ALARM CLOCK

god damnit!
will you shut up?!
it blares and blares! and blares!
caffeine headaches!
ax to the skull!
i don’t care what time it is!
didn’t request a wake up call!
let me see reality as a dream!
get your foghorn out of my face!

i’m unplugging my internal clocks

life is but one day
where we meander the winding road
between dreams and reality

so stop yelling at me!
you have nothing important to tell me!
one more time!
and i will set this hotel room on fire!

i want to measure my day in miles today
songs on the radio
exit signs
semi-trucks that add up to
nothing really

99 bottles of beer on the wall
this coma is exactly what i want
so i’m pulling both our plugs

alarm clock!
angry nonsense!
let me be.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “AMERICAN HONEY”

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GALACTIC BISCOTTI

"The Exploding Head of Don Quichotte" by Salvador Dali

“The Exploding Head of Don Quichotte” by Salvador Dali

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i am sleepless and doped up on cough syrup and listening to boards of canada
i am still flip flopping between being a cowboy and a buddhist monk
but really i am flip flopping between being alive and being dead
between being a nice outstanding young man who is a good samaritan
a real back breaker, a real gem to society and then i’m being
a ghost haunting this town home, pacing through the halls flicking the lights on and off
working on my lurking skills because my lurking skills need work
writing poems about writing poems about writing poems
and sending them to christopher nolan and letting him know it will be the biggest thing
since inception

i dream within this dream within this dream
i moved around a lot as a kid and part of me thinks
that i really never stopped moving
but really and i mean really really
is it possible to stand still?

we are agents of chaos
we are geriatric children

i dream within this dream within this dream
and i pay mind to the beautiful eyes and i stop to unwind beside them
and i tell them i love them that i want them or need them and sometimes
they nod their heads and agree with me and sometimes the joy fades from their pupils
and i move on

i do not stay where i am not welcomed
i do not stay where love is finite
because my love is infinite like a giant bottle of shaken up soda
exploding across the cosmos

my love is john muir beneath a redwood tree
my love is going back in time to sylvia plath
to try and talk her down while she is preheating the oven

i dream within this dream within this dream
and i use to be afraid but i am afraid no more
fear is stupid
anger is stupid
and stupidity is just the way you feel
when nobody told you
what you now know
now that somebody took the time to tell you

i dream within this dream within this dream
and i live for this day and the one before it
and the one after it as i sit around with these
out-of-order days at the apogee space cafe together
drinking cosmic lattes and interstellar macchiatos
as we share a galactic biscotti

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “COUGH SYRUP HAIKU #3″

02.08

0208

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(midnight hype with ratatat.)

atrophy, apathy and the letters between lovers
disect your very core to try and find the blind
the walk of shame through the halls of college dorms
the parasail that treads too close to water
let’s unshelter the shelters, let’s unveil the mask of sanity
let the world see our naked scarred unshaven selves
we will sit elevated in a glass box above times square
and frozen in time we will move as fast as traffic
if life is a graph of time versus love versus change
what would happen if you crumpled up the sheet of paper
the equation was written on?

condense your density. make true your individual rhythm.
martyr your dark dark dark dark dark heart
and allow yourself to become as soft as soft symphony
cram your head full of knowledge then let it all go
binge and purge. create then destroy. love then let love.
you have a finite amount of infinite to give the infinite.
your hourglass figure can only be flipped so many times
requiem. become requiem. become undeniable. stand
on the pedestal that you have created
from cracks in the sidewalk you stepped on
when you break your mothers back consider the fact
that maybe you adjusted the lump in her spine
close your history books and listen to the eyes of auschwitz
the scars of pearl harbor, the radiation of hiroshima
take a shot of nagasaki and chase it with karoshi
we’re all melting like the wicked witch of the west
we are all bleeding like the eternal tsunami of the east
our stripy socks shrivel up beneath the house hovering over our heads

we rob peter to pay paul and then we use paul’s money
to take peter’s girl out for a night on the town
but she never calls because she’s in love with paul
and we ignore the fall, the mighty fall of the american empire
and the fire, it burns us all the same, we have only ourselves
and a thousand past lives left to blame, we’re so brash
do not ask what you can do for your country
once we see the fire it burns us all the same, we’re so brash
ash to ash, dust to dust, from first to last lashes
ashes to ashes
we
all
fall
down

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.09, DAY 9 OF THE 28 DAY 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

