WHITE SMOKE

will you fix what’s broken?
will you travel all the globe?
will you kiss the pavements?
will you wear the finest robes?

will you cure the sickness?
will you stand amongst the brave?
will you move the eyes of watchers?
will you eat the things you crave?

will you sign the papers?
will you wave at waving hands?
will you teach us Earthly sinners
the way a good man stands?

will you read from written speeches?
will you speak from heart and soul?
will you look to fill your pockets
from pockets full of holes?

i know not where you go now
but i know from where you’ve came.
will you twist the hands of history
or keep its shape the same?

the Vatican falls silent.
the winds of change, they roll.
the chimney burns with white smoke;
St. Peter’s bells do toll.
In the eye of the storm of spirit
St. Peter’s bells do toll.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “HAIKU #2″

About these ads

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

CAPTURE

capture me in your film reel
put me back inside your toxic head
give me the angst i crave
give me the perfume of wastelands
give me the perfume of wastelands

it’s insensitive of you not to call
i swear to god i’m hanging over the edge
of this building and i’m gonna jump
i swear to god i’m gonna jump
without your visceral voice
i will hit the concrete headfirst

i’m not trying to be the bull in your china shop
i’m not looking for romantic disney love song
give me your health insurance
and all the disease that comes along with it

let’s pursue the american nightmare
let’s try to put the past behind us
let’s bury our children in the yard together
trauma bond with me for life
won’t you trauma bond with me for life?

i know there’s not a lot of hope here
i know there’s some spaces inbetween
they don’t fill in
they’ll never fill in
but let’s continue through shitstorms
umbrellas open now
umbrellas open now

we are children who played with lead paint toys
we are the island of misfits
let’s just close our eyes and hum the garbage disposal
let’s let go of that shiny diamond ring of hope

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “FAST LANE”

BEAUTIFUL HOUR

sometimes it’s just too much to ever handle
there’s too many woman with eyes like intelligent design
there’s a sun that has burned for all of us
and will always continue to burn for all of us
and when we don’t have that, we have the moon
we have the moon and the stars and the black silk sky
and the oceans that reflect the light so we’re captured
we’re captured between the two and we don’t have a choice
but to see ourselves as one common entity
we are all, all of us, every single one of us
part of the same vehicle of life, don’t flatter yourself
you are not something special
you are amongst a billion special things
we need to seek this out in one another, in everyone
we need to remember the way
that we help to push the grass out of the ground
we must remember the way that a heart can succumb
to a bass line, i’m not even joking
your heart can literally adjust to the music it hears
and it definitely can adjust to those around you
so i beg of you to answer, why can’t our eyes see
why can’t we appreciate the million instruments
that surround us, and the glorious grandiose
extraterrestial superhuman cataclysmic kaleidoscopic
kandinskily colorful grandiloquent magnum opus of existence?

you don’t know
none of us know
we make up questions
and we find answers
but we can feel each other’s presence
we know when someone is looking at us
we can feel love
never forget that one
we can feel love
sometimes it’s easy to get separated from that
but it’s there
i assure you
right now
i have enough for all of you
and i’m trying to pass it on
i can’t hold onto it
i’ll explode
we’d all explode
be unafraid to love those around you
be unafraid of what is different
because the things that are the same
are boring, they’re boring
and you don’t want to go to the same grocery store
at the same time
to see the same boring faces
and buy the same foods
and check out with the same cashier
every day of your short short short short short life
life is not very long
bad days drag out tugging at our legs
to appreciate the good ones

open your mind
open your eyes
open your arms
open your rib cage
and let that god damn drum beat
let it beat
let it beat like it has never beat before
bleed on the canvas of life
do not be afraid
of being too happy
there is no such thing
there are no limits
that’s the god damn point
you will not put a period on the end of a sentence
you are a conjunction
you are the connective tissue of everything
we need you
i need you
even if i don’t know it
reassess the hatred in your life
what aren’t you doing?
what should you be doing?
who should you be calling?
what do you have to say to who?
i guarantee you
i fucking guarantee you they will be glad to hear it
even if it’s bad news
and there is bad news
just open
regret there not being more hours in the day
and that is all
i want you to imagine yourself smiling
and now i want you to smile
can you do that for me?

can you do that for me?

