DRIVING DOWN ORCHARD ROAD

beneath the wooden hands of angels
through the rusty Colorado dirt
alongside the cold wind
that feels like warm hands

orchard road, you hold my soul
you speak so softly, luminary
your dead tree breath of pine and winter
white lines float across your sky

i fall deep into your ancient threshold
your winding veins of endless trail
bristle and color and water and fire

my heart does not beat within you
the old do not die within you
love is a stone wall within you
the strongest autumn falls within you

orchard road, you hold my soul
you hold my soul, and i hold yours

you just close my eyelids
and sing lullabies that wash away
the hurt that hides inside my bone
and the pain i’ve inflicted on the world

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

 

02.03

02.03

SORRY ABOUT THE DELAY, FOLKS.

COMPUTER ISSUES YESTERDAY.

(to God, wherever she is.)

the sky today is the size of your eyes
the dead trees that rise around me
are the tiny hairs on the back of your neck
the clouds in the sky the freckles
on your face that I want to place
my fingers on

the roads all lead to nowhere
just over all your curves
through endless motion
movement without destination
this train wants to hop the tracks
and get lost in your caves
meander recklessly into night forest
until the wheels lose momentum
and I fall rusted and sore
beside your river bed

you are endless endless endless
the shopping malls and concrete roads
are the dress that I want to undress
your bike paths are weird veins
that I trace in the wrong gear
and it makes you laugh
when I want you to feel something else
when I want you to know
that I am alive within you

your wrists crack like canyons being formed
your hair falls like condensation from dead leaves
your smile dies like the sun over the mountains

your apocalypse will be beautiful
when we all run around within you
butterflies in your acidic stomach
reckless and scared and torches and pitchforks
and I will seek sanctuary from the hellwind of your breath
in the refuge of your holy temple
but it will not have me

I will wait patiently eyes toward your sky
And watch your black hole pupils
Swallow the world you created for me

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.04, THE NEXT ENTRY IN THE 30-DAY 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

THE HOUSE OF GOD

someone’s in the kitchen playing the guitar
lovers in the bedroom reading dead playwrights
someone’s in the shower marinating musicals
someone’s in the basement carving up god’s face
angels in the mirror slipping into dresses
someone’s in the garden impregnating the soil
someone’s in the laundry room painting up a portrait
demons in the cellar pending on funeral flowers
someone’s in the billiards room punching holes in walls
someone’s in the closet interviewing skeletons
someone’s in the fitness room chiseling skin
pergatorians in the elevator shaft making urgent love
someone’s in the dance hall staring into eyes
someone’s in the sitting room spitting stand-up
someone’s in the coat room closing their curtain eyes
someone’s in the skull commanding the hands
this is the house of what is, not what is not
this is the house of god.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “WORD SALAD”

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”

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