WENDOVER, UTAH

i was behind the wheel of a car
in the warm fall of utah
and the hood was down
and the wind was blowing through my hair
and all around me were these great wind turbines
like monsters in the middle of nothing
and the radio was the perfect volume
and on the side of the road
was a sinister looking cop
in red aviator sunglasses
and as soon as i passed by
he flipped on his lights, his siren
but then he just drove right on by me
the highway was endless
the constant birds on the telephone wires
turned their heads as i drove by
and i just keep going
it didn’t stop
i knew that this road never ended
there was no great city that it lead to
there was no lover on the far end waiting for me
this was the everything i had
and i could grab it in my fist
but some of the petals slipped by
and they just became fragments of me
lost and lost and lost and lost

i closed my eyes
and fell asleep on a hotel bed in wendover
i turned the television on
and the room sounded quieter
the sheets were stale
and i’m pretty sure it was just me,
the hotel manager and a few scattered souls
floating around the casinos

there was a mark in the road where the state line was
and when i passed it the next morning
i don’t know that i felt anything

i don’t know what i’m getting at
and to be completely honest
this is just flotsam and jetsam
of the american highway
and i’m tired and i’m bored
there’s no land left to discover
and there’s empty houses
that no one can afford

i’m sorry
i keep trying to describe this
the problem is there’s nothing to describe
but i’m smiling

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “DEAREST HIPSTERS”

About these ads

MIKE TEEVEE

the weeks are slipping away like high school romance
we’re left with spare change and hangovers
and time and again someone to celebrate the day with
we’re depositing our hearts into swiss bank accounts
when we should be selling them on street carts
we should be listening to one another
but the air is polluted with wifi networks, with
bluetooth signals, with awkward silences,
with televangelistic exorcism

the air is polluted with the sound of all the wrong things
and the coffee shops are full of wolves in hipster’s clothing
the tables are all reserved
and all the empty houses are not for sale
three hundred million bulls in one giant china shop
three hundred million cats in a burlap sack
three hundred million people
trying to pull the actors off the television screen
and put them in their pockets and purses

a nation full of jabbering jaws
a nation full of broken ears

a nation full of kids
who ran away from home

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “THE KIDS’ TABLE”