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “BUKOWSKI #2″

Interesting in submitting to Flashlight City Blues?

OLD MAN POEM

i am one hundred and fifty years old already
my bones ache and my cane is brittle
i mope about the house and write old man poems
to the sound of dust on the shelves
i drink my soup without a spoon
and look back on the golden days that never were

i take cold showers and hour long baths
my friends call from time to time
but most times i can’t figure out
how to answer the god damn telephone

the mail man, he knows me
margaret on lane six at walmart, she knows me
the people through the phone, they listen to me
talk about my life, my life, my life
and the war, the war, the war
and the garden, the garden, the garden
and my wife, my wife, my wife

the edges of memories need mending
but i hold close in my mind
a picture of Sicilia, in her prime

the television and i have become too familiar
he reads the words of the stories to me
i put him on mute and read the words
i listen to the rain hitting the cluttered storm drains

i breakfast at the crack of dawn
i drink coffee and eat very little
lunch at eleven
dinner at four
at seven i turn off the t.v.

i pray beside my perfect bed
i lay me down to sleep
and i wonder
if when i close my eyes
it will be the last time

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “MADNESS IN RESPONSE TO MINGUS”

Interesting in submitting to Flashlight City Blues?

WINDSTORM (A DREAM)

there is a windstorm in my skull where leaves rustle endlessly
where a man with an inside out umbrella is thrown about the post rain streets
the sky is overdosing on clouds and the sun is laying under the table drawing red beams on the underside
there are heavy stone angels in parks in my skull that serve as a paperweight for my heart
there are dead trees that fall into streets and onto telephone line where birds scatter as headlights swerve the hilly city trying to seek refuge from the wind and the constant chill and the dangerous roads that twist like a benzedrine high

there is a church in my skull
a great basilica where homeless seek shelter and sit in luke warm circles praying to the most loving God they can imagine
the stain glass windows flash with the lightning outside and the pews rumble with thunder as the candle chandeliers swing from the ceiling like indecision
i am somewhere lost within my own madness, behind a trash can down a back alley
and like a savior

you walk through unabashedly

apathetic to the windstorm around you

and your eyes reach out their warm hands to me and pick me up off the dirty ground

and you carry me home to my warm bed where I read this poem to you.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013!

READ “A TOAST”

Interesting in submitting to Flashlight City Blues?

GENESIS

in the morning
the water disappears down the drain
the bathroom floor is always wet
the mirror never lets go of all of its fog
there is nothing outside the window
the kamikaze grass beneath the rotating blades

in the morning
the news report is muffled and uninteresting
the television screen is blurry
there’s never enough time for a cup of coffee
there’s never a good place to put my keys
the apartment is stale and the lights are synthetic

in the morning
the car is never warm enough
the radio is always commercials, never the song
the stop lights are always red
the cops are always bored in their long-snouted cars
the roads are always a collection of potholes
the mirrors always need adjusting

in the morning
the gate never opens when i enter the code
the totalitarian parking lot is always full
there’s always someone double-parked
the headache is always hollow like acid in an empty stomach
the people walking in with me never want to talk
the security guards at the door are never friendly

in the morning
the world is always new
genesis
it needs some conditioning
it’s learning how to become better than it was born

in the morning
it is literally impossible
to know which side of the bed
is the right side to wake up on
and by the time you wake up
it’s too late to decide

this is why
we have the afternoon
and the evening
and the late evening
and night
and the night
and the late night
and the later night
and the refusal of dawn coming
to correct this all
and if we fail
there is always the new morning
ugly as hell
and ready to be loved

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “TORCHES AND PITCHFORKS”