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”

About these ads

I WANT TO GET FAT AND GRUMPY WITH YOU

i want to get
fat
and grumpy
with you

i want to
eat ice cream
from the tub
as we
sit together
in our tiny home
watching twin peaks
together
on the couch
and you’ll have to
explain the
whole damn thing to me
because
i’ll be old
and i won’t know
really what the hell
is going on

i’ll make us cookies
but they’ll probably be
burnt
and taste like cigarette
smoke but you’ll eat them
and when we’re done
with the television
we’ll walk around the neighbor
hood and talk about whose funerals
we’ll have to go to this week
and we’ll walk in silence too
and i’ll love you
you know that
i’ll always love you
even when i’m fat and grumpy
and can’t remember shit

i’ll drive us down the road
at twenty-five miles per hour
on a forty-five mile per hour road
and we’ll listen to bob dylan
like it’s bobby darin
and i’ll hold your dried-up hand
in my dried-up hand
but i’ll probably have a stick shift
because i’m planning on being
a stubborn old man like that
but you’ll smile
and i’ll smile
and we’ll smile
and death will be napping in the back seat
with the air conditioning blowing on him

i’ll tell you i love you
and you’ll say what, i didn’t hear you
and i’ll say nevermind
because nevermind you know i do
because i told you a long time ago
that i wanted to get fat and grumpy with
you

and the grandkids will come over
and we’ll bore them out of their minds
with our great stories with huge gaps
in the middle of them where our memories skip
like old records
and they’ll be thinking about their ipads
and their yolos but we’ll make them
hear our love stories
where i’ll make up a bunch of bullshit
because the details will be long gone
but the feeling sure as hell won’t be
and i’ll cook them meatloaf dinner
and you’ll teach them how to play
checkers and i’ll look at your beautiful face
and try to recall what i did
to give you each and every one of your
lovely wrinkles
and your eyes will be no less bright
no less beautiful
and they say women don’t age well
but that’s bullshit
you’re beautiful
you’ll always be beautiful
even when you’re fat and grumpy
and teaching the grandkids checkers

we’ll go to flea markets
and barter the cost of a new toaster oven
and we’ll go to movies at ten in the morning
and we’ll laugh at the funerals
we’ll smile at the funerals
because we’ve been to so many
one for your old pal chuck
and one for my old pal douglas
and we’ll drive hand-in-hand down the road
and into the mouth of the great black something
and if it swallows us whole
or if it chews us up
it doesn’t matter much to me
because i won’t remember much
except that you were the one
that i wanted to get fat and grumpy with
and that was nice

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “THE CITY AND THE MOUNTAIN”

I DON’T KNOW

be the savior of my religion
be the hand beneath my pillow
be the paperweight on my papers in the wind
be the kiss that beats my alarm clock

i’ll be the dust on your stage
i’ll be the canary to your coal mine
i’ll be the detour to your house
i’ll be the fire to your attic

we’ll be until we can’t
we’ll move like wind ahead of hurricanes
we’ll dance like we’re drunk
in my parent’s basement

then you’ll be the ghost under my stairs
then you’ll be beneath my flowers and my letters
then you’ll be the flowers that rise to your grave
then you’ll be cumulonimbic swan songs

then i’ll be with you amongst the madness
then i’ll be swimming beside you like two halves
of a pair of scissors piercing through paper chaos
then i’ll remember the way we felt

i’ll remember the way we felt

then i don’t know
i don’t know
i don’t know
i don’t know

we’ll make it up as we go along.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “THE WALL AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE”

THE WALL AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE

there is a wall at the universe
where shit heads graffiti their names on the side
street kids hide little bags of drugs behind the bricks
and you and i just sat there
our backs pressed against it

“what’s beyond that wall?”
you asked me
and i told you
“that’s the whole thing.
it’s the wall at the end of the universe.
there is nothing beyond it.”

“nothing is something.”
you said.
i wanted to kiss you.
you were wearing that lipgloss
that tasted like cherries
or strawberries
or some delicious fruit
and when my lips are done
sliding off the synthetic taste
all i’m left with is you.

you and me.
sitting against the wall
at the end of the universe.
the one that doctor gonzo
drove his great shark over.
the one that syd barrett
crashed into
like the comedown
from the astral plane.
this is where we are.

