I DON’T KNOW

be the savior of my religion
be the hand beneath my pillow
be the paperweight on my papers in the wind
be the kiss that beats my alarm clock

i’ll be the dust on your stage
i’ll be the canary to your coal mine
i’ll be the detour to your house
i’ll be the fire to your attic

we’ll be until we can’t
we’ll move like wind ahead of hurricanes
we’ll dance like we’re drunk
in my parent’s basement

then you’ll be the ghost under my stairs
then you’ll be beneath my flowers and my letters
then you’ll be the flowers that rise to your grave
then you’ll be cumulonimbic swan songs

then i’ll be with you amongst the madness
then i’ll be swimming beside you like two halves
of a pair of scissors piercing through paper chaos
then i’ll remember the way we felt

i’ll remember the way we felt

then i don’t know
i don’t know
i don’t know
i don’t know

we’ll make it up as we go along.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “THE WALL AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE”

About these ads

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”

ROY G. BIV

in the beginning
everyone said she was crazy
a crazy girl
stay the fuck away from that one

she was off doing her own thing
all the time
like she was creating some way
of enjoying herself
she was trying to build a bunker
to prepare for the shit storm

stay the fuck away from that one

but I’ve never been
a very good listener

she was listening to grindcore pop opera
while she was mopping the floor

she was napping beneath
the register counter

and I came to visit her
and honestly
it was pretty quick moving from there
we acknowledged the insanity in one another
we went crazy together

we purchased a potentially fleeting moment together

and sure enough
every day
someone else goes insane
or as an alternate option
they embrace their own breed of
person

we went crazy together
wrapped in folie au deux
the world had more colors
if only it realized it

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “THEATER #17″

 

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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SAID THE GUEST BED

