THE WALL AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE

there is a wall at the universe
where shit heads graffiti their names on the side
street kids hide little bags of drugs behind the bricks
and you and i just sat there
our backs pressed against it

“what’s beyond that wall?”
you asked me
and i told you
“that’s the whole thing.
it’s the wall at the end of the universe.
there is nothing beyond it.”

“nothing is something.”
you said.
i wanted to kiss you.
you were wearing that lipgloss
that tasted like cherries
or strawberries
or some delicious fruit
and when my lips are done
sliding off the synthetic taste
all i’m left with is you.

you and me.
sitting against the wall
at the end of the universe.
the one that doctor gonzo
drove his great shark over.
the one that syd barrett
crashed into
like the comedown
from the astral plane.
this is where we are.

“have you ever wanted
to look over the wall?”
you asked.
“hell no,” i said.
“that’s just

that’s just too much for me.”
“how can you not want to look?”
“to be honest,”
i said,
“i’m slightly disinterested.”

“i’m going to look.”
you said,
and i thought that too
was an honorable choice
so i lifted you up onto my shoulders
and you looked out
into the great beyond
where i imagine
there are no red planets
or white giants
or starbucks across the street from
starbucks
and i asked you what you could see
and you said

“i don’t know how to describe it.”
and i said
“well try…”
and you said
“i can’t even really see anything
i just feel
deep inside of me
this haunting faith
that there is something beyond
this wall.”

“who made this wall?”
i asked
and you said
you didn’t know
and you came back down
from off my shoulders
and you looked into my eyes
and you said
“huh…”
and i said
“what…”
and you said
“nothing.”

there was a pause.
the crickets held their bows
and waited for our cue
to continue.

“i’m gonna throw a brick
over the wall!”
i said.
and you said
“you are such a guy.”
and i said

“i have to know.
i have to know if i can
break down the walls of perception.
what if someone
just put this wall up
to make themselves feel better?
maybe they were afraid of
infinity?”

“afraid of infinity?
do you know how you sound?”

“i’m serious!”
i said.
“why else do we build walls?
because we’re afraid of
not understanding
what is on the other side.”

“or we’re trying to keep
something
out.”
you said.
applying more lip gloss.
“or
maybe,”
you said,
“they were a romantic…”

“what is more romantic
than the idea
that everything continues
forever,”

“i’ll tell you what,”
you said,
“the idea
that you and i
on some cold colorado night
could pack a picnic
and go sit
at the wall at the end of the universe
and accept that we did it.
that together, we made it.
we all want to be pioneers.
we all want to feel that what we found
is the ultimate.
we are nationalistic
to the nation of ourselves
and our loved ones.
that is why we are here.
that is why you and i ended up here
at the wall at the end of the world
so we could pretend our love
is romeo and juliet
that our love
is the love story that they will tell
to our children
and our children’s children.
that our love
is the ultimate.
that is why we build walls.
windows and doors and walls
these are things we’ve created
because it is part
of our idea of home.”

“i don’t need walls
to feel like i’m home with
you.” i said.
and your eyes glimmered
and i saw in them
what i think you must have seen
when you looked over
the wall
at the end
of the universe.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “WHITE SMOKE”

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BLOOD ON THE AMERICAN HIGHWAY

there is blood on the american highway
red paint splattered on white median lines beneath a blue sky
we run from coast to coast
we take off in the night, trunk left open, and we fly through the eye of the needle
into the rocky mountains in search of the final sun
that sun which burns brightly dying for california
we kiss the hills along the way
we salute the cold night concrete with lit cigarettes left to ash
we don’t know where we go
we just do as the green signs tell us to

the lostest of the lost pioneers
disoriented we are disoriented we follow the smoke signals
we drive right through the indian ghost the song of the past
we just blast the radio as if we could fill the sky with sound
great american rock sound
blaring guitars, raging drums, and the bass that moves
like a convertible through the wind
the sound through your head

this is our american song
rewritten and rewritten again
we search for freedom in its bars
independence in four four time
this is our american song
waking up in motel sixes with no cigarettes
and the t.v. is on for noise
and the sex through the wall
and the jingling of slot machines down the hall
and the hum of the ice machine
check out time is eleven o clock

we wrote our song into our constitution
first we decided we would be free
then we decided we needed guns
and we threw a couple to alabama
and we threw a few more to texas
and we boarded up the borders that we broke down

there are lights in fields in plains of kansas
to light the gymnasium swaying to high school dance
we move our hips like pioneers
we throw our hands up in the air
and when the music dies down
we drive to the tops of hills that look down on the nothing
and we kiss like we have to

then we’re off again
down the bloody american highway
through cities and deserts and fields and mountains
and more cities and we’re going where no one else has gone
at least that’s what we tell ourselves

we throw on our kerouac hats
and put an eighth of ginsberg in our glove compartment
we load up our hemingways into the trunk
and we drive
we drive into the most unnatural horizon
we move down the bloody american highway
tank on e, stuck with the am radio through the worst parts of utah
we move at so many miles per hour
of course
there is blood on the american highway

