FEAR

fear is the strings that move the fingers across the typewriter
fear is the blood that pumps the legs through the unemployment line

fear is the crackle behind the mother’s voice in the son’s head
the father’s voice in the daughter’s head
fear is the force that lifts the blouse over the head
the pants down off the ankles
fear is the wind that blows the sheets off of the bed

fear is the truth that pushes the words from the back of the throat to the ears of the anxious
fear is the fire in the pit of the stomach that burns the oils of regret

fear is not the torch that leads through the tunnel
fear is what you are left with when the light goes out
when you walk blindly using the broken glass beneath your uncalloused feet to guide you to uncertain rooms, uncertain bars,
uncertain jobs, wars, trenches
into the uncertain hands of uncertain lovers
where on off day days you get a good glance at something fleeting
but worth the walk

fear is not the snap of a father’s belt

fear is those residual scars you choose to keep
and those you let fade
those battles you fight like a mad man
and those you let go of like lovers
you wanted to hold onto
but sometimes the things we want most
are the things that would kill us

fear is the bones beneath the skin of courage
and fear is what is left in the ground
when we disattach
unafraid
from our bodies

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “LOITERING IN THE PARKING LOT OF AN EVIL BANKING CORPORATION”

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DREAM

don’t lay me down
to sleep
in a quiet room
dark
and serene

teach me to sleep
in a shaky room
where the
railroad trains come by
in the middle of the night
and shake the floorboards

where the lights
flicker
and children
scream
and sirens
blare

one hundred
and fifty degrees
warm

in a bed
filled with bed bugs
and
a nagging lover

i want to be prepared
to dream in a world
where it’s
damn near impossible
to dream.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “SITTING IN YOUR DARK LIVING ROOM WHILE YOU BLOW DRY YOUR HAIR”

TWILIGHT IN THE WORLD OF BALLOONS

PHOTO COURTESY OF ANTHONY LUEBBERT

and the earth
feels as old as
dirt again

the violins
still mimicking the crickets
and not
the other
way around

the sky is the canvas
we will inject
kandinskily
with the raging crayola
120 pack of color-lustful-majesty

we burn with love
floating amongst the
cosmos

we are as illuminated
as we are
in love
as we are
slightly drunk – only
slightly

out here with the distant
stars
levitating in baskets
crushing
the blurs of
people like ants
with our
blinking
eyes

we distance ourselves

and holding our

breaths

we look at the
world
through the glass
cover above its
brushstrokes

and in the hangover
we descend
flickering flames
rejoining the torch of
humanity

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

PHOTO COURTESY OF ANTHONY LUEBBERT: http://www.anthonyluebbert.info/http://www.monkfishjowls.com/

READ “WHEN I WAS MAYBE TWELVE YEARS OLD”