CHESS

it’s denver in january cold

at the bus stop
there’s a man
in work boots
with a lunch pail
and he looks cold too
his lips pursed
hands in pockets

and there’s a woman
with her two daughters
sitting on the
cold metal
bench
reading them a
story

and there’s a kid
with a baltimore ravens
hat
on backwards
who is pacing
like he’s waiting
for the super bowl
next sunday

there is gum
all over the ground
gum and cigarette
butts

now here comes the blind man
cane in hand
he can’t see me
as i sit here
still
and frozen
does he know
i’m here?

i am some weird caricature
to all of them
lost in my headphones
and underneath my hood
and thom yorke
is going crazy
in my ears
singing my iron lung
they have no idea
he’s whispering
and screaming at me
in the corner
of an asylum
on the other side
of the headphones
he’s desperately singing
with desperation
about desperation
he’s moving me
but he’s not here

there are five other hearts
at this bus stop
waiting to share
the same submarine vessel
to take us to
somewhere else

and it’s cold but not too cold to talk

and i’m off in the asylum
with thom yorke
and i’m twentysomething
in a hoodie
lost in headphones
and as soon as we violently
tug the pull cord
on the bus
and exit
professionally
we will be off to live
our seperate lives together

thom yorke is screaming at me
from some supermarket in england
with his wife
but we are all silent
faceless chess pieces
faced with the same war
but stuck
within our black
and white
spaces

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “BLOOD ON THE AMERICAN HIGHWAY”

About these ads

A TOAST

lift up your spirits!
to this cataclysmic evening!
this parade!
of howling wolves! and monkeys!
to the altered perspectives!
of angels!
and their subjective
paradise!

let our warped worlds come together!
like pangea in reverse!

let all religions reside within us all!
and all around us!

this is my wish for you.
and all of you.

let us toast!
to the fact our irises
are all different colors!
and our pupils are
all
the
same!

let’s get lost!
in the rambunctious sound
of
actual
reality!

and remind our souls
that love
is not just romance:
it is
every breath
the flowers give us
and each one
we return to them!

parks
that are dead
in winter
and alive
with lush green grass
and wide-
eyed people
in summers!

let’s toast!

to the smell of rain!
to the taste of laughter!
forever! tonight!
and ever after!

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “SHOCK TOP”

WINTERSONG

cold white hands claw their way through the earth reaching up hopelessly
silver roads turn to white ash into the distance where the earth swallows itself whole
the days are solemn and honest and empty and we are underground with the rabbits
hibernating with the thought of a dead deer on the side of a frosty mountain road
no one sees anything, this is one of the many faces of peace and this is the church of death
this is the small sound of an ice age and the path we follow each year when our luck runs out
the canyons are tossed in white and the air is tiny daggers that pierce the pale skin to the bone
and the bone is the same bone that is exposed meatless on the face of the earth where there is no sun
and the ice is the mirror buried beneath the powdered ground where we cannot see ourselves
and does anything matter when everyone is frozen alive and love is a distant season
as the fortunate are lost within the summer they’ve harvested and hoard within their thighs
while the rest of us are anorexia and devastated ghost town wind blowing chiming crackle
and i am left with nothing, abandoned by the leaves that once clinged to me

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “THE KING OF HIS LAWN”