WHITE SMOKE

will you fix what’s broken?
will you travel all the globe?
will you kiss the pavements?
will you wear the finest robes?

will you cure the sickness?
will you stand amongst the brave?
will you move the eyes of watchers?
will you eat the things you crave?

will you sign the papers?
will you wave at waving hands?
will you teach us Earthly sinners
the way a good man stands?

will you read from written speeches?
will you speak from heart and soul?
will you look to fill your pockets
from pockets full of holes?

i know not where you go now
but i know from where you’ve came.
will you twist the hands of history
or keep its shape the same?

the Vatican falls silent.
the winds of change, they roll.
the chimney burns with white smoke;
St. Peter’s bells do toll.
In the eye of the storm of spirit
St. Peter’s bells do toll.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “HAIKU #2″

About these ads

RE: RE:

to V.T.S., who i hope will dance with me a while in this boxing ring

i drive my car
like i’m stuck in traffic
behind an old lady
or maybe a young lady
who’s convinced herself she’s old
i’m antsy
i shake my steering wheel
and don’t get why i have to go
the speed that she’s determined for me

it makes me want to smoke
but i’m not a smoker
not after sex
and not stuck in this traffic either
it takes more
than someone else’s stubbornness
to make me consider breaking habit
that being said
i can’t stop saying cigarette
the word haunts me
i swear
it sneaks its way into my letters
it highlights itself in my vonnegut novels

america is shit
maybe
depends how i’m feeling
on any given day
or how i’m dressed
or what organ of it’s body
i find myself trapped in
vonnegut got the bowels
from what i’ve read
it’s not hard to see
how he could have concluded
that america is in fact
shit

it’s not all true
but
america is shit
it’s a lot of fun to say

america is shit

writers do keep saying it
god damn broken records
sitting at their typewriters
in a beat-up apartment
in new york
smoking a cigarette
but records keep on skipping
until someone
gets up out of their lazy boy
and moves the needle forward

cigarette

whoops there i go again
america is shit
i’m young and angsty
and america is shit

but i’m not america
and i try not to get mad at her
when she goes all manic on me
and keeps saying the same things
over and over

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “CIGARETTE”

MY GREEN FAIRY

the absinthe drinker. viktor oliva.

the absinthe drinker. viktor oliva.

some days
i just
fall
down
the stairs
and i
just
keep fall
ing through
smoke
and mirrors
i travel through
this
funhouse
and past
the golden gates
to the other side

of reality
where she waits
for me
my green fairy

she dance for me
my green fairy
crazy ballet of fire
on her glass stage of desire
she dance for me

her wings in proud display
naked and raw and hard on the throat
she walks across
the good and the evil
of my spectral shoulders
and this she says to me:

“calm your head
your days will collide
if you do not.

close your eyes

feel me running up and down
your spine
this waltz
in waltz three quarter time

taste my heat upon your lips
feel me burning on your breath
sugar cubes and billowed smoke
white lighters and youthful death

open your heart
let me in
the ceremony
is about to begin.”

and i listen to her
my green fairy
my blue delusion
my red midnight
my black confusion

she dance for me
in sacred gardens of the mind
waltzing in three quarter time
she moves the moon along the sky
visions of toxic absinthe why
channels of unrequited love
dirty water, holy dove
she dance for me
she lie with me
and every night
she die for me

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “EARTHBENDING”

Interesting in submitting to Flashlight City Blues?

“A SUMMER CIGAR” BY NICI E. BROWN

Recently, I ran into this poem and thought it was fantastic. I know it’s the middle of winter, but I think maybe that is the best time for a summer cigar.

A Summer Cigar

Glass splits burgundy into facets
through the crystal ball of a wine glass
that has no power to tell the future,
only quiet it down to a numbness.
I have to laugh at the idea
of a ten dollar bottle of wine paired
with a ten dollar cigar.
It takes four matches to light -
What hidden pleasures
will the thick, spicy smoke enhance
in my cheap Malbec?I hear the neighbors cursing at each other,
taking the stress of back-to-back retail jobs
and a janitorial position during graveyards
out on the family they work for,
the bus hydraulics hissing from Meridian,
an immigrant grandmother laughing as she ticks
off hopscotch numbers with her first-generation
grand-daughter in between planting
her soon-to-be blooming annuals in the neat
boxes of her tiny Garden of Eden
in poor East Boston, a pristine space, the only thing
still sandwiched between calamity and the sea.

Smoke curls from my lips
to cast about into the breeze.
I have to keep pace with the cigar
and carefully note the wind’s strength.
If I smoke too little
the flame will go out.
Sometimes I think we could break with the intensity
that’s in the beauty of a single moment in our own skins
but the taste is fleeting,
quick to be scattered away.

Life only deals out
happiness fractured into fragments
here and there, from time to time.
For some reason, I always reach
for the same happiness recipe
though I never have the same ingredients.
You’ve got to learn to cook what’s in your kitchen.

It’s been a long winter, so
get drunk on summer, and spin
what love you can from the warm air.

When the cigar burns down,
the closer [it] gets to my lips, the
sparser my breaths become, or
it’ll burn too hot.

READ MORE POEMS BY NICI E. BROWN

READ “A GIRL NAMED AMERICA” BY ME, BRICE MAIURRO

Interested in having a poem featured? Email me at bricemaiurro@gmail.com. Please just one submission at a time, until I get back to you.