02.27

0227

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(don’t panic.)

dear tim,
the memories will run out.
but what happens
when the memories
run out
is you

traveling into
the great unknown

keep your typewriter
safe inside your chest
keep your pen in hand
grasp it tightly
and send us back
a message in a bottle
from the other
side.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

THIS POEM IS IN RESPONSE TO “PANIC” BY TIM BECKER, FROM HIS RECENTLY RELEASED BOOK, SORROW BIRDS. READ HIS POEM HERE.

READ 02.28, THE FINAL ENTRY IN THE 02.2013 PROJECT

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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02.26

0226

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(when you said you liked the beatles.)

when you said you liked the beatles
the oxygenless night exploded into day
the grey clouds were wiped from the sky
like billows of white from a chalkboard
your eyes lit up like a thousand suns
into the reflection of my radioactive moonlight
and we eclipsed into the caverns of love

when you said you liked the beatles
i could feel my heart growing like bamboo
on steroids into the hollows of my arms
and overwhelmed my body began to sing
a duet with you laced with great hope
a great hope in the divine and that the heavens
weren’t just those blue squigglies above
the red house and the brown dog in a child’s drawing
on a fridge

when you said you liked the beatles
i became filled with a rage of joy
something i didn’t think possible
i found myself dancing through lines
at the d.m.v. and driving one hundred mph
into the mountains to go find the heart
that i now knew was still beating

when you said you liked the beatles
fantastic wings sprouted from your back
and i began to paint an electric portrait of you
psychedelic and visceral and honest to the aura
you possess inside your home of a house

when you said you liked the beatles
i fell in love with you
as we danced to something
pouring out of the loudspeakers
in the streets of denver
like crystalline drops of water
that have resonated eternally
through the last fifty years
and will continue to resonate
forever ever into the cosmos
and where the walls of time
fold in onto themselves and
everyone loves the beatles
the beatles are everyone’s band
but when you said you loved the beatles
i remembered there are such things
in this world that exist that we all feel
that will never be captured
that do not drown in the sands of an hourglass
but form great glasshouses
immune to any stones you could throw

they just remain
in the minds
and the hearts
and the guts
of the mass populace
of incredible lovely people
forever ever into the cosmos
and where the walls of time
fold in onto themselves
like the crescendo
in the middle of
a day in the life

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.27, THE NEXT ENTRY IN THE 02.2013 PROJECT

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

02.22

0222

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(where am i?)

i woke up
and out my window
were the dusty chinese lamps of chinatown
mount fuji
off in the distance
covered with the snows of kilimanjaro
cold and ancient
i found myself in a foreign land
where the night cafes were open until dawn
the city glowing in the rain

the dusty roads leading to neon casinos
and water clear enough to see to the bottom
there was an identity to this place
though i didn’t know what it was
maybe a western mindset of eastern philosophy
there was something about the way
the snow covered the ground
like the weather wast trying to tell us
we can start over if we want to
or we could just throw all the cats in a bag
and shake it up

i began to feel sea sick
it was as if the palm trees in the distance\
were swaying with me
to the acoustic ringing of polynesian ukulele
and the old, old buildings crumbled
like pixels of my sanity

when in rome, they say,
do as the romans do

so i went down
to fisherman’s wharf
and i rented myself a fixie
and i rode it through the winding streets
the narrow dark back alleyways
over the grassy knolls
and down martin luther king blvd.
and when i felt burnt out
i retired in the night to a pizza parlor
this city really does never sleep
it’s so big
and there’s just months of sunlights
and months of night

to think slaves made these pyramids
it was so damn cold
and i was stuck in bermuda shorts
lost in the cocaine triangle of denver

i could barely see across this wide wide river
full of caymans and pirahnas, the fish and flauna
and memories of you
you
lost on some distant star of a planet

i wish you were here
we could go see the savage matadors
murdering the innocent bulls

i wish you were here
i guess technically you are

it seems everyone speaks their own language here
the oceans are so blue
the grass is so green
the continents all fit together so nicely
like those hotel rooms
with nothing between each other
but locked doors

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.22, THE NEXT ENTRY IN THE 02.2013 PROJECT

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

02.17

0217

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(psychedelic fish.)

one fish
two fish
we’re so damn
selfish
let’s try
selfless
i’m sick of
reckless
that’s just
left us
begging
for change

one fish
two fish
we seem
clueless
to the
way this
could be
flawless
let’s applaud
the strange

one fish
two fish
on your
necklace
is a
priceless
locket
with this
picture
of us
inside

what we could be
where we could go
what we have been
before we lost sight
let’s bring it back
right now
right here
tonight

don’t tell me you’re broke
i won’t tell you i’m ugly
demons aren’t afraid of priests
but they can never break through
prayers shared on holy lips
let’s kiss
we’ll feel god at least

throw your wallet in the wind
fold your insecurity up
like a sheet of paper
eight times over and flick it
into the cosmos
forever floating endlessly
far out of reach from your hungry eyes

one fish
two fish
homeless
toothless
careless
bruiseless
hands that
scoop this
dirt beneath
our feet

one fish
two fish
we just
blew this
but let’s not
blow this
new day
swim through
fish bowls
aimless
break the
glass and
make your way through the air
like the psychedelic fish you are

