02.23

0223

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(stella blues.)

stella
oh, my baby, stella
you are the one that i cradle in my arms
when we can’t pay the rent
when the landlord is banging at the door
in the starlit night we just sit
on my alabama porch
and i count the stars like pennies
and you sing me a twelve bar song

stella
oh, my baby, stella
your curves were made with intention
i met you at a pawn shop
and as soon as i saw you
pressed up against the wall
i knew i would give
a twenty-dollar gold piece
right off my watch cahin
just to have you

and you came on home with me
in the dark, dark mississippi night
and we stayed up
through the blackest of
black georgia twilight
and we talked about your skin
we laughed about the cost of everything
and i put my hand on your neck
and you took my other hand
and you pointed it up towards the north star

you spoke in rhythm
that was not lost on me
everything i said
you said right back to me
but with poetry
like an old blues song
grown from the deep south of your love

your fingertips like work songs
your field drab lips like field hollers
your wide, wide hips like spirituals

stella
oh, my baby, stella
i take you with me everywhere i go
together we’re safe from the black rum booze
together we’re safe from these blue devil blues
when i play you like a guitar
you play me right back
and i love you for it
oh, my baby, stella
i love you for it

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

STELLA

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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02.22

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

FAST LANE

it’s chutes and ladders
and ups and downs
and elevators that go to nowhere
and people who talk to much
and the quiet ones
who you always have to worry about
and there’s just so much noise
and noise and noise
excessive noise
and there’s cars that rip by
and invisible night pedestrians
in all black who you almost hit
who you only see in your rear view mirror
and they’re condemning the building
to make a church
and they’re imploding the church
to make a big box business store
and the grass dies beneath the floorboards
but the people live above the linoleum
and there’s a man playing a violin
and the sun is out and its day
and we’re bustling and bustling
and we’re packing the groceries
into the cart
and we are hunters
fierce commercial hunters
and we are bringing home the bacon
to the twelve screaming baby birds
and we are feeding them the worm
and raising them to fly
and teaching them to move
at five hundred miles per hour
like the rest of
and the hustle and the bustle
continues on and we are blurs in transit
we are smears on the sides of car windows
and some of us are flies on the windshield
but there is no time to stop
because we have our final destination in mind
and we have no clue how to get there
and the gps is sending us in circles
and the cabby doesn’t speak english
and the line is out the door
and we’re moving, we’re moving
we’re constantly in motion
the world is turning and somedays
it is turning against us
but we keep in motion
at a pace faster than those before us
and the escalators ascend us to heaven
where we check out through the fast lane
ten items or less
with twenty things in our carts
and we are opening the back gate of the minivan
and we are shuffling around the city
and we are listening to the radio song
at 60 beats per minute
and we are motion
we are constant constant motion
and we are double-lane fast food
we are roaring engine
we are dying phone battery
and did anyone notice the violin player?

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “NATIONAL ANTHEM OF ANYWHERE”

“HEROIN CHIC” REBLOGGED ON NATALIE ELIZABETH BEECH BLOG

CHECK IT OUT HERE!

DEAREST HIPSTERS

please quit remarking on the irony that christmas, a religious holiday dedicated to the birth of a man who was adamantly against materialism, has ironically become a celebration of commercialism

and for those of you hipsters who have fallen deeper into the trap, please stop noting that the acknowledgement of this is so outdated, been there done that

dearest hipsters
please acknowledge that the plaid shirts you wear, form-fitting, neatly pressed with a bow tie are essentially the afterbirth of grunge, the lumberjackian persona has been done

dearest hipsters
please note that tagging yourself at city o city on instagram with a clever sepia picture at 11:30 on a friday night does not only provide a sufficient mating call to potential lovers but also provides a verifiable location for you should your enemy hipsters decide to crash your party for that backhanded comment you made about the shins’ second album

dearest hipsters
what the hell do you do?
drink coffee
ironically
smoke american spirits
ironically
talk about the bands you used to like
before they became too hip
while in your heart of hearts
you still hold a vinyl copy of i’m wide awake, it’s morning

dearest hipsters
let’s not dance to joy division
let’s not trek to the hipster meccas
of san fransisco
portlandia
let’s not drink our own boredom
out of a coffee cup that says
“this is a coffee cup” on the side

dearest hipsters
your book cases are full
and the spines of the books are pristinely
not bent

dearest hipsters
invite your gay friends to your party
as long as they are your cool gay friends

dearest hipsters
occupy starbucks
occupy whole foods
occupy illegal pete’s
occupy the spaces that are easiest to occupy
and already filled

continue to ignore the rapist plains of kansas
continue to ignore the shotgun shells of texas

continue to ignore that one place outside of america
that you forgot existed
until you wanted a statue of the buddha
to set on your turntable beside the underwood typewriter

continue to ignore the misogynistic kitchens of montana
continue to ignore the homophobic roar of laramie, wyoming

continue to ignore that one place outside of america
that you forgot existed
until you decided you and your friends
needed to know how it feels
to trip balls in bangladesh

dearest hipsters
thank god you’ve come along
to show us how identities based on pop culture
are the enemy of progression
that the goal is to express your individuality
with a slightly worn pair of oliver peoples from buffalo exchange
and a shirt from urban outfitters
that you spent thirty dollars on
to proclaim loudly
that you like the cheap beer

