DONNIE DARKO

this is a photo of a window. it is intentional bleak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the past and the future
come crashing into my room
like a jet engine
like my name is
donnie darko
like the world can’t just
sit still for a second
like the world is
a 7 year old boy
who just ate a box of
trix cereal and
a bunch of cocaine
and i hear the monsters
through the paper wall
at 9:52 in the
grey morning
i hear the monster mother
yelling at her monster children
to get into their monster minivan
or they’re going to be late
for the day
that none of them look forward to
and if she ever sees me
she will smile
and all of a sudden
she will be as serene as monk
and the children will be silent
but that doesn’t solve my headache
and the truth that makes it swell
so i tinker at the
technological typewriter
and i calculate my odds
of finding a sincere real romantic
and human connection
on a planet
that can’t even wait in line
without tugging ferociously
on the sun’s pant leg
asking
are we there yet
are we there yet
are we there yet
and the sun imagines backhanding
the earth and how gratifying
that would be
but the sun knows that is wrong
and the planetary police
can’t arrest you
for what you stop yourself from doing
and looks like here we go
i should make myself some eggs and toast
i should open the blinds
and let that sun shine down on me
like an interrogation lamp
like an officer’s flashlight
as he asks me have you had anything to drink
and i say to him
i wish

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “AMERICAN CHAOS”

About these ads

NO ONE WANTS TO READ YOUR POETRY, BRO

no one wants to read your poetry, bro
no one wants to hear the premise
of the sci-fi novel you’re working on
nobody has the time to hear about your concept art
no one gives a crap about your mixtape

sorry, bro

there’s a reason that bob dylan
would corner people at parties and force them
to hear his songs

there’s a reason why walt whitman
wrote fake reviews about his poetry for
the newspaper

sometimes you gotta shove this shit
down people’s throats

you gotta be reckless
you gotta set yourself on fire
in public demonstration
just to get an ad listing
in the local paper

flail your arms around
like the wacky wailing arm-flailing
inflateable tube man
outside of car dealerships

no one gives a shit
about your art

so you’d better give them
a good god damn reason to start
giving a shit about you
and the crucial and beautiful things
you have to show and tell them

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “SUNDAY AUGUST 10″

IN THE DIM LIGHT OF DENVER I DREAM

in the dim light of denver i dream
waiting for the light rail train to come
to station and i’ll board and i’ll close
my eyes and there before me she will be laying
naked beneath the blankets
speakers blasting from backpacks
bluegrass street kids tucked outside of
shops that have hung their closed signs
electricity hanging in the air like a
pending snowstorm and i am lost
oh so romantically lost and at home
and the old men and the homeless men
play chess and checkers and dice and streetlight
oh such sugary streetlight i kneel beneath thee
and worship my faceless god and she says to me
nothing

because this is a city in the middle of flatlands
a queen in the center of an empty chessboard
you have to hear the wind meander the clocktower
and sneak through the elitch garden ferris wheel
eclectic bars pushing and shoving each other for attention
country music clashing in the streets with hip hop
as great Buddhist mountains sit still in the west
watching like patient parents
waiting for their kids to grow up
they might have to wait a little longer

but there’s pedicabbers and buses and
bridges and oh my – marijuana!
and when the city fills with fog
you never know if it’s the breath of God
or just another saturday night
between a rock and a hard place
between the electronic agenda
and the folksong symphony
i am lost at home
almost
but for now
i dream in the dim light of denver
waiting for the light rail train

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “LONELINESS IN DENVER”

SITTING IN YOUR DARK LIVING ROOM, WHILE YOU BLOWDRY YOUR HAIR

and i don’t know how long these things take
but i am quickly learning
across the room
you are wearing a beautiful, flowy dress
like always
your hand is on your hip
as your other hand grips the dryer
as hot wind blows
through your manic hair
the chairs in the living room
aren’t saying anything
the television
is completely off
you ask me
if i want a book to read or something
but i couldn’t be happier
than sitting in your dark living room
while you blowdry your hair

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “SOME FLOWERS”

FOLLOW ME ON FACEBOOK

AMERICAN MEDITATION

driving home from the fight
speeding down 285
blaring good old fashioned american rock and roll
drowning my worries into night headlights

i could close my eyes in a silent field
i could breathe in and out slowly
i could focus on my blood flowing through my veins
but this is america
so i’m at home watching the god damn television
and i’m at home drinking the god damn whiskey
and i’m definitely not gonna call her

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “EMERSON BRIDGE”

2 YEAR ANNIVERSARY

anniversary

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two years ago today, I started this blog, and it’s been two amazing years. 3000+ followers later, it is good to know that someone out there still reads and enjoys poetry. Lately I’ve been rekindling my love for poetry and blogging and, honestly, it’s been difficult. Finding a balance between work and life and poetry isn’t as easy as it seems but every like, every sincere comment and every view I get reminds me why it’s important. Whether it’s brilliance or bullshit, every word you say could be the one that someone needed to hear. I think where I would be without the words of my fellow bloggers, without Kerouac, without Bukowski, without Vonnegut, without local poets, without music, without my family and friends and random strangers and without everything that has ever been said to me and it amazes me. Every word I say on this page came from somewhere else, so thank you all for keeping the words coming.