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.18, THE 18TH ENTRY IN THE 02.2013 PROJECT

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

02.12

0212

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(head. heart. gut.)
head.
heart.
gut.

i believe
with all of my heart
with every ounce of logic
and with that rawest of instinct
that this is all we are made of.

the heart beats
and blood rushes to the head
and the gut twists
the gut writhes inside of us all
and they are all bickering
loudly and honestly
and with no sense of reservation
trying to decide
what to do
and who we are
and where
we are going.

head.
heart.
gut.
this holiest trinity
that resides within us all.
let us pray.

let us pray first of all
that we acknowledge our hearts
that though they do not have a mouth
nor a check-in box on a voting ballot
that they do in fact have something to say
the heart will endlessly be compared to a drum
i will never stop comparing the heart to a drum
because deep
deep in the dark forest of night
at the core of our jungle is the purest of black
but there resides the drum
the drum that beats and fire rises around it
and the people gather within us
to form great circles around the heart
and we honor that which allows us to love
and forgive ourselves
that it also has allowed all of us to hate
but the drum beats either way
systolic elation
diastolic revelation
the cause
and the effect
the river
and its ripple
the vibration
and its echo
and it shakes water from deep lakes within us
and they rise to our eyes when called upon
when we cannot hold in
that which makes us human
and when our heart declares war
it is our head that begins to prepare

our head
a great philosopher
pacing around our skull
unrolling maps
and sticking thumbtacks
in foreign lands
crashing meticulously knights
into fragile queens
and claiming checkmate
when it has seen ahead
of the face across the table
it is the head that allows us to keep the heart
the eyes that move along the words
that turns madness into reality
that turns reality into the past

and some things
do not belong to emotion
some things
do not belong to logic or reason
some things are written
by an invisible hand
that moves us through harsh winter
into uncertainty
the gut
raw as raw
the gut that does not tell you what to do
it does
the hand that removes itself from the hot fire
the moment when nothing can explain why
that it is this
that you have to do

and the head and the gut they bicker
and they always bicker
and get into loud shouting matches
over anything and everything
as the heart tells them both to calm down
as if the heart doesn’t have its fair share
of shouting matches
with them both
but they have to do this

head.
heart.
gut.

thought.
love.
instinct.

three sailors
lost in our sea
in a boat barely big enough
for them all.

to think.
to love.
to act.

what else is there to do?

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.2013, THE NEXT ENTRY IN THE 02.2013 PROJECT

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

02.11

0211

(the unexplainable.)

there is that which words cannot hold onto
the spaces between these letters
the black part of your pupils
that feeling of vast emptiness when you stand amongst epic nature
rocks like gods and rivers like veins that run through the earth
the feeling you must get staring at our world from outer space
the static charge when lovers lips meet
that danceable feeling of revelation when you meet a new friend on the off chance that some unexplainable force led you to the same room at the same time
that moments when you look in the mirror and see yourself and think what the hell kind of thing is this that i’m a part of
the way you wish you could see yourself with your eyes closed
Love, but not just Love Love
the Love that exists undeniably between everything capable of Love and the Love that sneaks up on you when you’re feeling underoverwhelmed and overunderwhelmed
watching a bird fly beside you down a highway where you both look like you are standing still but in fact you both are charging recklessly into the dawn at unimaginable speeds
that idea that creeps into your skull that you can’t take credit for but that you don’t quite know how you could have gone on each day being you if this great muse didn’t crack open your skull and let in this homeless insect
thunder
lightning
undocumented phenomenon
ghosts of moments that can’t be captured
the stars you see after closing your eyes tightly then opening them wide and back into reality
the way you can fall in love with an abstract painting
the way you can fall in love with a character in some two dimensional story
or a stranger just by watching them dance
the indescribable
the undeniable, existential, completely existent non-existent smoke clouds rising into the sky and out into neverland floating above us below us within us
most of all, within us
the unexplainable
that which truly is
God

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.12, DAY 12 OF THE 02.2013 PROJECT

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

02.07

“Don’t you just love it?” she said. “Every day you stand on top of a mountain, make a three-hundred-sixty degree sweep, checking to see if there’s any fires. And that’s it. You’re done for the day. The rest of the time you can read, write, whatever you want. At night scruffy bears hang around your cabin. That’s the life! Compare with that, studying literature in college is like chomping down on the bitter end of a cucumber.”

