02.09

0209

(empty head.)

i got nothing for you today
you might as well leave now
there’s no words of wisdom
no witty stories or clever anecdotes
it’s just dust and air up there
it’s an unimportant february the ninth
never ever admit you’re bored
never let anyone know you’re bored
well, that is just too damn bad
because i am bored

this is a laundry day
one to sleep off
run mundane errands
make phone calls to bill collectors
watch b movies by myself in dirty pajamas
i couldn’t bring myself to be interesting

i’m sorry
i warned you
there’s nothing here
i could dance for you i suppose
like those monkeys in the circus
with their stupid cymbals
uncomfortable in their stupid hats
god, it would suck to be that monkey
if you’re a monkey you don’t even get paid
you just get bruised-up bananas
for dancing for the masses
always expected to smile your monkey smile
and retire at the end of it all
to your tiny monkey trailer
where you lie down in your tiny monkey bed
and turn off your tiny monkey light
and dream about the space monkeys
floating amongst the stars endlessly
far away from the shit show
and the mindless audience

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.10, DAY 10 OF 02.2013

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

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OLD MAN POEM

i am one hundred and fifty years old already
my bones ache and my cane is brittle
i mope about the house and write old man poems
to the sound of dust on the shelves
i drink my soup without a spoon
and look back on the golden days that never were

i take cold showers and hour long baths
my friends call from time to time
but most times i can’t figure out
how to answer the god damn telephone

the mail man, he knows me
margaret on lane six at walmart, she knows me
the people through the phone, they listen to me
talk about my life, my life, my life
and the war, the war, the war
and the garden, the garden, the garden
and my wife, my wife, my wife

the edges of memories need mending
but i hold close in my mind
a picture of Sicilia, in her prime

the television and i have become too familiar
he reads the words of the stories to me
i put him on mute and read the words
i listen to the rain hitting the cluttered storm drains

i breakfast at the crack of dawn
i drink coffee and eat very little
lunch at eleven
dinner at four
at seven i turn off the t.v.

i pray beside my perfect bed
i lay me down to sleep
and i wonder
if when i close my eyes
it will be the last time

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “MADNESS IN RESPONSE TO MINGUS”

Interesting in submitting to Flashlight City Blues?

THEATER #17

do you know what it’s like to tear tickets at a podium
standing on the same set of legs for twelve hours?

i do.

do you know what it’s like to make enough popcorn
to feed the swarming, blood-thirsty masses
of horny adolescent locust cows
filtering mercilessly into the concession stand?

to burn a perfect batch of kettle corn, terrified
as the sweet smoke rises towards the fire detectors
and you know if it gets to be too much
that the alarms will sound
and the box office will have to refund
every ticket sold that evening
to the growling sheep ready to pounce at guest services?

to sit alone in a giant room filled with candy
disgustingly suicidal at three in the morning
counting pieces of stale sour strips by the pound
when all you want is to go home
and die for a day or two in your warm bed?

to wear a three-piece-suit in a congested concession stand
making popcorn bites and overpriced pizzas
while your sixteen-year-old cohorts jack off behind you?

to hold the door for the smiley motherfuckers coming out
of rancid movie theaters leaving behind used condoms
and the scent of bad chainsaw-slasher-horror-movies
and pubescent screams like sadistic adolescent dry humps
in the back of minivans?

to digest a three-course-meal of super nachos
topped with synthetic guacamole
and diluted jalapenos
and insecure sour cream and cheese
that turns to stone in your lower intestines
that you eat on a ten minute grace period
between cleaning monster theaters
where children find ways of getting sour patch kids
and malted milk balls stuck on the ceiling?

to tell the new hires to go get more ice mix
or to only scrub the yellow squares of the carpet
because they’re the only ones that get dirty
or to tell them to go clean theater seventeen
because haha, there’s only sixteen theaters here?

to escape from the cinematic madness to the back room
where the drink compressors hiss
and the dishwasher gargles
and there’s a starry-eyed girl waiting there
and in the midst of gladiator battles and spaceship races,
there is a moment of nothing

where the universe puts its phones on silent
and you too can kiss like you think you know what love is?

to run the satellite food station on a tuesday night
which means you have plenty of free time
to contemplate why you need a second food staion
open a god-forsaken tuesday night?

to have your boss pull you aside to tell you
that you can’t show up to work drunk anymore
and it’s okay if you’re late
just call.

to lock up the front doors at closing
and then to unlock the arcade games
so you and your stupid coworkers can play pinball
and DDR to your little infantile heart’s content
and little known fact -
the high scores on the arcade games at the movie theater
are held by the employees of said movie theater.

to walk to the last bus in the streetlight twilight
with a black trash bag full of popcorn
that keeps you company on the lurking ride home?

to be a ghost in the projector room
to be God flashing images of everylife and eternal heartbeat
onto the anorexic white screen of pure truth?

to sit in a GMC Jimmy at four in the morning
listening to song ADD with a sweet girl
who happens to be your boss
who you like to make out with -
who cares?!
the movie theater isn’t exactly your five-year-plan?

to go talk to the widowed ticket-taker
who hugs you with her eyes
and tells stories the way stories are meant to be told
between two people
instead of between a gaggle of morons
and a billion dollar budget?

to be stuck in the money room
starving for food and moonlight
but you aren’t leaving
until one hundred dollars finds itself?

