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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02.25

0225

(goodbye nightmare.)

there’s a dead deer on the highway of our love
there’s a man in a business suit pretending to be me
there’s a goldfish that lives in my water bottle
there’s a music box ballerina that lives in my glove compartment
there’s daggers falling from the ceiling
and i’m a six year old thinking i can save my self
by hiding underneath my teenage mutant ninja turtle blanket
there’s no room for your family in the lifeboat of our trust

there’s a fly stuck in my skull
and he is driving me up the fucking wall
he is buzzing and buzzing and every hour
i am that much more tempted to just crack my head open
and let the mother fucker out
there are no presidents in narnia or wonderland or heaven
or hell or the matrix inside of my skull
just this god damn fly who is still buzzing
you sound like a mother
do you know that fly?
you keep nagging like a mother
there’s an escaped insane asylum inmate driving the bus
and we’re all going wherever his fancy takes us

there’s ten thumbs where i should have fingers
there’s two left feet where i should have a right one
there’s devils doing angel dust in casino bathrooms
there’s a train station in my heart that’s been closed
for a long, long time and high school kids just sneak there
on friday and saturday nights to get high and make out
there’s crocodiles in the sewer of my bloodstream

nothing is pretty right now and nothing is disney
nothing is saturday morning cartoons
nothing is mister roger’s neighborhood
nothing is monday through friday, nine a.m. to five p.m.
nothing is candygram
nothing is dinner with the family
american steak and american potatoes and coca cola
but not for the kids because no caffeine this late
nothing is that
it’s just a mess up there in my head right now
kurt vonnegut breakfast of champions schizo hodgepodge
there’s some godless hippy waiving an anti-this sign
and he has a point but he hasn’t filled the hole he’s dug
he’s ran onto the stage of my skull
and disbanded the magic trick
but he didn’t put anything in its place
he’s just standing there
like a frickin crack addict on stage
smiling like a moron at the audience
now he’s dancing like the w.b. frog

hello my baby
hello my darling
hello my ragtime gal

goodbye nightmare
hello dream

there’s spare change rattling around my stomach
there’s a faceless image of god on the skin of my eyes
and the television is the best listener i’ve run into
except you, you never seem to say much either

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.26, THE NEXT ENTRY IN THE 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

DEATH RATTLE

always the bridesmaid, never the bride
he dresses in your sister’s clothes
and sneaks up behind you
with piano wire
he strangles you
just when things were beginning
to go so well.

lies. lies. lies. lies.

it’s life that’s the killer;
so dramatic, so whiny
callin you at two in the morning
when you gotta work the early shift.
calling lonely and horny
when you gotta work the graveyard shift
and shit, man
you know you gotta call in
because seize the day
carpe diem-
am i right?

but no-
death is the asshole.
the one who punches you
in the kidneys,
makes you piss blood
not true!
not true in the fucking least
life has just perfected
her death costumer.

but life is the day
and death is the night
right?
wrong.
if life is the day
and death is the night
then why do you crave
a little more two a.m.
and a little less
six thirty in the godless
morning?

death is your ally.
your friend
who just wants
to get you drunk.
tell you
to dump that bitch.
she’s just playing games
with your head, man.

life.
shit, man.
life is your friend
sometimes.
death is always waiting
by the phone
for you to call and
hear me, you:

when life stabs you in the back,
when she
sleeps with your best friend
and turns off your alarm
so you’re late for work.

when life cancels your insurance
just before driving your car
into the first brick wall
she finds.

when she strikes you
with sodium penethol,
truth serum,
just before
your lifetime achievement speech
and calls your mom
and tells her you murdered someone
and the cops catch on
and they break into your house
in the middle of the night
and arrest you for the crime
that life committed,

hear me, you, brothers and sisters.

death will be the friend
who takes a taxi
to the penitentiary
to try and bail
your sorry ass out.

life is the terrorist who hijacks the plane.
death is the friend who is waiting
on the other side
with a sign
with your name on it.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “BEAUTIFUL HOUR”

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CLEVER SALT SHAKERS

that poem’s gone
it was
good intentions

tonight
sitting in a
basement with tickering
lovebirds
it’s starting
to feel
like home
again

there’s a
paranoid hum
this
air conditioner
breeze about
but
that’s
probably just the
apparition of my
something

it’s starting
to feel
like home
in the
apartment
again

for a while there
the walls were
shifting
like
the inside
of a rubik’s
cube

my books
were going
missing
the sun
was a lamp
that could be
clicked on at
midnight

everyone, everywhere
ever
all at once
felt like
strangers
to me
but the adderall’s
dissolving
down
the
drain
and my eyes
and his eyes and her eyes are
smiling

i must have been
punch drunk on rust
and lust
for a month
but that

was two months
ago

a month long hangover
can be
a god damn rattlesnake
a
punch to the
throat

i’m barefoot at night with my
barefeet on the dizzy table

i want to paint a painting of this
painting on the wall

what i really wanna do is
kiss humor
in the back seat of a
cramped
compact
car

i can’t get over April
she’s this
lost month lump
in my throat
bermuda triangulation
i’m so lost at sea
let May crash on me like a
mack truck

i’m wearing my favorite jeans
hearing “Imagine” for the first time
skinny-dipping at
Sea World
i’m
dissolving
down
the
drain
like the Adderall

it’s starting to
feel like
home
in the
apartment
again
all the
junk the
laptops and
books and
bowls and
bags and
deceptively empty
Mountain Dews and junk
seems to be in
it’s place
again

there’s the air again

that computer
breath

(i don’t know where this is going)

but blindfolded
people are
often pushed
to
surprise parties.

the world isn’t
round

it falls off
at the
horizon of
neighbor’s fences
where we become
afraid
to talk to
the mutants in the mirror

it’s
starting
to feel
like home
in the
apartment
again

the whole place
swings
like a basonet

this thing’s gonna
end
like a crescendo

this apartment’s home and you all
are little kitschy items, snow-
globes and candy
tins, handsome whiskey
bottles and
clever salt shakers
sitting
on my
kitchen
shelf.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “EFFIGY”