The Lamp always sat on top of the Desk and it made the Wardrobe incredibly jealous. The way she oozed heat onto him. The Wardrobe knew it was because the Lamp thought the Desk was “wise”. She told him every day. She said the Desk made her shine brighter. Told the Wardrobe he was made of cheap wood. Told him he probably couldn’t handle her heat if he wanted to. The Wardrobe was older than the Desk; his skin splintered and his innards were a bit disheveled. He was a bit of a fire waiting to happen. Though, to be fair, the whole room was picking up dust. They all lived in an attic that had been fashioned into a guest bedroom. Apparently, the owners of the home were not too fond of guests.
The group of furniture was not stupid. They knew downstairs they had all sorts of fancy Cutlery hoarded in upper class China Cabinets. China Cabinets were always so arrogant. The Cutlery did nothing. Everybody knew the Tea Cups were a bunch of whores. Tea Cups were always around, but they never got used, at least not here in the States. They often became restless and reliant on social games to feel useful. The Wardrobe always told the Desk and the Lamp that he was beyond glad that he wasn’t fashioned into a China Cabinet, but the Desk was usually too busy pending on some conundrum and the Lamp was far too busy clinging to the Desk. The Wardrobe did have a good friend in the Guest Bed, but the Guest Bed was always asleep, or simply too comforting, like a mother. The Wardrobe never could tell if the Guest Bed was just being kind or meant what she said. The Guest Bed was even older than the Wardrobe and hummed old songs a lot. Love songs. She told the other’s funny stories about the golden age, how guests in the house used to try to quietly do things to each other. How they whispered, and how they probably wouldn’t have been so bold had they known she heard every quiet moan that they tried to hold in.
There was a Window in the room. Positioned at the window a Telescope, but he never spoke a word. He just stared, longingly, at the world outside.
The Guest Bed and the Wardrobe went way back. The Guest Bed was like a mother to him. She saw him through the hard times. The Wardrobe used to have a love, you see. The Candlestick. Ages ago, the Guest Bed and the Wardrobe would tell you. But they were definitely and madly in love with each other. The Candlestick was humble and she had that flicker about her that drove the Wardrobe mad. They talked for countless days without stop. There wasn’t much to do, but they were lost in each other and the Guest Bed saw the whole thing. Downstairs, in the master bedroom, they were the envy of the rest of the house. The Wardrobe was filled with the most astonishing of suits beyond organized. They were alphabetized by designer, cross-categorized by stitch and color. Navy blues separated from dark blues. The Candle loved him because he was such a gentleman.
They knew from the start that the Candlestick had a dwindling battle with death. Each day they spent together she grew closer and closer. I love you, the Wardrobe would say, you look so beautiful, especially in the darkness. Do you not see how this flame you adore so much is bringing me closer to the end of my days, said the Candlestick.
She began to drip on him, more and more each day. The scars still remain; puddles of wax like drops of blood that stained his skin.
One day, the Wardrobe awoke to the sound of the Guest Bed screaming. An earthquake. The room filled with trepidation. The tremors scooted the Guest Bed, who was the Master Bed then, around the floor, like a dog on ice. The Windows screamed like a banshee. The Wardrobe called to the Candlestick his love, above his head, but she did not respond. In a flash, the shaking room, began filling with smoke. You’re on fire, said the Master Bed. The Wardrobe felt as if he was having a stroke. He called out to the Candle, but he didn’t even hear a flicker. Strange red and yellow men rushed in and put out the Wardrobe. The room fell as silent as a wake. The Master Bed said to the Wardrobe, the Candlestick, she’s dead.
Wardrobe was beyond shaken. For days he said nothing. His head charred and scarred, remnant wax of his love still remaining. The ceiling received third degree burns all over its skin too, and though the ceiling never spoke, it spoke to the Wardrobe in other ways.
A family came into the Master Bedroom. Stepping on the Carpet, lying down on the entry way they looked around at the Paintings, the Master Bed, the Ottoman and finally they rested their eyes, stared directly at the Wardrobe, and he stared back.
“It’s ruined,” they said, “It’s ugly,” the Wardrobe felt as if he could cry.
They put him in isolation. The attic was sparkling then, yes, but he was beyond alone up there. No Ottoman, no Painting, they hadn’t even put in the Window at that point yet. The House was new, he hadn’t even Rats running through his veins yet. The Wardrobe was separated from the ones he loved, stationary and unwanted. For a night, he cried. The Walls were there, but they could not see him, they could not hear him, they could not tell him that in the end everything would be okay. The blind, deaf, mute Walls might as well have not been there.
It was then the world weighed down on the Wardrobe and its hanger bar buckled and snapped. The suits were gone, his friends were gone, the love of his life, gone. He didn’t rest one minute that night alone in the attic.
The next morning, sounds of jilted heavy steps filtered in from the stairway. They brought up a frame and a box spring, a mattress and a comforter, all the pieces and they assembled them. The sun shining through the cracks of the attic, the Wardrobe had been reunited with the Master Bed.
Now, the Guest Bed.
Won’t you miss it down there, asked the Wardrobe.
No, you’re up here, said the Guest Bed, in that comforting way she did.
Over time, others joined forming the guest bedroom it had become. The Desk, quoting Nietzsche, like no one had ever quoted Nietzsche before. The quiet telescope, staring and staring at the new window. The young Lamp. She reminded the Wardrobe of the Candlestick and the day they set her in the room, he thought maybe, just maybe, she could fill the emptiness within.
She burned bright, yes she was younger, but time is such a fleeting thing, and opportunity even more fleeting. The Wardrobe made her laugh. The Guest Bed saw the way his frame over the years leaned more and more her direction, but the Guest Bed saw the way the Lamp stuck by that Desk’s side. The Guest Bed had always been alone. She was gorgeous, yes. The dresses that wrapped her were the most beautiful and detailed you’d ever see but she was a Queen. Men feared her size and knew they would look small beside her. She had nothing to give but comfort, warmth and patience, but sadly it was strange couples who only took her up on her offers.
Someone ascended the stairs. Strange men filtered in. Stared at the Wardrobe, and taller than them both, he stared back.
“That’s the one,” they said, and they pulled him downstairs, carelessly, his sides scraping, scratching the walls, his charred head bumping the ceiling. A woman followed, grabbed the Lamp like a trophy. The Wardrobe was in pain, but he saw the Lamp, thrown in a bin, with other small items. But they continued outward with him.
The strange men threw him in the street. He shattered into pieces of wood. Bones breaking. They liberally poured kerosene on him like they were drowning something out. The strange man took a Match, those poor short-lived beings, and he scraped its head against the ground. The Wardrobe tried to relax. The man threw the Match, burning bright, into the mess that was the Wardrobe. The Wardrobe tried to relax. He could feel fire. He could feel his memories of the Candlestick, burning inside of him. In his last breath, he could do nothing but burn.
Upstairs, in the attic, the telescope saw it all, but he could not say a word. The Guest Bed and the Desk knew what was happening.
Wardrobe, said the Desk, he’s in Hell out there.
No, said the Guest Bed, it is us who are in Hell.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “WENDOVER, UTAH”, A POEM

