02.15

02.15

(puppy love.)

i remember standing beside you at the edge of the world
hand in hand you turned to me and said we should jump
i said i’m not one for suicide and you said it’s not suicide
it’s romantic.

you thought there was nothing more romantic than two lovers
choosing when and where and why and how they want to die

i was never afraid of heights nor commitment
but looking down on the jagged rocks below
the bubbling water crashing and the face of death
i realized in that moment i was afraid of both

and to think this was what i loved most about you
the way you dragged me through chaos
like a hand pulling me through a packed concert
to the front of the stage
where the music was so loud our ears bled
and the lights were so bright we went blind
but we were content to feel the vibrations
and our hands touching the feet of gods
you took your shirt off and threw it at them
standing there in your leopard-print bra i remembered
that you were never one to take anything seriously
your best and worst quality

one of those times you pulled too hard
and my arm came out of its socket
you dragged it around for hours
before you thought to look behind you
to see i was gone and i wasn’t just gone
i was walking in the opposite direction

it’s not addiction
how do you explain it?
you do something
and you do it
and you keep doing it
until it stops being fun
but with addiction you escape
with this
i just walked away
there were no withdrawal symptoms
like a cold haze
like that scene in Fargo
where everything is just white

i erased it all
the scratches on my back healed
i was no martyr
and you were no angel
we were just young and reckless
and in love
stupid love
puppy love
the kind that needs constant attention
and pisses on the floor when you’re not paying attention
and we left the door open
maybe intentionally
and it ran away

surprise, surprise

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.16, 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

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02.05

02.05

 

 

(letters to a young poet from a young poet.)

i’ve heard too many times
“i am not very good at poetry,”
that is like saying
“i am not good at breathing,”
you’re going to do this
whether you want to or not
so you might as well
make your breaths deep
take in the fragrance in the air
along with the carbon monoxide
write your poetry
like a carpenter would make
his own crucifix

if you are uninspired
and you are a poet
it is time
to start sneaking into movie theaters
time to drive your car home in reverse
spend a day trapped inside your home
dressed like emily dickinson
stalking a housefly
attempt to roll uphill

your blood is eighty-five percent water
come to a rolling boil
you were not made to be luke warm
if you are body temperature
you are denying yourself
the chance to be something other than a body

you will write shitty poems
you will have shitty relationships
and shitty jobs with shitty bosses
and sometimes the most precious of poems
gets damaged in a move

you are not a poet
until you type your soul on a screen
and forget to save
but when that computer crashes
you will learn
that some things cannot be taken away from you

there are plenty of people out there
who won’t want to hear your poetry
but you do not speak for them
we all speak to the ears that want to hear
there is a method to the madness
of bees and their flowers

you do not have to share your poems
but document your heart beats
and your heart murmurs alike

sometimes a bad poem
is the prosthetic legs
of a good poem

as far as love
you have to love
loneliness is a bitch
big, big bitch
the fat kid in class
who steals your lunch
because he can’t get full on his
but you have to love
throw yourself into uncomfortable

pad your bed with broken dreams
make strangers less strange
and embrace their stories as your own
because time turns us into alphabet soup
and no one can claim the letters as theirs for long
your mouth carries the fiber of the universe
your dreams form our reality
speak now
or forever hold your peace

write everyday
write with borrowed pens on napkins at diners
and write with scratches on the backs of lovers
tiger stripe God’s car
throw eggs at his driveway
ding dong ditch his front door
leave a flaming bag of dog shit for him to put out
God knows only how to smile
at the precocious little monster you’re being
someday you’ll just be glad you made some memories

a poet is one hell of a hard thing to be
there is no health care, no 401k
no big benefits package
you don’t get sick time
but you will make money off of it
you’ll just be dead by then

the wealth of a poet is measured
in the lint in your pocket
and the gems you’ve placed
in the pocket of the hearts
of those around you

a friend once said to me
the worst thing someone can be to you
is bad poetry
and i believe that to be true
i cannot unhear what i have heard
and you cannot say
what you decided to let be unsaid

take a second
close your eyes
and take in a deep breath
now
before you start turning blue
let it out

