10TH & OSAGE

the night rolls on
like a silent film

it flickers like old home movies

and i am shadow
void of vocal cords

i am lost in denver
in love with denver
awake in denver
forever in denver

where life is
the slowest american speed
possible

where you be
and people accept that you be
where stages erupt with talent
in the shittiest of dive bars
underwater

just waiting for the wave to crash
this giant frozen wave
this tsunami lost in time

lost in denver
love with denver
awake in denver
forever in denver

in love with the story
that it weaves around me
in love with love
and you
uncatchable jellyfish
away from denver

the north star forever in motion
one thousand lives away

that is you
and i am astronaut
space cadet
chasing infinity by the tail

circles in the sand
lost in denver
where lights reflect on lights
where we cannot see truth
so we make our own
from whiskey and fire
from moonlight and confusion
and death sets in the west
just down the california way
but we lay on the frozen grass
and don’t think about it
we just hold our breath
and count the stars
and lose count
and don’t start over
when we lose count

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “YOU PAINT YOURSELF IN RED AND I PAINT MYSELF IN BLUE”

YOU PAINT YOURSELF IN RED AND I PAINT MYSELF IN BLUE

you paint yourself in red
and i paint myself in blue
and i keep painting-
and i keep painting-
and i keep painting-
and my paintbrush escapes
the crooked-cruel-edges of my canvas
and i explode like bluestars across the blacksky
and i paint my entire house (in blue)
and i don’t miss the ceilings no sir i do not
and this – all reckless
and you, all restless
and me – all deathless and dreaming of death
i take a breath. and i breath in the red of you-
and i wonder where we are and who we are and wait what-
where the fuck is my refill on coffee?
and where the fuck are the stars in this nightless sky??
and where the fuck am i??? dead and alive
and angelic and, lost and, finding comfort in your red paints
and your lighthouse when i’m lost at sea
(always lost at sea this one – always lost and never found and
al ways painting portraits of the back of my head
with shotgun hands and sinking ships for lips
and my adam’s apple elevator stuck between floor one and two
the heart and the head it meanders through my throat
like a lost child in a target store
where the what the who the why the fuck am i?
i am blue i paint myself in blue and i lie on the floor of my kitchen
as dull knives live boring knives in drawers
forever will they ever find their way out i don’t know
i am not wise man – i am the boy with firecrackers for hands
trying to dance with girls drenched in kerosene
i am love ha ha ha nope that’s not how this song goes
but i am trying like hell to soak my sheets in sweat of compassion
night terror alcoholics sing to me through open city windows
howling like mad wolves lost in their tiny coffin apartments
where the what the who the why the fuck am i?
i paint myself in blue you paint yourself in red
and the purple mountains majesty
that live in my parking lot
will laugh that we can’t be half what they have always been
nope we never will be what they be
)

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “WHATIF”

Don’t go to Walmart

i deleted my facebook today. this is probably the ten millionth time i’ve deleted my facebook. also, i see the stupidity in deleting your facebook and then writing a blog post about it, but that’s where i’m at. it’s overwhelming, especially with things like ferguson. there’s just so much entitlement and hate and confusion and it’s overwhelming. it’s not the lens that i want to see the world through. beyond that, i can’t tell you how many times today i had the though “i should make that my status.” oh man.

i watched before sunrise with my friend, kathryn, the other day. there’s this part where the main woman talks about when she was in russia and away from media and all of that. she talks about how clear her head felt. that’s what i need and want. i’ve been feeling like time is finite, which is problematic, though i’m starting to see it’s not finite, but it is valuable, and i want to focus my time more usefully. hopefully, this means more blogging.

november really is my favorite month of the year. it’s just so transitional. it’s like when the plane begins its descent, to me.

i would give anything to be on a plane right now. a red eye flight over new york city, seeing those lights for the first time as the plane circles in like a hawk stalking its prey. i worked on thanksgiving and i don’t understand why. i think we really need to step back and remember that we will not die if everything isn’t readily available all the time. i saw the walmart parking lot full on the way home. full. just packed to the brim. it was too much. why? sit and do nothing. it’s okay. i promise. sit and do nothing. hug your family. write about your life, or do a backflip, take a nap, climb a tree, build a blanket fort, build a bench. do something, but please don’t go to walmart. and delete your facebook. maybe for a week? or maybe you’re just better at it than me; not getting consumed by it all.

my sister got married yesterday. it was beautiful. i’ve never seen her that happy.

i already feel ten million times better. hope you’re doing well, everyone.

happy thanksgiving. i am thankful for everything and i try daily to realize the responsibility that comes with the everything i have. i am thankful for you, dear reader.

love,
brice

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

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”