2000 FOLLOWS TODAY!

Thank you all so much! 2012 has been a good year. Here’s to 2000 more in 2013!

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SOAP OPERA OF VAMPIRES

the viewing arenas are saturated with doe-eyed girls
lights go down
the bright white glitter skin of james dean emasculated
ooh the trembling knees of housewives in the crowd
lucky bland beautiful boring girl finds herself lost
in the bermuda love triangle with a bat and a dog
team? i am on no one’s team
burn the theaters down!
stab the actors with stakes! shoot em with silver bullets!

the vampires will seduce you with their lust
this way, darling
one small step at a time
you’re melting
and in the warmth of their cold embrace
they will drain your blood

the greatest fictional romance of my generation is between a teenaged girl and a vampire
what more proof do you need
that we are stuck
somewhere between
puberty and fantasy?

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

FROM ENJOY YOUR POPCORN, OUT THIS NOVEMBER!

READ “NEWBORN”

RANT POETRY COMPETITION EXTENSION

I have been very busy lately, to say the least, and haven’t promoted this month’s poetry compettion at all. That being said, I’m extending the competition for entries until October 28th. If you’re interested, please enter. You can follow THIS LINK to find more info.

Love, Brice

ROGAINE

i am balding

made fun of my dad my whole life for his bald head
and now karma’s come with a lawnmower
laughing all the way to the madhouse
the hairs that sneak by strangely follow karma
running in fear from my forehead
this is the way each square day on a calendar
is a texas funeral box for me
this is the way the world wilts before you
the slow death of petrified wood at the hands of nazi bugs
don’t get me wrong
this isn’t ‘woe is me’; this is just ‘everything fades’
the fish steal the ocean back from us
katrina drowns jazz in the sound of apathy
tides slide back to the ocean
they slither away like scared snakes

i am balding

and the news reports say loud men are still looking for peace in the barrel of guns
god can fight his own wars
and usually passes his fist
2012 ticks by like a mayan time bomb
if i look at the calendar, watch-the-clock
it’ll be december now
as more hairs freefall disattached from my skull
nature mimics machinery
we play minesweeper and call of duty to relax
modern warfare is our escape to a classic idea of peace
cameras zoom
guns fire themselves biting the hand that feeds them bullets

i am balding

my mother brushed my hair like she was trying to kill it
and in a weird way it’s clear she succeeded
i’m not the type to rub lab-tested chemicals on my head
like the new version of those old sideshow miracle elixirs
that we all know were just piss and ‘here’s hoping’
we eat that shit up like little debbie snacks
the lights are just brighter now
the signs are bigger
the gods are charming cereal box creatures
balloon animals and one thousand identical
anti-fear insurance companies
the commercials fade to black
nothing lasts forever except human stupidity
(and the notebook died laughing at me)

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “RED EYE FLIGHT TO MEDIOCRITY”

MACHIAVELLI

over the coffee table
conversations burned and passed to the left
great muse of philosophy
we questioned everything
as our minds danced mechanically inside
the music box of the moon

why? asked the subterranean walls
and we spoke back to them – no prejudices
we debated debate
we questioned patriarchy and matriarchy
dadaism and mamaism
we took purple smoke-chains from trains
and followed them off the coasts of america
we perfected our universal accents
trying to avoid drowning in the transatlantic ocean
peace was assumed and love was the ice in our
whiskey

a forum free from the wires of electricity
banter like sawed-off shotguns
questions like symphonies lost in the dark
we sang swan songs around a lazy susan
passionately counted the revolutions of the
ceiling fan

we splashed cartoon colors onto white walls
we sawed the legs off dinner tables
and let the chairs walk around the apartment
and for an evening the turntable was our god
we made sweet communion sitting right beside her
our minds bleeding happily through our eyes
my whiskey ghosts fled from the vicinity
we ate veraciously from
the tree of knowledge
as it rained apples
broken banging on the ceiling-floor

we turned off the television
we turned on our amplified souls
we made armistice with the burning part of the world
all this in the withered hands
that open the doors to perception
we passed through the threshold
leaving our material clothes behind

today i shake the polaroid
and watch reality bloom around the green stem of
our personal perspective on perception
three souls
a holy trinity
existing everywhere
in the midnight hum of a square room

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

Read “NUCLEAR CREATION”

COMING SOON

FEATURING THE POEMS “HOW TO SET YOURSELF ON FIRE” , “WHEN I WAS MAYBE TWELVE YEARS OLD” , “TO VEGETARIANS” , “SUBTERRANEA” , and “THE PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE OF VARINIA RODRIGUEZ”.

AVAILABLE THIS SEPTEMBER THROUGH FLASHLIGHT CITY PRESS.

