COUNTER CULTURE SHOCK

if you are strange and weird,
come join us.

we think what makes you strange and weird
is what makes you beautiful.

unless your strangeness and weirdness
isn’t like our strangeness and weirdness.

then we couldn’t be bothered.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO

READ “SUBMIT ALL QUESTIONS IN WRITING PLEASE”

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THE HANDS THAT REACH FOR WINTER

the hands

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the hands that reach for winter
the nights that reach for pain
the guns that reach for murder
the fire burns the same

the beds that burn for lovers
the streets that turn like time
the art of stabbing in the back
the acidity of lime

the words that clasp like thunder
the planes that land unharmed
every righteous number
that we shoot into our arms

the man from california
the woman from d.c.
every foreign victim
from sea to shining sea

comforter of angels
chancellor of drugs
loving heart of death now
now the death of love

brilliant manifesto
child in the gutter
orphan military
absent-minded mothers

the sermon on the mount
the dusting of the crops
the clicking of the gears
the roller coaster drops

we fall
and we fall
and we fall
some more

we dig our graves
and dance with death

we talk like
virgins

we walk like
whores

we eat
until
there’s nothing left.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “HAIKU #1″

02.28

0228

“farewell, my black balloon.” -the kills

(end of the line.)

it was midnight in this revolution of my heart. i fell asleep on the bus ride home and woke up at nine mile station, middle of nowhere, and realized that this nap that sucked me into angelic dreams and dreary lucid mental orgasm was nothing more than a sad escape from reality. i pulled down the blinds over my eyes, turned out the lights in my brain, i threw all the clutter from off the floors and tucked it under the bed of my heart and i just sat for hours and hours listening to “let it be” on repeat staring at the white white white white ceiling of my skull.

let it be. let it be. let it be. it all did amount to nothing. a few dozen scraps of poems on the floor with dust and neglected bills, empty bottles of pills, half empty bottles of booze. i couldn’t even commit to alcoholism.

it was cold. i was at a bus stop. my phone was dead. the twenty-four hour grocery store was closed, and the snow was pouring down like i was stuck in a dry erase board and this magic eraser was quickly deleting my stick figure limbs. the bus driver was gone. careless to the fact that i was faced with stalemate at parker and peoria.

but really i was at the crossroads of adulthood and childhood. where the crayon coloring on the walls scrolled along like stock market tickers. where bouncy balls were filled with the hot air of politicians. where the seesaw wobbled up and down like somewhat productive half-baked socially progressive arguments about race, gender, sexuality, all leading to the inevitable conclusion that we needed to learn how to look at each other as individuals.

but what from there? practice what you preach, but what if you’re an atheist? how do you learn to dance like yourself when you’ve been inflicted with the awkward steps of society? how do you fly a plane when the gravity of the responsibility of love keeps you grounded?

we are expecting bad weather nationwide. internationwide. universally. exponentially. galaxically. i have got to stop making up words. i have got to stop drunk texting my invisible friends in the middle of the night.

i’m buried in snow.

it’s metaphorical snow. did i establish that? i’m sorry. am i breaking the fourth wall? am i breaking the fifth wall if i say i know you get sad sometimes? am i throwing a rock through your precious painted christmastime window? i’m sorry if i ruined the little mermaid for you by analyzing my insane quandry that the disneyverse is just the bible with more colors. is that true? i sound like a crazy person. you sound like a crazy person. we sound like a crazy person.

when i need something to grasp onto i hold your hand. in my head. i take us to the movies and i stare stare stare at the screen. i’ve become tainted by the fact i’m a writer. all i can do is tear apart the character motives and the necessity of certain dialogues. i have been invited into someone’s dream and all i can do is mock their wallpaper and tell them the proper way to entertain their guests. i am the king of cocktail parties

that nobody would want to go to.

but right now, i am bundled at a bus stop. in bum fuck egypt. in the middle of the night. in colorado. on this third rock from the sun. our sun. our holy holy sun that just belongs to me, not you. and it’s taken this. it’s taken all this to remind me

that all i have to do

is point to the sky

choose a star

and walk towards it

until i find myself beneath it

then take the next elevator into space

where hopefully my love is waiting for me

and if she’s not

i’ll deal

because sometimes the best life is lived alone, but only if alone means to you that you never find someone to get stuck on a ferris wheel with and kiss until your mouths are sore. down below your friends are waiting for you.

entrapment is the shiny love that takes you away from all your other loves.

be careful.

carry pepper spray and a strong argument.

box without gloves and ride life bareback.

always have at least two quarters in that tiny little pocket in your jeans.

tattoo your name on your palm, and wear it like an indian headdress.

tread softly and carry a big heart.

happy february,

(brice.)

