02.02

02.02 jpeg

(nightmare.)

and on the second day he rested

went in for a nap and found himself slipping like alice
and when he landed on the other side
he landed on the sideways concrete of san francisco
chinatown at night
outside of a chinese theater
he was drunk dizzy disoriented
lost in hills and chinese lamps
drunk couples kissing down back alleyways
over his shoulder he heard the voice of his father
standing up and dusting himself off
he turned around and sure enough it was him
white smile his father hugged him
and he asked him what he was doing here
but it was a dream and he couldn’t remember
and they walked down the sidewalk together
and they laughed at san francisco together
a girl on her cell phone yelling
“i’m just too LA for this place”
and he turned to his father and said
“what a bitch…”
and her friends came out of nowhere
and they asked him what he meant
and because it was a dream
he tried and tried to defend himself
against the twentysomething feminist women
who outside of dreams he loved so dearly
but they wouldn’t hear him
they just wouldn’t hear what he had to say at all
and the tension was so damn high
and their faces so damn hurt and angry
and eventually they just went off their separate ways

the women still mad at him, his father quiet
and then his father was gone
faded out of the dream like god had plucked him right out

it was night
harsh night now
he was alone in this foreign city within a foreign city
no idea where he was
no money for a cab
nowhere to go if he could get one

and he stumbled to a friend’s door
somehow
by some miracle
in the drunk dizziness of this dream
and he knew his breath tasted of dirt
and his clothes were stale from the day
but the friend she opened the door
and she let him in
and she made him a cup of tea
and he sat quiet in her sideways san francisco apartment
beside her san francisco fireplace
and he drank the tea
and she brought out a man
and he knew right away he wasn’t a good one
he had a shit eating grin
that seemed to say he was footing the bill
for a broke twentysomething girl in san francisco
and this man
his handshake was as flacid as his congeniality

the apartment was dim
nothing to look at
no stories in photo frames
no messy proof the place was lived in
the place was a nightmare

and it only sunk deeper
a flickering rampaging light grew outside
and the lost boy in san francisco
found himself looking out the window
at a creative bonfire
a giant burning sign on the grass below
“YOU CAN’T JUST THROW AROUND “BITCH””
and in this nightmare
this inescapable nightmare
this misunderstanding
this dark dream that felt too real to be shrugged
he found himself on the wrong side of history
his father gone, lost in the bay
his momentary lapse in judgement
making him a sacrifice to the movement of times

there were coolers behind the flaming sign
twentysomethings gathered and drank pretentious beers
talked about progression with honesty
speaking frankly, bonded in their hatred of him
but he was barefoot on the cold concrete patio
behind the metal bars fifty feet off the ground
and he knew in the next room
his female friend, a sister really
had been dragged off by the man with the shit grin smile
door closed, she probably just laid there

he ran out the door
found his way back to the chinese theater
and he banged on the door
it was a saturday night
and people were coming and going in mass
but he couldn’t get in
he knew they were all in there
his friends, his family, his father
he knew that the protesters would find him
with their picket signs and their need to cure misogyny
and he was afraid of it

he was still barefoot
his father never showed up
he didn’t think he’d ever find him
the city hated him for what he wasn’t
he couldn’t go where he wanted to
his sister of a friend
was locked up in the arms
of a poor excuse of a man
he was stuck in limbo
he was stuck in limbo
i don’t know if any of this is coming through
i don’t know if you can hear me from the other side
but it was a nightmare
there was just nothing to grab onto

and when he woke up
he was sweating
sleeping in a room with no windows
at his parents house
his duffle bag splayed open on the floor
his life in boxes all around him
he sat up and breathed the air conditioned air

just nothing.
thank god.

he went downstairs
waking up from that dark coma
and his sister, his actual sister
offered him a cup of tea
and she asked him
“how was your nap?”
and he said to her,
“i had a nightmare.
i didn’t think i could have nightmares anymore
but i did
and it was terrible.”

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.03, DAY 3 OF THE 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a thirty day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

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IN CRAZY

in Crazy
you’re bound to forget your hat
but never to fret
these things do happen
and luckily the rain rises upwards
and the alligators in the sewers are friendly
in Crazy

in Crazy
the tin soldiers march up the walls
and just about everyone is happy
unless they don’t want to be
in Crazy

in Crazy
i’ll find myself sitting indian style
in a hotel room above a cowboy saloon
fingerpainting on the typewriter
because tonight is not a night for serious
and tonight is not tonight at all
in Crazy

in Crazy
i’m stumbling over double yoo’s
and i’m penciling in an artist date with myself
my hair grows horizontally
sporadic fritz chicken scratch madness
i haven’t shaven for weeks
in Crazy