READ “THE OBNOXIOUS SOUND OF MUSIC UPSTAIRS” , A SHORT STORY

MUSIC VS. WAR

war has lost a lot of lives
while trying to save others
music has saved a lot of lives
but lost a few big ones in the process

war rarely is depicted the same on television
whereas the majority of music videos
are just the band playing their music

people sleep with both soldiers and musicians
for what they do
people say goodbye to their lovers
for months on end
when they leave for the sacrifice of either

war is the ultimate violent protest
music seems to be the ultimate non-violent protest

war and music have shared many beds
coins have been taken from the pockets of both
they both have their working class heroes

war tastes of caster oil shrapnel and young blood
music tastes of honey-sweet honesty and broken thresholds

the gun came first
it wasn’t until later that the guitar mocked it

in both war and music
there is a tumor of fidelity
when the cat is away
the mice will play
but in each
there are still men and women
and they usually speak the loudest

there are lots of folks
in both
that have become lost
Syd Barrett and Ernest Hemingway
we never find them
everyone knows that Paul is dead
but no one can find the body

music replaces the bullet hole left by war
war has been known to start with the rattle of a drum
either way
if you hear a rising sound of percussion
be ready

somedays
it feels like it’s easy to get them confused
siamese twins
but i always know
which one is which
when i remember
that one of them got the heart
and the other got the head

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “…SHE WALKS INTO MINE”

MISSION STREET BLUES

there’s a swarm of bees meandering the streets of san francisco. there’s women in homicidal heels and men in nothing too special. everyone’s got their hoods up and their eyes high and it’s making me sad that no one seems to have the time to look around. this city is on fire, desperate for attention. it’s beautiful. these buildings have scars all over them and they’re the good kind of scars, but everyone is just pushing the stroller. everyone is just carrying the bag. everyone looks too damn preoccupied with the inside of their heads to realize that there is a living thing surrounding them. clockwork. there’s hipster girls and gay boys in pairs. there’s peacoats and taxis and bars filled to the brim with chewing faces, beautiful asian women, beards and yeah, a few too many pairs of judgmental eyes. lights everywhere.

and i miss denver. this city makes denver look like a bad comedian but god, i miss denver. i miss my friends. i miss my family. i miss denver’s crooked smile and her warm heart and the barcade and sixteen street and the mountains.

i’ve got the golden gate bridge and the bay and the city and the hills and the smell of sea salt in the air and all i want is to lay down in my mediocre bed with denver. i want to sit in my basement apartment and talk until three in the morning with my friends and i want to listen to the beatles on my record player.

“i bet it’s snowing in denver,” says francis, facetiously and i say,
“i hope so. i love the snow. i love my city that doesn’t have a barney’s and doesn’t have an apple store the size of steve job’s ego and i love that we were almost the ones who travelled to the end of the world, but stopped because we remembered that sometimes being land-locked just means you’ve got four walls around you. sometimes living in a square state means you know your boundaries. you know when to call it a night and just lay down in front of a fire with the door cracked open.

don’t get me wrong, francis, you’re great. really, you are. you’re by far the curviest girl i’ve ever met. you’ve got a way better personality than los angeles and you have beautiful buildings flowing through your veins. and yeah, you’re really god damn progressive. you’ve got your shit together. but you’re the dream, and i want the reality. i want to settle down. you’re kind of an indie marilyn and i’m looking for a jackie-o. that’s all.