to go home smelling like decaying sugar
and italian sodas and superficial butter and sweat
and the dead babies living in the squeaky movie theater seats
and coke and diet coke and icees, yeah, blue raspberry icees
and all-beef hot dogs and so much drama
and it was the worst job ever and it was yes.

just yes.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO

READ “WENDOVER, UTAH”

GENESIS

in the morning
the water disappears down the drain
the bathroom floor is always wet
the mirror never lets go of all of its fog
there is nothing outside the window
the kamikaze grass beneath the rotating blades

in the morning
the news report is muffled and uninteresting
the television screen is blurry
there’s never enough time for a cup of coffee
there’s never a good place to put my keys
the apartment is stale and the lights are synthetic

in the morning
the car is never warm enough
the radio is always commercials, never the song
the stop lights are always red
the cops are always bored in their long-snouted cars
the roads are always a collection of potholes
the mirrors always need adjusting

in the morning
the gate never opens when i enter the code
the totalitarian parking lot is always full
there’s always someone double-parked
the headache is always hollow like acid in an empty stomach
the people walking in with me never want to talk
the security guards at the door are never friendly

in the morning
the world is always new
genesis
it needs some conditioning
it’s learning how to become better than it was born

in the morning
it is literally impossible
to know which side of the bed
is the right side to wake up on
and by the time you wake up
it’s too late to decide

this is why
we have the afternoon
and the evening
and the late evening
and night
and the night
and the late night
and the later night
and the refusal of dawn coming
to correct this all
and if we fail
there is always the new morning
ugly as hell
and ready to be loved

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “TORCHES AND PITCHFORKS”

AND I START TO WONDER IF MY NICE LITTLE PILLS IN THEIR RED DESIGNER CONTAINER ARE CUTTING OFF MY ABILITY TO RAMBLE

and the monk is far far gone in some universe i can’t join him in
and there’s five white guys on television arguing for the elephant throne and i don’t know their names and i should know their names
and the fridge and i haven’t moved all day and i called in sick for my psychology test today but i couldn’t even get to the core of my own apple at the moment
and this moment is dedicating itself to slackjaws who are happy spending their lives playing backyard horseshoes and the other guy online who agrees with me that newt gingrich looks like the keebler elf
and i haven’t spoken to jack daniels since school started – he texts me from time to time to see what i’m up to but i tell him i’m busy but really he just always overstays his welcome and gives me a headache with all his macho bullshit
and anne coulter is somewhere bitching and moaning about things she didn’t take the time to understand and in heaven, socrates is throwing darts at her face
and in heaven michael jackson is happy that no one is bothering him and in heaven everyone is shaking their angel heads at us
and sometimes i wish i was in heaven too but first there’s too much good poetry to write about this place
and my chores are just gonna have to wait because today is dedicated to freedom
and somedays i wish i could just walk around with a sleep mask on
or even better, i could do a sensory deprivation mask like politicians and tobacco lobbyists and the official american television fan club
and before these pills and my first major revelation of driving my life towards my own happiness i used to never finish what i started and now i always do
it’s my day off and i’ve become a turtle writing about the inside of his shell
so for once, for the first time in a long time i’m gonna stop writing and find myself again in the honesty of incompleti-

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “ANDY WARHOL”

SUBTERRANEA

for two years now i’ve been underground
residing in these mute walls
with the spiders and the earwigs
there’s no sun in here
only artificial light filters into this
artificial underground apartment
where i count the ceiling tiles over and over
at the end of the work day
that descent down the narrow stairs
is passage through a threshold
here in subterranea
the winters are a little colder
the summers are hotter
the furnace never shuts the hell up
always hissing and moaning
the air stale
underneath the furnace’s song
i can hear harsh footsteps above my head
in the middle of the night
the sound of earthworms crawling through the walls
it’s a well-furnished casket is what it is
it’s like living inside of my head
and somedays
stuck in subterranea
i just sit in the claustrophobic bathroom naked
and let the shower water run down
and the steam occupy the apartment
(when you’re trapped underground
this is sanctuary)

and the dishwasher runs
and the fan dances
and the tv talks to me
and he says to me
“none of us are alive in here”
and he says to me
“someone commits suicide once a minute”
the tv is no company at all
he is just the glare on the wall
in subterranea

somedays
subterranea can be a muse
occasionally the walls are warm
and subterranea opens its doors to my friends
and within subterranea we laugh and we share
but it’s just putting on a show
painting petrified wood walls
a skeleton putting on a wedding dress
as soon as they go
she’s naked to me again
the psychotic state of subterranea
it feeds my dark side
(but when you’ve been in pitch black so long
you’d give anything to be blinded in the sun)
subterranea is an ugly girl with a big heart
stubborn
a different animal

here in subterranea it’s always the witching hour
the fridge hums dumbly
my bed is cold
the poster faces i hang on the wall have shifty eyes
it’s only a matter of time before the pipes break
in rebellion and the whole thing is flooded
it’s only a matter of time before the nuclear family
reality upstairs falls through the ceiling-floor and
crushes me
these walls are getting smaller
i reside in a closed casket funeral
amongst the bugs and sad furniture
where playing old records only makes it lonelier
and god, do i love it here
it’s a dark abstract painting of peace
my own personal bermuda triangle
i’ll continue to hang my hat on its melting walls
because someday i’ll have to say goodbye
and someone somewhere i’ll never meet
will be the next lover-victim of
subterranea

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “TWILIGHT IN THE WORLD OF BALLOONS”