BLOOD ON THE AMERICAN HIGHWAY

there is blood on the american highway
red paint splattered on white median lines beneath a blue sky
we run from coast to coast
we take off in the night, trunk left open, and we fly through the eye of the needle
into the rocky mountains in search of the final sun
that sun which burns brightly dying for california
we kiss the hills along the way
we salute the cold night concrete with lit cigarettes left to ash
we don’t know where we go
we just do as the green signs tell us to

the lostest of the lost pioneers
disoriented we are disoriented we follow the smoke signals
we drive right through the indian ghost the song of the past
we just blast the radio as if we could fill the sky with sound
great american rock sound
blaring guitars, raging drums, and the bass that moves
like a convertible through the wind
the sound through your head

this is our american song
rewritten and rewritten again
we search for freedom in its bars
independence in four four time
this is our american song
waking up in motel sixes with no cigarettes
and the t.v. is on for noise
and the sex through the wall
and the jingling of slot machines down the hall
and the hum of the ice machine
check out time is eleven o clock

we wrote our song into our constitution
first we decided we would be free
then we decided we needed guns
and we threw a couple to alabama
and we threw a few more to texas
and we boarded up the borders that we broke down

there are lights in fields in plains of kansas
to light the gymnasium swaying to high school dance
we move our hips like pioneers
we throw our hands up in the air
and when the music dies down
we drive to the tops of hills that look down on the nothing
and we kiss like we have to

then we’re off again
down the bloody american highway
through cities and deserts and fields and mountains
and more cities and we’re going where no one else has gone
at least that’s what we tell ourselves

we throw on our kerouac hats
and put an eighth of ginsberg in our glove compartment
we load up our hemingways into the trunk
and we drive
we drive into the most unnatural horizon
we move down the bloody american highway
tank on e, stuck with the am radio through the worst parts of utah
we move at so many miles per hour
of course
there is blood on the american highway

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “BEN”

About these ads

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”