AN AMERICAN PORTRAIT

picture this:
in the center of it all is a big red house
in front of the house a man holds his wife
they smile
the woman is pregnant and happy
she looks very coy
he looks very proud to hold her
they look fairly well off
somewhere off in the background
there is a spotted dog running around
searching for something
there is a white fence around the house
the sky is blue, of course
really blue
there’s some horses
very handsome horses
the grass is green and flourishing
off in the distance are hills
great hills
they go on forever
there’s desert dust at their feet
there’s a red convertible in the driveway
there’s a beat up old truck on the road
there’s something in the window
a glimmer of a light
maybe a christmas tree
maybe something secret
the clouds in the sky were made by god
a very specific god
who shines down upon this family
a very specific type of sunshine
there’s a chimney on the roof
with smoke rising up out of it
it’s all just as you’d imagine

you can see the brushstrokes
and the dust its collected
over the years

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “WOKE UP IN SAN FRANCISCO”

WOKE UP IN SAN FRANCISCO

woke up in san francisco
woke up in someone else’s skin
in someone else’s bed
in the driver’s seat of someone else’s car

woke up skinnier and emptier
in a good way
woke up ready to be filled
by the thicker air
and the resonance of wind chimes

woke up saturated in happy
woke up dizzy-eyed
and sore headed
woke up wanted to dream in the daylight

woke up wandering aimlessly
through a life i couldn’t afford
woke up in luke warm water
in someone else’s bathtub

woke up with a briefcase
filled with hotel soaps
and shampoos and lotions
stolen white towels
covered with the resin
of the disoriented people
who came before me

woke up in a high rise apartment
with wooden floors
and the 75 mph highway wind
out the window
like a portrait of a world waiting
or a pending suicide

woke up in an elevator
hung over
at the feet of shiny shoes
and muffled voices
the dinging of numbers
the echoes of morning lovers
down the hallway

woke up in san francisco
but i’m still dreaming of denver

woke up in san francisco
without a hangover
or a missed phone call
without a drop of seratonin
out of place

woke up in san francisco
only to fall asleep
in the arms of a woman
who doesn’t know me
who could never commit to me
well
who i could never commit to

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “MIKE TEEVEE”

THE KIDS’ TABLE

at the grown ups’ table
the adults compare incomes through
cleverly disguised
vacation stories

at the grown ups’ table
they lace the expensive wine with traces
of spanish inquisition

at the grown ups’ table
everyone is wearing
fresh-pressed suits and pretty dresses above
the table but underneath
the table they sharpen their
knives with the steely edges of their
manicured claws

at the grown ups’ table
everyone makes a specific point
to compliment someone’s meat loaf
casserole, to play
advocate to someone’s ambrosia salad
while carefully ignoring someone’s
homemade raspberry vinaigrette
dressing

at the grown ups’ table
someone isn’t mentioning to someone else
that there is a tiny dated speck of political agenda
stuck between someone’s
grinded white teeth

at the grown ups’ table
there is assigned seating and you will be
tested on your acquired knowledge of
chilled salad fork,
soup spoon,
and when you toast
how appropriately you bang
your obnoxious knife against your
crystal wine glass (ideal for
riesling, just a sin to use for
cabernet sauvignon)

at the grown ups’ table
someone is offering to take your plate for you
so they can plot your social murder in the trenches
of the granite countertops of their
catalog kitchen

at the grown ups’ table
dessert means coffee and coffee means
conversation and conversation
means mental minesweeper; psychological warfare
over a lovely blitz torte served on the
second finest china in
this
american
household

meanwhile
at the kids’ table
everyone is playing with each other’s food
squished together at the colorful plastic table
and laughing at each other’s
jokes

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “LOVE AND ITS FAMOUS IMITATIONS”