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “BEN”

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”

FAST LANE

it’s chutes and ladders
and ups and downs
and elevators that go to nowhere
and people who talk to much
and the quiet ones
who you always have to worry about
and there’s just so much noise
and noise and noise
excessive noise
and there’s cars that rip by
and invisible night pedestrians
in all black who you almost hit
who you only see in your rear view mirror
and they’re condemning the building
to make a church
and they’re imploding the church
to make a big box business store
and the grass dies beneath the floorboards
but the people live above the linoleum
and there’s a man playing a violin
and the sun is out and its day
and we’re bustling and bustling
and we’re packing the groceries
into the cart
and we are hunters
fierce commercial hunters
and we are bringing home the bacon
to the twelve screaming baby birds
and we are feeding them the worm
and raising them to fly
and teaching them to move
at five hundred miles per hour
like the rest of
and the hustle and the bustle
continues on and we are blurs in transit
we are smears on the sides of car windows
and some of us are flies on the windshield
but there is no time to stop
because we have our final destination in mind
and we have no clue how to get there
and the gps is sending us in circles
and the cabby doesn’t speak english
and the line is out the door
and we’re moving, we’re moving
we’re constantly in motion
the world is turning and somedays
it is turning against us
but we keep in motion
at a pace faster than those before us
and the escalators ascend us to heaven
where we check out through the fast lane
ten items or less
with twenty things in our carts
and we are opening the back gate of the minivan
and we are shuffling around the city
and we are listening to the radio song
at 60 beats per minute
and we are motion
we are constant constant motion
and we are double-lane fast food
we are roaring engine
we are dying phone battery
and did anyone notice the violin player?

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “NATIONAL ANTHEM OF ANYWHERE”

FLASHLIGHT CITY BLUES: FAVORITE POSTS OF 2012

Rant Unicycle

#1: TIPS FOR WRITING BETTER GOD DAMN POETRY PART 1: I’m not a big fan of how to guides, especially how to guides on writing, but I really enjoyed writing this. I decided to shoot from the hip. Say what I truly feel. Focus less on the structure of poetry and more on the what keeps me going.

#2: THE OBNOXIOUS SOUND OF MUSIC UPSTAIRS: Most of my pieces I write and five minutes later, I post them to my blog. The fact that this is something I wrote a couple years ago and still held up on my blog made me extremely happy. I don’t write short stories or prose very often, but I was happy to find myself writing this piece, that not only helped me rationalize alot of things from my past, but also better understand love.

#3: MTV: When I sat down to write this, I thought it was gonna be shit. I thought it was gonna be pure angst and cheesy and trying too hard to be trendy, but in the end, I don’t feel that it’s any of those things. I didn’t realize until the comments started coming in that this piece wasn’t just about MTV. It was about the things we lose along the way, sometimes include our whole selves.

#4: AN AMERICAN PORTRAIT: A personal favorite. My trip to California really inspired this one in me. I wanted to speak of this iconic idea of America that we’ve created in our memories and our history, and maybe point us to the fact that it’s time to redefine what it means to be an American.

#5: I AM AN APARTMENT BUILDING: One of those ones where you know the title, and the rest just kind of comes from there. I feel like this piece really helped me to rationalize a lot of aspects of who I am in so many ways. My roommate and I talk about how I don’t really edit, but what I seem to do is rewrite the same poems in different ways until I get what I’m after. This one seems to be a later, but I don’t think necessarily better version of SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE THERE’S A COWBOY ARGUING WITH A BUDDHIST MONK.

 

More than anything, what I’d like to say is thank you. Thank you to anyone and everyone who stops by and reads my blog. Poetry is not something that is easily made a career. No one gets into poetry for the money. What I’m in it from is to share something I felt with the growing circle of people around me. I want to inspire people to be better. I want to challenge people to rethink who they are. I want to make a personal connection with someone on the other side of the world as me, and I have been lucky enough to get to connect to so many fantastic people, all with incredible stories and nothing but kindness to give back to me. You’re not a poet until someone reads your poem. I believe that too. Often times, I’ll read poems to my family and friends, and whenever I hit that publish button on wordpress, the same rush of satisfaction and honesty hits me.

Let’s make 2013 the best year there ever was. The world didn’t end, so we still have a responsibility to make our resolutions as courageous as we can, and our words equally as brave.

Love, Brice

p.s. let me know what your favorite pieces were. :)

REPOST: ATTENTION BOOK REVIEWERS!

My first book of poetry, Enjoy Your Popcorn, will be coming out roughly at the beginning of this September. I am offering to give free copies of the book to a certain number of book reviewers who are willing to write something up about it.

If you are interested, please send me an e-mail to bricemaiurro@gmail.com, including as much info as you’re willing to provide, along with an address where I could potentially send you the copy and a link to your blog.

Thanks For Your Time,

Sincerely,
Brice