08.2015 – Daily Poetry Project

08.2015

Hey guys,

Happy August. It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve written poetry and I’m looking to get back on the horse so I’m going to be doing a project called “08.2015”. I did one back in February of 2013 appropriately titled “02.2013” and it was very encouraging. It holds me accountable to post a poem everyday and it challenges me to think outside of the box. One day during the 02.2013 project I was feeling super uninspired and the fact I was forced to write something resulted in one of my favorite poems, called “EMPTY HEAD“. I hope you guys will join me through this journey, whether it be reading each day or stopping by now and then to make sure I’m being true to my word! The poems tend to become slightly cohesive as they are so back-to-back. I love this, and look forward to it. Thanks for reading.

Love,
Brice

If you’d like to read the 02.2013 poems from the beginning you can click here.

SHE WALKS SLOWLY TO HER HANGING

she walks slowly to her hanging
flowers in her hair, eyes toward the sky
she counts her steps in silence
the sky answers gray
the world has moved on somewhere else
but here the noose swings
she steps up the stairs one by one
she places the noose around her neck
like a pearl necklace
like his arms wrapped around her
and she falls
into the swaying decay of finality
the bloodflow like a hurricane
feel it all now all at once
and then an eternity of nothing

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

JULY 17th 2015

the vines grow so quickly now
this summer feels so much like autumn
like the sun is never rising just always setting
i walk aimlessly around this creaky old home and out the window
i swear i can see snowfall
there’s a strangeness in my own life
there’s oms of lightning in the clouds in my mind
it’s like a depression without the sadness
but it’s not an indifference either
there’s nothing apathetic about the way i feel
it might be contentment
i’ve realized i’m not good at being happy
my mind wanders i get bored i need challenge
i prefer the direction from having something wrong
to the paranoia of being at peace with myself
it’s like when you’re home alone and you think someone
is in your house
i need to work on sitting still
but it makes me feel so damn lazy
i feel like i could build a house from scratch
i have been thinking about those men in history
who built palaces and giant monuments for their lovers
that makes sense to me
i guess i don’t really know what i’m feeling
and maybe that’s what’s got my wires mixed
could i actually just be in the moment?
is this the moment everyone always says to be in?
being in the moment isn’t good for poetry, you know
maybe it is
can you reflect on something as it’s happening?
is it okay to think about the past?
what would the world look like without history?
pretty redundant i’d imagine
those vines grow more each time i look at them
i swear they’re more alive than i am
and i feel really alive
i think

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

11:30

two birds on top of a burning building
they pay no mind to the fire until they have to
they are red-breasted and consumed
by the mad sweet company of each other
a snapshot from a much longer film
they plant their feet like trees when they touch
because there’s no time to get carried away
and when the time comes
feathers ruffled. dizzy and imbalanced
away from the flames they caused
they fly separate ways
and it was worth it
it was worth it
it was worth it

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

DEAR MARIA

dear maria
i do not know who you are
but somehow you’ve snuck your way into my poetry
so here we go

maria
as you go out into the night light
make sure to wear your coat
hold up
i’m not your fucking father, maria
do what you want to

maria
this may not be easy
you and me
we hardly know each other
but i have to write you a poem

dear maria
there’s a lot of people in this world
probably too many
the thing about people is
they really like to have sex
and sex without protection feels better
but it also creates more people
god is all about the conundrums

dear maria
are you god?
you might be
i don’t know you
but i’m certain you are out there
and i feel compelled to talk to you

dear maria
remember that in the scheme of things
we are the youngest people to ever live
and more people have died for you
than any time in history
assuming you prescribe to the concept of
linear time
but i feel like that’s important
either way
be grateful
when you’re hungry
be grateful
when you feel you’ve got it all
and you did it all yourself
be grateful
people drop dead all the time
also don’t fear death
or the idea that you could drop dead
right now

why am i compelled to give you advice, maria?
maybe i should shut my mouth and listen to you
put my ear to your sea shell heart
and hear the ocean

assuming you have a heart
maybe you’re a jellyfish
i think jellyfish don’t have hearts
do you know, maria?

maria
promise me this
sit on a wooden floor
with headphones on
and listen to a record player
don’t let it move the needle for you
move the needle for yourself
if there is no heaven
this is heaven
we are pretty good
at synthesizing our dreams
in the face of the fear
that they may not come true

dear maria
your heart will be broken
by an asshole
and you will be an asshole
and break someone’s heart
and then there’s another heartbreak too
oh yes there’s several kinds
but the kind i’m thinking about is the one
where neither of you was an asshole
when there’s just white noise between you
and you have to step away
that one has its own flavor of hurt
be ready for that one
but you can’t be
just a warning
a borderline useless warning

and plus
you might be old and wise and full of heartbreak
maria
tell me about your heartbreaks
are you in a place to tell me about your heartbreaks?