Love,
Brice

READ “MOUSEKETEER”

OXYGEN LIMITLESS

and today is the first day I ever walked out the door
not for bread, not for eggs but for the hot hot mess of humanity on the other side
I walk slowly down the sidewalk but really I’m ramming my tongue down her throat
and then a careful glance where your black holes stare straight on into her black holes
and amongst each other’s galaxies you feel meaningful
you are the most significant speck of dust on the dashboard
and rumor has it your hands your arms can reach anywhere in the world but all I do is ask her if she wants to go lay down in her bed
and she says yes yes of course hallelujah and
amen
and I put my outstretched arm around as the other one goes to the store to get some breads, get some eggs and I breathe as if air was free and oxygen limitless

READ “AN OLD WOMAN OF ARLES”

CLOPENING

Me Bathtub

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

there is no sun and there is no moon
just the light of a thousand stars condensed
into one giant phallic beam
that illuminates the grassless carpet
and the songless day
and the songless night
and the wake up get dressed head out the door
and the get home take your hat off masturbate
and go to bed

rinse and repeat
in the situation that you find
in the situation that you find
that you are trapped on a feedback loop
(feedback loop)
and you cannot exit the zenless circle
squeaky hamster wheel
in the situation that you find
water cooler conversation
sit and please remain seated
and face the faceless electric void
the empty fanatical empire of garbage
and type
at a minimum speed
and type
at a minimum speed
(feedback loop)
of sixty words per minute

and wait
just you wait
for that coming morning
when you open one eye
afraid to hear an alarm screaming in your ear
but it’s not there
it’s just you and bed and sun and life
and day off and breakfast in the aFternoon
and conversation over steam in the late late evenings
that turn into mornings
boiling with smiling regret
boiling with smiling regret
and a sweet little mason jar
waiting for you on your doorstep
filled with sweet, sexy freedom
yep

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “POEM FOR A LOVER IN MY FUTURE”

THE BLUEST SKY THAT YOU COULD MAKE FROM SCRATCH.

there is a dog in the yard
on a leash that is tied
to a tree
and it’s trying to get away

the sprinklers are running

there is a white fence
there are cars driving by
and there you are
behind it all
staring out of a window

staring out at the flies dying
the concrete heating in the sun
the bicycle tied endlessly
to a telephone pole with one tire
never to be rescued

you are staring out at the birds
shitting on your driveway
and the dandelion poofs that just
float on by
the ones that don’t give a shit about you

and you are still sitting there
behind that window
behind that prison of a window
where you just do nothing
just wait for the mailman to stop by
with a big brown box
and inside of that box
is the dream that you ordered
when you were a twelve year old girl
and it fits just right
red and slinky and crawling down to the floor
it fits you
like it was tailored perfectly to you
and you deserve it
for all your hard work
all the days you’ve put in
all the tears you’ve cried
and the sweat that you have sweat
this dream is yours

don’t wear it in the rain
it might shrink
it might get dirty

do you even remember how to jump in puddles?
do you even remember what a mistake tastes like?
do you even remember how sexy a voice can be
when it is hoarse
and dry
and thirsty
for someone
or something?
do you even remember what it feels like
to taste a cake that you baked yourself?

you just dance on the roof of this house
that someone else built with their hands
with your dream
your pretty red silk dream
amongst the white cotton ball clouds
and the bluest sky you have ever seen

the bluest sky that you could make from scratch

if you look there
across the way
you’ll see an apartment complex
and on that third story there
in the window
is a man sitting exhausted
at a computer screen
crunching numbers
his eyes swollen and red
his fingers moving like legs
on a thirty day hike to survive
do you see him?
or is he an invisible ship
crashing onto your shallow shore?

he is looking for the right algorithm
he is putting pennies into the machine
hoping that the copper can form pipes
pipes that can send water
where water is needed

he is ticking away
like a time bomb
he just moves on
to the next sentence
and you are so pleased with yourself
congressional medal of honor
for the way you sat at that window
waiting for life to come to you
shrink wrapped
bubble wrapped
preserved on ice
but never fresh
never raw
never wriggling in your soft hands
just served on a silver platter
that someone else made

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “CONVERSATIONS WITH BRIAN ENO.”