Interesting in reviewing? Please email me at bricemaiurro@gmail

ON GOOD DAYS

on good days
abby and i go to the burger king
down the street from my parent’s house
and order french fries
we park in the wal-mart parking lot
and as we roll down our electric windows
the fat seagulls approach the car
waddling over
and we throw french fries to them
we do this on good days
it’s one of my favorite things to do

of course,
the birds always fight over the french fries
there’s always the fattest and most aggressive one
and there’s always one that abby points at and says
“aw, he hasn’t gotten one…”
and abby, my huge-hearted sister
will do whatever she has to do to make sure
that bird gets a fry

we always turn the music off while we do this
at the burger king at wads and quincy
down the street from our childhoods
it makes me miss my youth spent on a bike
it makes me miss abby
she’s so busy and i’m so busy
i’m so proud of her
she gets up everyday and goes to school then to work
she gets up early to dress nice and do her hair
while i sit in my car writing poems about birds

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “NOVEMBER, REVISITED”

“MICKEY MOUSE FOR PRESIDENT” FEATURED ON 4 WRITERS AND READERS BLOG

OR READ THE POEM HERE

MAYBE AMERICA

maybe america is one of those guys on suburban street corners in a lady liberty costume waving a sign about taxes and loans who makes minimum wage and has music in his ears to help pass the time
maybe america is an ugly boxer dog poking his head our of the window of a beat-up ford pick-up truck panting
maybe america is an old married couple who watch the same news program over and over again all day in forgetfulness holding each other’s hands approaching god
maybe america is the muffled voice of a fast food drive-thru speakerbox
maybe america is a kidnapped bonsai tree held hostage in a business office
maybe america is john hughes eighties movies where the girl always gets her guy

maybe america is a man in a hospital waking up from a coma after twenty years alone to find dead flowers and having to figure out where am i?
maybe america is noisy caustic manly monster truck commercials frightening little boys with delight
maybe america is a rich woman who leaves her lavish lifestyle to pursue her dream of become a prostitute
maybe america is an oiled-up car mechanic hiding his anti-depression medication from his coworker buddies so they won’t make fun of him
maybe america is late night talk show hosts with their hands in their pockets spewing comedy to insomniacs
maybe america is one of those slow down electronic speed traps that no one pays any mind to

maybe america is a grandmother letting her blonde little granddaughter press the buttons on the elevator
maybe america is a man too fat to walk falling in love with a woman too skinny to function
maybe america is the auctioneer who reads the speedy disclosures at the end of the medicine commercials
maybe america is this week’s host of saturday night live
maybe america is the foreign man who swam across the ocean to fulfill his dreams of opening his own perfume shop
maybe america is the call center employee who writes in his spare time because he’s sick of talking forty hours a week
maybe america is the native american heroes whose names have been erased from history books

maybe america is a scientist conducting experiments on himself and his pet goldfish
maybe america is a teenaged mother reading nursery rhymes to her two kids while she waits patiently in the unemployment line
maybe america is grumpy doctors grumpy patients grumpy clinics where everyone is grumpy
maybe america is the jabbering cocaine white teeth of a politician in career puberty
maybe america is the conversations that never happen between cute girls and mute boys
maybe america is the combat boots stomping in unorthodox rhythm in underground punk rock scenes
maybe america is a textbook that only gets used to ready the marijuana to be smoked
maybe america is santa claus drinking coca-cola with caucasian polar bears
maybe america is mothers who don’t now and have never had any children to breastfeed
maybe america is a hillbilly hanging a shotgun over his door like a star on the top of a christmas tree
maybe america is the crazy man who stalks you at work and asks you unanswerable questions while you’re trying to refold all the disheveled t-shirts
maybe america is a green screen in the bowels of hollywoodland
maybe america is a fatherless child who sacrifices his life because he knows everyone is his family and he just cares too much

maybe america is that lady who sued that one fast food place because they didn’t warn her that her coffee would be hot
maybe america is union workers praying to god for super bowl sunday
maybe america is sugar cereal characters playing poker at a board meeting
maybe america is a cancer patient waiting for the doctor to come back to check in on her but the doctor never does
maybe america is the music on the jukebox at waffle houses at way too late o clock
maybe america is the hips of elvis presley stamped ‘property of the military’
maybe america is the stuffed animal from your childhood that you have tucked away in the attic somewhere
maybe america is the gangrenous arm of an overseas soldier trying to crawl its way back to the homeland
maybe america is prisoners of war tapping on chamber walls desperate for the sound of another human
maybe america is a psychologist psychoanalyzing his patient’s multiple personality disorder
or maybe america is that patient

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “337″