“have you ever wanted
to look over the wall?”
you asked.
“hell no,” i said.
“that’s just

that’s just too much for me.”
“how can you not want to look?”
“to be honest,”
i said,
“i’m slightly disinterested.”

“i’m going to look.”
you said,
and i thought that too
was an honorable choice
so i lifted you up onto my shoulders
and you looked out
into the great beyond
where i imagine
there are no red planets
or white giants
or starbucks across the street from
starbucks
and i asked you what you could see
and you said

“i don’t know how to describe it.”
and i said
“well try…”
and you said
“i can’t even really see anything
i just feel
deep inside of me
this haunting faith
that there is something beyond
this wall.”

“who made this wall?”
i asked
and you said
you didn’t know
and you came back down
from off my shoulders
and you looked into my eyes
and you said
“huh…”
and i said
“what…”
and you said
“nothing.”

there was a pause.
the crickets held their bows
and waited for our cue
to continue.

“i’m gonna throw a brick
over the wall!”
i said.
and you said
“you are such a guy.”
and i said

“i have to know.
i have to know if i can
break down the walls of perception.
what if someone
just put this wall up
to make themselves feel better?
maybe they were afraid of
infinity?”

“afraid of infinity?
do you know how you sound?”

“i’m serious!”
i said.
“why else do we build walls?
because we’re afraid of
not understanding
what is on the other side.”

“or we’re trying to keep
something
out.”
you said.
applying more lip gloss.
“or
maybe,”
you said,
“they were a romantic…”

“what is more romantic
than the idea
that everything continues
forever,”

“i’ll tell you what,”
you said,
“the idea
that you and i
on some cold colorado night
could pack a picnic
and go sit
at the wall at the end of the universe
and accept that we did it.
that together, we made it.
we all want to be pioneers.
we all want to feel that what we found
is the ultimate.
we are nationalistic
to the nation of ourselves
and our loved ones.
that is why we are here.
that is why you and i ended up here
at the wall at the end of the world
so we could pretend our love
is romeo and juliet
that our love
is the love story that they will tell
to our children
and our children’s children.
that our love
is the ultimate.
that is why we build walls.
windows and doors and walls
these are things we’ve created
because it is part
of our idea of home.”

“i don’t need walls
to feel like i’m home with
you.” i said.
and your eyes glimmered
and i saw in them
what i think you must have seen
when you looked over
the wall
at the end
of the universe.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “WHITE SMOKE”

THE HANDS THAT REACH FOR WINTER

the hands

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the hands that reach for winter
the nights that reach for pain
the guns that reach for murder
the fire burns the same

the beds that burn for lovers
the streets that turn like time
the art of stabbing in the back
the acidity of lime

the words that clasp like thunder
the planes that land unharmed
every righteous number
that we shoot into our arms

the man from california
the woman from d.c.
every foreign victim
from sea to shining sea

comforter of angels
chancellor of drugs
loving heart of death now
now the death of love

brilliant manifesto
child in the gutter
orphan military
absent-minded mothers

the sermon on the mount
the dusting of the crops
the clicking of the gears
the roller coaster drops

we fall
and we fall
and we fall
some more

we dig our graves
and dance with death

we talk like
virgins

we walk like
whores

we eat
until
there’s nothing left.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “HAIKU #1″

ARAPAHOE COUNTY, COLORADO

you’re off in japan
with the giant cartoons and constant workflow
lost in the hustle and bustle of lines and railways
clinking bells and chaos noise symphonic

you’re off in san francisco
in a slanted city dizzy from the bicycles
burning through the silly traffic
stuck beside the bay
in a tower in chinatown where you drink
mai tais and study the gentrification of
dust below

you’re off in south south america
dancing on the edge of cape horn
hand in hand with a lover
your mind partially above frozen water
but so much more of your epileptic majesty
buried beneath
your hands reach for the south pole
as mine just reach out for you

you are lost amongst the redwoods
mourning the coming death of your loved one
you sit naked beside giants and you paint
with your fingers on the canvas in your lap
the trees don’t end until they get to heaven
you share the trees with heaven

you, stranger, are stuck in the madness of bangkok
the banging of pots and pans
guns, girls and ganja
massive heart attack motorcycle smog lady boy
mad mad madness
in transit from the sanity in your head
homeless and happy and we were so close to something

you are off in the void
the space between nothing and everything
the space between death and faith
fistful of pills
skull cracked against the bathroom tile
your book is still in the back of my car
we never finished our poem

you are out in the ether of the cosmos
you are dancing on trains with strange strangers
and cursing the dice that don’t roll sevens
it’s half past nine and you’re half past eleven
it’s pointless to try to write you

you are off somewhere strange
but you are still adamantly here in my heart
in my chest
in arapahoe county, colorado