i see you at leela’s
dancing up to the counter
to order a PBR
and the hummus platter
but i can see you now
in your apartment of expensive recycled furniture
at two in the morning
eating two mcdoubles
and drinking a stella artois

dearest hipsters
before there were hippies there were hipsters
there was the beat generation
and sadly there were bongo drums involved
but there were ideas involved as well
and though i must acknowledge
that we do have a tendency
out of necessity
to rehash the same ideas again and again
like we just keep sleeping with culture again
in hopes that this one isn’t a miscarriage
i just ask
that maybe you take a second to identify
that you don’t have to got to sputnik
you don’t have to go to denver cruisers
on your fixie
with your handlebar mustache
and you don’t have to take the opportunity
to do what you truly want to do
and use it
to do what everyone else is doing

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “THE ABORTIONIST”

MTV

what happened to you?
you used to be the one we could listen to
none of the crap
all of the things that really mattered

when did you trade in your grungy working class shirt
for this slutty dress?

when did you become defiant
to your own name?

are you unaware?
do you not see the direct effect
of your actions?

did you grow up
the younger, new and improved yuppie
do you not remember why
you stuck your flag in the moon
to begin with?

the funny thing is
now you’re just a snowy screen
hypnotic imagery
a magazine
that has been overrun
with too many ads

you are moving each day
further and further away from nirvana

your perception of reality
is enough to drive me insane
when did you replace your own graffiti
with face wash ads

when did you bleach your asshole?

when did you pawn your combat boots
for a slot in times square?

WHEN DID YOU STOP BEING MUSIC TELEVISION?

you are a lie
i can’t pretend anymore
welcome to the real world

i don’t want to date your mom
i don’t want to watch
as you twist the bottle open
for the eyes
on both sides of the glass screen

i don’t want anything to do with you
this is my total request

i’m not pleading for you to come back
you’re far too deeply and darkly addicted to yourself
and you think you look so great in rehab

i’m not pleading for you to come back
i just hate that you decided
to let us all watch you die

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “REST”

WORLD’S SMALLEST VIOLIN

with the recession
we had to sell the summer home
now i can’t decide
whether to vacation
in the caymans or
the keys

i’m far too stressed
i couldn’t get
overnight shipping on my
organic sleep mask
so i’ve been fairly cranky
as of late

evelyn says johnny is
a wreck because he didn’t make
the fencing team and
god
next time i’m out with her
if she orders
one more half dry
half wet martini
i swear to jesus
i am going to hit her
in the head
with my non-stick
frying pan
that i got
at sur la table
last week.
(damn thing
wasn’t even on
sale.)

the compute broke
so i had to do all my
online shopping
on my ipad
while this foreign man
from dell
spent several hours
trying to fix my
computer before finally
accusing me of
spilling raspberry mojito
on the hard drive.
the nerve.

i turned on the
television today.
apparently something’s
going on in
syria,
aurora, colorado;
apparently something’s
going on in
the middle east.

i had to turn
the damn thing off.

i just sat there
in silence
waiting for my nails
to dry.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “DREAM”

MISSION STREET BLUES

there’s a swarm of bees meandering the streets of san francisco. there’s women in homicidal heels and men in nothing too special. everyone’s got their hoods up and their eyes high and it’s making me sad that no one seems to have the time to look around. this city is on fire, desperate for attention. it’s beautiful. these buildings have scars all over them and they’re the good kind of scars, but everyone is just pushing the stroller. everyone is just carrying the bag. everyone looks too damn preoccupied with the inside of their heads to realize that there is a living thing surrounding them. clockwork. there’s hipster girls and gay boys in pairs. there’s peacoats and taxis and bars filled to the brim with chewing faces, beautiful asian women, beards and yeah, a few too many pairs of judgmental eyes. lights everywhere.

and i miss denver. this city makes denver look like a bad comedian but god, i miss denver. i miss my friends. i miss my family. i miss denver’s crooked smile and her warm heart and the barcade and sixteen street and the mountains.

i’ve got the golden gate bridge and the bay and the city and the hills and the smell of sea salt in the air and all i want is to lay down in my mediocre bed with denver. i want to sit in my basement apartment and talk until three in the morning with my friends and i want to listen to the beatles on my record player.

“i bet it’s snowing in denver,” says francis, facetiously and i say,
“i hope so. i love the snow. i love my city that doesn’t have a barney’s and doesn’t have an apple store the size of steve job’s ego and i love that we were almost the ones who travelled to the end of the world, but stopped because we remembered that sometimes being land-locked just means you’ve got four walls around you. sometimes living in a square state means you know your boundaries. you know when to call it a night and just lay down in front of a fire with the door cracked open.

don’t get me wrong, francis, you’re great. really, you are. you’re by far the curviest girl i’ve ever met. you’ve got a way better personality than los angeles and you have beautiful buildings flowing through your veins. and yeah, you’re really god damn progressive. you’ve got your shit together. but you’re the dream, and i want the reality. i want to settle down. you’re kind of an indie marilyn and i’m looking for a jackie-o. that’s all.