dear maria,
get dessert at salad buffets
another good option
is to avoid salad buffets

dear maria
i want to dance with you
not romantically
well maybe
but i think i want to dance with most people
people should dance more
and sing more
it drives me nuts that people give me strange looks
when i sing while i’m walking
keep singing
do not reduce yourself to humming
or whistling
avoid silencing your songs at all costs

but also
enjoy awkward silences
(

)
i have mastered them
i plant my garden in their empty plot

no maria
i am not on drugs
i am just a poet
and it’s one in the morning

dear maria
do not underestimate strangers
acquaintancy is the canvas of
strange sincerity
sometimes you can only unload
your hot irrational jukebox tracks
on bus stop furniture people

i love you, maria
that might not be real love
but right now it’s pretty good

dear maria
i cannot decide if i am sincere and dramatic
or facetious and random

have fun out there
writing with crayons on the walls of time
and throwing things into the void

hold onto this poem

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

SAINT ROBOT

if i were a giant robot
i wouldn’t ravage the city;
that is just a stereotype
of giant robots

i would just sit and meditate
in the middle of
central park

i’m sure a few park-goers
would be crushed
beneath the extreme weight
of my shiny metal ass

look
i’m a giant robot
trying to obtain enlightenment
i’m not a saint

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

LISTENING TO WARPAINT

i have only one single tear for you
the one that you left behind
and as it falls down my face
twists down my shoulder
then my arm and off the tip
of my fingertip i realize
that what we had was a war
and i never meant to go to war
but i did and what i found
is that when we both
want to be at war
it’s probably because we’re both
afraid of what peace
would look like
i think this thought
and then i let it go
off of my cheek like the single tear
which is now gone
staining the cardboard bottom
of the box of your stuff
as your aura
evacuates my apartment soul
and you are somewhere else
and someone else i hope
i hope i made you someone else
which is a weird thing to hope
but when you’re sitting around
listening to Warpaint at 2:30
in the dark pupil of the night
back and forth in a hammock
and across the black river
in a rowboat of your doldrums
sometimes you hope for weird things
and these weird things you hope for
are things that you never hope for
when surrounded by reasonable company
at what has been deemed
reasonable hours to keep

thank you for your time
and your kind donation
to the dismal poetry
of my restless bum poet soul
which is my favorite to write

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

A SUNDAY IN JULY

i woke up this morning with different hands
i just sat in bed for fifteen twenty minutes
studying the new length of my fingers
the new grit of my touch
i traced the lines up and down my palms
trying to decode whose lifeline i was looking at

i walked around the house with someone else’s bare feet
my calloused toes meandering the cold wood floors
i paced endlessly through the halls of my home
my home can i even call it my home
i try desperately to understand this new balance
i don’t recognize the air that enters my lungs
or the way my body sends it flowing to my foreign joints

i look into the mirror at a face that is not my own
crow’s feet squatting on these unknown power line eyes
i look so tired, so much older, when did i become this devil
this angel, this woman, this man, this child
this soul stuffed into some strange vessel
this ghost hand playing puppeteer

what of the things i was
what of the people i knew
the loves i’ve had
the love i have
what of the walk to the mailbox
what of the drive to work
what of the days spent churning and churning
what did i ever make

who’s voice am i speaking?
i shuffle through photo albums
and i start to feel the photos are not of me
what did i do
really what did i do and where am i
i close the blinds and crawl back into bed
i wrap myself in blankets
as if they were some magic cocoon
that works in reverse

some days we are someone else
and it can be such a brutal voiceless battle
to remember anything about the person
we’ve got so comfortable telling ourselves
that we are

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

AND THIS IS WHAT YOU DO WHEN WRITER’S BLOCK

To Maxwell Tilse, never too much.

and this is what you do when writer’s block you type and you type and then you keep blood flowing you suture your wounds you tighten your stitches you arm wrestle the hands of the clock you push through and you create the mounds and mounds of bullshit but maybe you’ll fertilize a small dandelion and that small dandelion will catch in the wind and those little fluffy parachuters will create new dandelions and spread and spread like jelly on bread and you push through and you’ll feel that black shadow of a ghost hovering over you but you can’t pay him no mind you don’t have time and it’s laundry day and what the fuck else are you gonna do it’s laundry day when you leave colorado and you’re in the middle of nowhere wyoming on the way to san francisco you get super excited for the gas stations for the windmills for the human decency to leave some land uncivilized no matter where you are there’s life to be experienced you don’t need drugs you don’t need a passport you just need to know that there are planets and stars that orbit inside you constantly and on these planets and stars are elephants holding flowers with their trunks and on these flowers are lives screaming for you to speak for them we must be louder we must always be louder in hopes of getting some silence but if the silence never comes we will at least have this lullaby to lull us to sleep and in this sleep we will dream of a world of silence where love is unspoken because it is everything and we’ll wake up and there we are there is that world and there’s a lot of hate to see through but i beg of you see through to see your own love and if you feel blocked like you don’t know how to speak just start talking and there may be nothing or maybe just maybe lost in the haze you’ll find a lighthouse light to guide you through the dark night of the soul and into the yellow morning with ya ginsbergian stanzas of gibberish and your uber apparent moonlight motherfucker.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015