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.06, DAY 6 OF THE 28 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

SHOCK TOP

drunk with the roommate
i am capping my tip to a wonderful
inebriation of an evening
boneyards of beer bottles
we are drowning
in beerspit and the
percussive
reactionary ripples of
thick blood
and heavy hands

we fight in slow motion

we renew our vows of friendship
underneath the two a.m. lights of
the microwave and we click
together glass as we clash into
an actual fucking
friendship.

a friendship that sails
on clouds
of memories and loyalty
as we fight
consciousness
for the majority of our lives
but especially
tonight.

underneath the green glow
of David Fincher’s
Fight Club
we are men and
we are sealed by the blood that
we draw from
each other’s mouths
through friendly fists and
this
this is brotherhood
between the aftermath of
strangers
as we tip the glass bottoms of
our beers
to our father
the ceiling fan
in the
hot
fucking
summer.

we celebrate each other
and the words that form
safe voyage as we pass through
the marina gauntlet
of brotherly love into treacherous waters
where we battle the krakens of
whatever;

drink.

drain to the chains of
synched-up heartbeats
like
honest drum circles.

drink to high times
and higher
blood alcohol content.

drink to sobering up
to find
that we
drank not
to find
our fraternity but
to celebrate the fraternity
we continue to have when
the well dries up
and the rent check is barely
paid but still
we find money
in the cracks of the couches
to drink
and to clack bottles together
to brothers
born in different states.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “EDWARD HOPPER”

WHERE HAVE YOU GONE TO, AMERICA?

i tried calling
you didn’t pick up

where have you gone to, America?
i can’t find you under my bed or in my closet with the other monsters
you seem to be everywhere all at once like you’re imitating God, but maybe you’re just photocopying yourself until the ink turns to white like your flag on the moon
where have you gone to America?
when I go down on you, you never return the favor

where have you gone to, America?
your model homes are empty
your desks in your schools are empty
your teachers are just praying for tenure
where have you gone to, America?
are you in Central Park with those cast to the corners?
are you in Brooklyn with the rappers who reside in check out counter headphones?

the Dodgers are in Los Angeles now
the Lakers are in Los Angeles now
how come she always gets whatever she wants?
where have you gone to, America?
your youngest daughter still needs you

where have you gone to, America?
your unwrapped gifts are stacking up under the Xmas tree
your churches have walls to expand for the holiday rush

where have you gone to, America?
you left the groceries out on the table
you left your poor friends out on your San Francisco doorstep
you left your children at school with a gun
and you want to blame the trigger for the finger that pulled it

you want the television to babysit us
while you go out drinking with strange men

i tried leaving you this message, America
but your mailbox was full

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “ANDROID”

RECKLESS

and as soon as his mother
walked up the stairs
and out of the apartment
he went to the bathroom
grabbed a can of hairspray
he went to the coffee table
grabbed a lighter
and he pointed the hairspray
directly at the lit flame
inches away from the ceiling

i asked him
“logan
what are you doing?”
he pressed the button down
and nothing happened

defeated
he said,
“i just wanted to do something reckless
once in my life,”
and that was the end of that.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “A GIRL NAMED AMERICA”

NIGHT OWL

the sun always invites himself in in the morning
picking up the half-empty p.b.r. cans
and judging the full ash tray
he judges the obscure notes
on crumpled-up sheets of paper
he judges the rotting food
and the air
that tastes like leftover sex
and unbrushed teeth
he judges the fist-sized hole in the wall
and the painting that fell down
during the world war of last night
now gone cold

he doesn’t get it
he’ll never understand
the happiness that we allow ourselves
when his back is turned

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “CLEVER SALT SHAKERS”