in Crazy
the queen rules with an iron fist
while the tin soldiers exercise the golden rule
and a silver-tongued jester
speaks to diamond eyes
in Crazy

in Crazy
the mad mad jester
yes he’s the one who knows the ropes
the mad mad jester
he’ll leave a mint on your pillow for ya
he’ll make sure that you’re fit to stay
in Crazy

in Crazy
they’ll lock you away for any old thing
they’ll throw you in a fluffy room for loving someone
who looks too much like you
they’ll toss you in for speaking the truth
they won’t hesitate to tell you your wrong
preposterous preposterous outrageous unmentionable
you’ll be fed what ails you
in Crazy

in Crazy
the unicyclist is lackadaisical
the motor cars are faster faster faster
and the road looks empty and romantic
but there’s long-snouted authorities
hiding in the ditches
sneaking across behind the tumbleweeds
the road is endless and knows no horizon
but the vultures hover low enough to shadow
in Crazy

in Crazy
the elephants sit on golden thrones
and the monkeys howl at poetic nonsense
the donkeys bray and bray and bray
but everyone has ears like mouths
in Crazy

in Crazy
they’ll put your coffin between your fingers
and you’ll pay the cowboy a pretty penny
to punch your lungs for a few rounds
give it the old college try
then throw what’s left onto the ground
to rinse and repeat and rinse and repeat
in Crazy

in Crazy
the muddy muddy raincoat man
whistles his song of water
and drops the pennies in the puddles
he sits beneath the bridges
the old troll, he barely moves
the automobiles just faster faster faster
and the bridge decays like people’s faces
in Crazy

in Crazy
they put the bags on their heads
they hide their mouths and eyes and ears
but their bodies are flashed across the intelligent art show
the art show that sings you to registers
the heartbeat that slides its fingers into your wallet
the brazen lunch bell, the limited sound of freedom
in Crazy

in Crazy
you’ll love the way you’ll learn to love
you’ll paint a masterpiece in the old folks home
they’ll hang it on the giant fridge
they’ll put it in your
personal manila file with your name on it
you’re bound to forget your hat
in Crazy

in Crazy you’ll live
in Crazy you’ll die
in Crazy
in Crazy
in Crazy

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “1994 SEATTLE LOVE SONG”

HOW A RAVEN IS LIKE A WRITING DESK

raven writing desk

when asking one’s self
how a raven is like a writing desk
things can get a bit
unnecessarily complex;
it is not hard to see
how a credible
and verifiable answer
may be hard to come by.
in this piece,
i will attempt to answer this question
which really
should have been answered long ago.

the first thing one must do
is to qualify
what exactly defines a raven.
experience points us towards the idea
that ravens are inconsistently
the strangest of businessmen.
note that all ravens crave independence
and a nice warm bowl of soup.
another less common accusation
of the raven kind
is that a multitude of their chamomile
is that which provides
shelter for storm drains
and by association
wormholes in the eternal treetrunk.

this is great and all
but what is the use of such conviction
unless we dive equally as deep
into the trenches of
orange libraries
to ask ourselves
what is a writing desk?
many scholars
have written on this
but in my research
i have found
they rarely remind us
that historically
writing desks
have been predatory creatures;
often confused with old crows
and barkeepers
who say things like
“put the jam beside the marmalade”.
i implore you
to not be ignorant;
to acknowledge
that bishops and angels
both use writing desks
as a source of inspiration
for their dissertations
of the latter subject
and the ladder observations.
writing desks taste of freedom
though the splinters
have been known to clog the drain
and leave a nasty hangover.

and now for the big question:
how are they alike?
it’s been suggested
that poe wrote on both
but i have no time
for absurd claims.
one’s life
is far too short
to get lost in logical nonsense.
we must be men
and stopping being children.
as we discussed earlier
ravens are the genesis of polka
whereas writing desks
symbolize the civil war
and the flamingos
who became martyrs
for its mahogany cause.
which is really the key here:
architecture.
both seem to have
a keen design
a design that suggests
dances with drunk waiters
and orbital malnourishment
which plagues us all the same.
a writing desk is to sweater vests
as a raven is to bubble bath water.
from there
certain jumps in logic
can be established
and we can find ourselves absolved
of the great question
which so long has burdened us all.

in conclusion
though it may be difficult at times
to find a system to something
as absurd as this
i find that these: two things
may be more alike
than we are willing to acknowledge.
the badgers of humanity
have a knack
for refusing to accept
that tolerance and compassion
towards washer machines and
the occasional stomach rumble
leads us to living in a glass onion
where we stop saying
to the top hat cricket on our shoulder
the ways that a raven
is unlike a writing desk
and start to genuflect
on the passing notion
that a raven
and a writing desk
are in factualitization
the exact
same
thing.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “CRICKETS”

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