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

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

02.17

0217

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(psychedelic fish.)

one fish
two fish
we’re so damn
selfish
let’s try
selfless
i’m sick of
reckless
that’s just
left us
begging
for change

one fish
two fish
we seem
clueless
to the
way this
could be
flawless
let’s applaud
the strange

one fish
two fish
on your
necklace
is a
priceless
locket
with this
picture
of us
inside

what we could be
where we could go
what we have been
before we lost sight
let’s bring it back
right now
right here
tonight

don’t tell me you’re broke
i won’t tell you i’m ugly
demons aren’t afraid of priests
but they can never break through
prayers shared on holy lips
let’s kiss
we’ll feel god at least

throw your wallet in the wind
fold your insecurity up
like a sheet of paper
eight times over and flick it
into the cosmos
forever floating endlessly
far out of reach from your hungry eyes

one fish
two fish
homeless
toothless
careless
bruiseless
hands that
scoop this
dirt beneath
our feet

one fish
two fish
we just
blew this
but let’s not
blow this
new day
swim through
fish bowls
aimless
break the
glass and
make your way through the air
like the psychedelic fish you are

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.18, THE 18TH 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

CHESS

it’s denver in january cold

at the bus stop
there’s a man
in work boots
with a lunch pail
and he looks cold too
his lips pursed
hands in pockets

and there’s a woman
with her two daughters
sitting on the
cold metal
bench
reading them a
story

and there’s a kid
with a baltimore ravens
hat
on backwards
who is pacing
like he’s waiting
for the super bowl
next sunday

there is gum
all over the ground
gum and cigarette
butts

now here comes the blind man
cane in hand
he can’t see me
as i sit here
still
and frozen
does he know
i’m here?

i am some weird caricature
to all of them
lost in my headphones
and underneath my hood
and thom yorke
is going crazy
in my ears
singing my iron lung
they have no idea
he’s whispering
and screaming at me
in the corner
of an asylum
on the other side
of the headphones
he’s desperately singing
with desperation
about desperation
he’s moving me
but he’s not here

there are five other hearts
at this bus stop
waiting to share
the same submarine vessel
to take us to
somewhere else

and it’s cold but not too cold to talk

and i’m off in the asylum
with thom yorke
and i’m twentysomething
in a hoodie
lost in headphones
and as soon as we violently
tug the pull cord
on the bus
and exit
professionally
we will be off to live
our seperate lives together

thom yorke is screaming at me
from some supermarket in england
with his wife
but we are all silent
faceless chess pieces
faced with the same war
but stuck
within our black
and white
spaces

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “BLOOD ON THE AMERICAN HIGHWAY”

IN CRAZY

in Crazy
you’re bound to forget your hat
but never to fret
these things do happen
and luckily the rain rises upwards
and the alligators in the sewers are friendly
in Crazy

in Crazy
the tin soldiers march up the walls
and just about everyone is happy
unless they don’t want to be
in Crazy

in Crazy
i’ll find myself sitting indian style
in a hotel room above a cowboy saloon
fingerpainting on the typewriter
because tonight is not a night for serious
and tonight is not tonight at all
in Crazy

in Crazy
i’m stumbling over double yoo’s
and i’m penciling in an artist date with myself
my hair grows horizontally
sporadic fritz chicken scratch madness
i haven’t shaven for weeks
in Crazy

in Crazy
the queen rules with an iron fist
while the tin soldiers exercise the golden rule
and a silver-tongued jester
speaks to diamond eyes
in Crazy

in Crazy
the mad mad jester
yes he’s the one who knows the ropes
the mad mad jester
he’ll leave a mint on your pillow for ya
he’ll make sure that you’re fit to stay
in Crazy

in Crazy
they’ll lock you away for any old thing
they’ll throw you in a fluffy room for loving someone
who looks too much like you
they’ll toss you in for speaking the truth
they won’t hesitate to tell you your wrong
preposterous preposterous outrageous unmentionable
you’ll be fed what ails you
in Crazy

