across the page
like a street dog through suburbia
and i loved it
a snowstorm in a warm winter
a drastic makeover to my soul
i call her elvira
you can call her whatever you want
it’s just a god damn soul
the point is
pouring out
like niagara falls
crazy kerouacian
bordeline ginsbergian
not to compare
just the same amount of i don’t care
it came pouring out
smoke and whiskey
lies new religion
like pure ecstasy
like something to stick on your tongue and treasure
and will it happen again?
when the yellow morning finds me
will i be radiant red
or blue blue blue
in the face face face?

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

40 THIEVES

up to my neck in shark infested waters
lost wandering under street lamps
bare feet on jagged rocks
hands out parallel like i’m ready to be crucified
winds shake me like a powerful sermon
and i’m lost in the gospel of the madness

the kind of blurry vision that glasses can’t fix
the blood runs through the bandaids
i’m trying to balance on the sharp edge of a clock hand
everywhere i drive it seems to be midnight
and the street signs are missing and the shops are all sleeping
i’m running on empty i can hear my car dry heave up the gravel

the red light of the cameras are all lit
i’m sitting at a stop light lost in time but someone is watching
i am all skeleton and wooden windchime
i am the ghost hands on the player piano
broken. stuck on the same three notes
and just as i go to jerk the wheel i hear it all around me

the conversations
the ones that we shuffle through the white noise to get to
i watch as my stupid humanity echoes into your mouth
and it’s okay. really i promise it’s all okay.

this world is built on love and dream and netflix
so i promise you this – it is all okay
and thank you for that
seriously. thank you for that

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

DEAD RABBIT

i found a dead rabbit
in the backyard of my soul

i took a minute to take it in
the sun beating down on the animal
surrounded by flies

and when that too passed
i took a spade and carved a space for it
in the ground

i gave it a funeral
where i remembered its rabbit life:

running across suburban roads
digging underground tunnels
i reminisced about its rabbit lovers
and its abandoned children

and then i put it into the ground
covered it with the earth
and it was gone

i thought about the worms in the ground
feeding on its protein
i thought about how it would decay
and eventually disappear
as would the worms as well
as would my very thought of it
and this funeral
and this notion that my soul is safe from death
when the truth is i am always burying rabbits
in the backyard of my soul
and at night i lay on that familiar patch of dirt
and i count the stars that i will never have to bury

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015