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “DRIVING DOWN ORCHARD ROAD”

02.28

0228

“farewell, my black balloon.” -the kills

(end of the line.)

it was midnight in this revolution of my heart. i fell asleep on the bus ride home and woke up at nine mile station, middle of nowhere, and realized that this nap that sucked me into angelic dreams and dreary lucid mental orgasm was nothing more than a sad escape from reality. i pulled down the blinds over my eyes, turned out the lights in my brain, i threw all the clutter from off the floors and tucked it under the bed of my heart and i just sat for hours and hours listening to “let it be” on repeat staring at the white white white white ceiling of my skull.

let it be. let it be. let it be. it all did amount to nothing. a few dozen scraps of poems on the floor with dust and neglected bills, empty bottles of pills, half empty bottles of booze. i couldn’t even commit to alcoholism.

it was cold. i was at a bus stop. my phone was dead. the twenty-four hour grocery store was closed, and the snow was pouring down like i was stuck in a dry erase board and this magic eraser was quickly deleting my stick figure limbs. the bus driver was gone. careless to the fact that i was faced with stalemate at parker and peoria.

but really i was at the crossroads of adulthood and childhood. where the crayon coloring on the walls scrolled along like stock market tickers. where bouncy balls were filled with the hot air of politicians. where the seesaw wobbled up and down like somewhat productive half-baked socially progressive arguments about race, gender, sexuality, all leading to the inevitable conclusion that we needed to learn how to look at each other as individuals.

but what from there? practice what you preach, but what if you’re an atheist? how do you learn to dance like yourself when you’ve been inflicted with the awkward steps of society? how do you fly a plane when the gravity of the responsibility of love keeps you grounded?

we are expecting bad weather nationwide. internationwide. universally. exponentially. galaxically. i have got to stop making up words. i have got to stop drunk texting my invisible friends in the middle of the night.

i’m buried in snow.

it’s metaphorical snow. did i establish that? i’m sorry. am i breaking the fourth wall? am i breaking the fifth wall if i say i know you get sad sometimes? am i throwing a rock through your precious painted christmastime window? i’m sorry if i ruined the little mermaid for you by analyzing my insane quandry that the disneyverse is just the bible with more colors. is that true? i sound like a crazy person. you sound like a crazy person. we sound like a crazy person.

when i need something to grasp onto i hold your hand. in my head. i take us to the movies and i stare stare stare at the screen. i’ve become tainted by the fact i’m a writer. all i can do is tear apart the character motives and the necessity of certain dialogues. i have been invited into someone’s dream and all i can do is mock their wallpaper and tell them the proper way to entertain their guests. i am the king of cocktail parties

that nobody would want to go to.

but right now, i am bundled at a bus stop. in bum fuck egypt. in the middle of the night. in colorado. on this third rock from the sun. our sun. our holy holy sun that just belongs to me, not you. and it’s taken this. it’s taken all this to remind me

that all i have to do

is point to the sky

choose a star

and walk towards it

until i find myself beneath it

then take the next elevator into space

where hopefully my love is waiting for me

and if she’s not

i’ll deal

because sometimes the best life is lived alone, but only if alone means to you that you never find someone to get stuck on a ferris wheel with and kiss until your mouths are sore. down below your friends are waiting for you.

entrapment is the shiny love that takes you away from all your other loves.

be careful.

carry pepper spray and a strong argument.

box without gloves and ride life bareback.

always have at least two quarters in that tiny little pocket in your jeans.

tattoo your name on your palm, and wear it like an indian headdress.

tread softly and carry a big heart.

happy february,

(brice.)

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 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

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

02.16

0216

(heaven.)

when and if
the angels come for
me

they will have to
drag me up to the
heavens

my nails
buried deep in the
ground

desperately
holding on to this world
that i love so
dearly.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.17, THE NEXT ENTRY IN THE 02.28 PROJECT

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