in Crazy
the unicyclist is lackadaisical
the motor cars are faster faster faster
and the road looks empty and romantic
but there’s long-snouted authorities
hiding in the ditches
sneaking across behind the tumbleweeds
the road is endless and knows no horizon
but the vultures hover low enough to shadow
in Crazy

in Crazy
the elephants sit on golden thrones
and the monkeys howl at poetic nonsense
the donkeys bray and bray and bray
but everyone has ears like mouths
in Crazy

in Crazy
they’ll put your coffin between your fingers
and you’ll pay the cowboy a pretty penny
to punch your lungs for a few rounds
give it the old college try
then throw what’s left onto the ground
to rinse and repeat and rinse and repeat
in Crazy

in Crazy
the muddy muddy raincoat man
whistles his song of water
and drops the pennies in the puddles
he sits beneath the bridges
the old troll, he barely moves
the automobiles just faster faster faster
and the bridge decays like people’s faces
in Crazy

in Crazy
they put the bags on their heads
they hide their mouths and eyes and ears
but their bodies are flashed across the intelligent art show
the art show that sings you to registers
the heartbeat that slides its fingers into your wallet
the brazen lunch bell, the limited sound of freedom
in Crazy

in Crazy
you’ll love the way you’ll learn to love
you’ll paint a masterpiece in the old folks home
they’ll hang it on the giant fridge
they’ll put it in your
personal manila file with your name on it
you’re bound to forget your hat
in Crazy

in Crazy you’ll live
in Crazy you’ll die
in Crazy
in Crazy
in Crazy

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “1994 SEATTLE LOVE SONG”

1994 SEATTLE LOVE SONG

seattle

minor chords amongst the dust
i’m the only one who comes to your show
the ground is littered
with empty bottles of cough syrup
i stand among the wreckage
and i watch you destroy yourself
i can’t look away
from the mirror you hold to me

i can’t escape the morphine sea storm in your eyes
envy’s eyes are as green as yours
envy’s eyes are as green as yours
you’ve got me wrapped up in your small pox blanket

you’re a newspaper fire burning in a rusty trash can
a shopping cart in hashbury at night
you’re not as glorious as i’ve made you out to be

i’m a gas fire and you’re the water
i’m a gas fire and you’re the water

i’ll burn like big giant factories
i will give you a sunset
the color of chemicals

minor chords amongst the dust

you left your phone in the car
along with our 1994 seattle love song
our song of retribution in a wasteland
we are just getting lost in different drugs

what happens when glass slippers slide
on black ice

we are the sound
of an i.v.
drip

i swear you smell
like kurt cobain

you taste like
sonic youth

someone popped
every single one
of the balloons
at our birthday party

someone left the car on in the garage

envy’s eyes are as green as yours
i can’t escape your morphine sea storm

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “TOO FAR DEEP”

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”

Interesting in submitting to Flashlight City Blues?

RED EYE FLIGHT TO MEDIOCRITY

attention all passengers/ please fasten your seat belts and return your trays to their upright position/ we will be flying the skies alone tonight/ through the dark clouds into sure mediocrity/ do not ask why/ there is no rhyme or reason here/ we just float along/ cheersing our alcoholism to desperation/ we comb through the skies like we’re looking for something/ but all flights are destined for the same location

i ask you this/ take a minute to look out the window/ see the man-made wings that lift us above the graves of our ancestors/ see these lights that shine through as we travel at night alone/ the children have all fallen asleep/ the lights inside the cabin have all been dimmed

i can’t help but notice the cabin pressure/ these molecules between us that fill in the distance/ i can’t help but wonder if this is where i’m supposed to be/ if this is who i’m meant to be/ out here in the middle of the ocean/ we have no radar to guide us home/ out here in the middle of the ocean/ we are at the whim of god/ as we approach the edge of the western world/ we fear that maybe there are no worlds left to conquer/ some monster of the sea just waits to break our vessel in two/ some devil clings to the ceiling of our airplane/ the edge is sharp and the sky is breaking/ the channels are changing themselves and the world is imploding and exploding at the same time

the world is imploding and exploding at the same time

for those of you visiting, enjoy your stay/ for those of you who live here, welcome home

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “DEAD POLAR BEAR”