“OK,” I said, “but someday you’ll have to come down off the mountain.””

-Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart

0207

(the mountain.)

and the wind picked me up
wrapped me in its rope
and tied me mad to the front of a ship
the water billowed below me
as i set sail alone
off to an island
where no man had ever been before

and there on the island
was a mountain
and on the mountain
a cabin where i could be
alone
solitary
no stranger
familiar or otherwise
knocking at the door
no brick of reality
crashing through the window

do you know how brash
a fireplace crackles
when you built it yourself
and there is no sound of traffic
to spoil it?
when there is only the sound of stars
a sound like

that.

to breathe air
untainted by the mouths of others
to make a bed
from the flotsam and jetsam
inside of your head
to walk around inside your own skull
hang your own artwork
unbalanced upon your medulla oblongota
to lean a chair upon the door
of the cerebrum
so no one can get in

to padlock and chain
the cerebellum

to make time like soup
throwing in what you will
two parts nonsense
to twelve parts inspiration
three tablespoons of nap
bring to a boil
let cool
and enjoy
serves one

to love the person
who knows you best
to mark the walls with crayons
the color of your insecurities
the shade of your denials
to explore the entire fucking spectrum
of your color wheel

and to sleep
when you are ready to sleep
to wake up
to the visceral, visceral
raw dog honest momentarily existent
then gone but always visceral
alarm clock in your stomach

and one day
there will be a knock at your cabin door
the sun will seem artificial
and you will not recognize the voice
of another
as something outside of yourself
but they will come
the authorities of reminder
the karma police
if you do not return their calls
they will mail you letters
and if you burn their letters
they will send a warrant for your arrest

you will be reinstated
brought back to the intercourse
of other people
whether it be with joy
or kicking and screaming
you do not own this planet
you should be so lucky to think
that you alone
deserve your life
there are lonely househusbands
an audience of towns
maybe the ear
receptive to the voice of the world
waiting for you

the waves crashed different
when the island learned
it was a peninsula
but fire came along
and the people formed circles
they danced
they hit their drums with love
they hit their drums with love
and the beat alters hearts
and you threw into the fire
your cabin
on top of a mountain
on an island
far from home
and watched as the smoke rised
into the cosmos
to form purple nebulas
and ancient songs
that filter down
to typewriters
and deep
deep deep down
into the soil
beneath the mountain

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.08, THE EIGHTH ENTRY IN MY 28 DAY PROJECT, 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

A POEM’S APOLOGY

i’m sorry i’m not a cartoon show.
i’m sorry i’m not a greatest hits CD.
i’m sorry i’m not a dubstep remix of the national anthem.
i’m sorry i’m not a virtual striptease.
i’m sorry i’m not a plastic book about vampires.
i’m sorry i’m not a scripted reality TV show.
i’m sorry i’m not a live bluegrass performance.
i’m sorry i’m not a wet t-shirt contest.
i’m sorry i’m not a commercial for tampons.
i’m sorry i’m not a stand-up comedy routine or a dueling
piano bar or a beat boxer or a heartwarming
bible about chicken soup or a legal document or a closing
statement or a viral youtube video or a first-person-shooter
game or a broadway musical or a circus with clowns and
juggling bears and tamed tigers and the mustachioed
ringmaster,

but i am not sorry that i am a poem.
i am not sorry i am a penguin
looking for my true love penguin
to give her
this
one
pebble.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “ON THE FIRES IN COLORADO”

THE GRAFFITI ARTIST

He told me he was addicted to pain killers for over three years. He said it had been several months since he had taken any but he was still getting high off of the residual effects of the drugs in his system. He looked me in the eyes like he was afraid that he would feel everything again all at once. He said for years he wore too small of shoes. He said he would need major surgery to repair the overlapping and cracked bones of his feet. Said that without pain killers he would be in a wheelchair for several months teaching himself how to walk again. He said when he slept with all the girls that he did, he couldn’t feel a thing; said because of this he could go for hours. He told me about how all of the girls hated that. He told me they rarely got a satisfying response from his numb body. He was a high school student. Had been kicked of several schools for fighting. He talked to everyone in the same voice, in the same tone, about the same things, and he would talk as long as someone was listening. He told me he did graffiti. He taught me how to create a tag, and for the only night I ever spent talking to him, I watched him, without a hint of emotion, tell me everything; I felt, in a way, that I understood him better than myself.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “AND I START TO WONDER IF MY NICE LITTLE PILLS IN THE RED DESIGNER CONTAINER ARE STARTING TO CUT OFF MY ABILITY TO RAMBLE”