CRICKETS

it looks like it’s just me and the crickets tonight
the crowds poured in like flash floods
they shook, they rampaged, they rumbled the house
they spilt their drinks all over the tables
they danced on the wet tables
they kissed in my closets
they unhinged my doors and they set my clothes on fire
they blew out my speakers with their digital tribal anthems
they cursed the name of daylight
their hands reached out towards the night sky
the room filled with smoke
the intercourse of chattering, the music of heart
they filled the crevices and corners of my life
the kissing gourami wallflower star-crossed lovers
who wake up demons with bad breath and hangovers
they clawed at the walls, they clawed the ceilings
they hung their reservations from the ceiling fan
and watch as it shredded them to dust
like leftover confetti on the mardis gras ground
i slipped into my bed, slipped into my mind
as the world turns turbulent around me
as the clocks lost track of time
and the freezer began to fill with pairs of keys
the morning came like snow on january first
and the floor was littered with bodies in coma
slowly they dwindled, they faded, they disappeared
out into the long line of cars
out into the systematic revolution of deadlines
and bus schedules and inevitable responsibility
now you listen to me and what i have to say
until you too wander off out into delusional reality
and then, as it always end up,
it’s just me and the crickets tonight

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “WINDSTORM (A DREAM)”

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PUNCH-THE-CLOCK

late for school
not the first time this has happened
my internal clock is set to work – 7:30
and psych starts at 7
i can’t keep track of this all
my mental calendars have been dipped
in hydrochloric acid
i’m not meant for itineraries
but i’m trying
going to bed at nine
setting alarms for six
work at 7:30
work at 7:30
punch the clock
punch the clock
god, i want to punch the clock
the minute hand and the hour hand
are strangling me
while the second hand hits me in the kidneys
tick tock
the pendulum of a grandfather clock
is a swinging blade inching towards me

(as of late
i have to assume that the sun is still coming up
and settling down
cubicle walls and textbooks shade me from rationalizing a systematic symphony of light and then dark and after burning so much midnight oil i’m forgetting waht a normal chemical balance feels like)

my skin is as pale as computer paper
my heart beats like the beep beep at the beginning of call center calls
i want a room made of windows free of clocks where time is just something your parents made up to scare you
i’m trying to make this poem free from rhythm
free
free from
make
this
make this poem free
from rhyth-
make the poe-
m free
no beat
inevitable
inevitable
chaos leads to structure
and structures can fall from chaos
please
just a mental day
sorry
i’m just having a mental day
i’ll sleep in for once
count sheep out of order
and lose count
stop tallying everything
deny there being
seven days a week
twenty-four hours a day
three hundred and sixty five days a year
punch the clock
five days a week
forty hours
plus over time
i am over time
count the things formerly known as days
in moments

i breathe in
i breathe out
inhale
exhale
systolic
diastolic
rhythm
rhythm
maybe
this all
was in
vain.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

AS SOON AS I LEARNED THE WORD “NIRVANA”, I VIOLENTLY SHOOK ANY CHANCE OF IT OUT OF ME

i noticed all of a sudden that my speedometer went up to 160 mph
i realized i was twenty-three years old and god what a disappointment it would be to wake enlightenment prematurely
i stopped setting alarm clocks
i tore calendars down from off my walls
the sugar tooth i had pulled from my mouth grew back
i was a haphazard caution sign child playing in the garden
i ran stoplights and came back to steal them when no one else was around
i shook hands with night exchanging with him business cards for a bottle of moonshine
i crammed stolen stereos into the trunk of my hot car heart
i hit baby seals with plastic bats and shaved off one of my eyebrows
i took power tools and removed the hinges on my bedroom door
i removed the glass between the people-animals and the zoo-animals
i shattered fragile dreams letting in the monsters of nightmares
i have something else to say
there are mirrors everywhere
and i have kickstarted my disappearing act with a fundraiser for demons when i should have been more useful in a coma
the edge is sharp
and it is not always in vanity that mothers teach us not to run with scissors
there are mirrors everywhere
books fold symmetrical over themselves
(closed casket funerals for pens that bleed to death)
there are mirrors everywhere
framing reflections on scars of stupidity that run from our eyes to our mouth
there are mirrors everywhere
in fun houses we smile open wallet smiles at a maze, a labyrinth, a fleeting moment of no identity but we leave our poetic fingerprints at every crime scene
and in every bathroom
on foggy whiskey glasses
and speeding tickets
the handles of weapons
the rope of guillotines
(we piss our names in the snow)
there are mirrors everywhere
we hate seeing ourselves on camera
vampires, lost boys
and i have kickstarted my disappearing act
can’t see my bloody reflection
i toast bad habits to breaking bad habits
wait. wait.
i regret
nothing.
do i?
i’m paving the path to enlightenment with hot coals.
but i want to die with blistered feet.
i meditate on rock and roll
god
i am so god damn american
i am starbucks hot tea
i am approaching nirvana in the disoriented footsteps of kurt cobain
the planned suicide of hunter s. thompson and i’m asking these mirrors
what is the opposite of nirvana?

what is the opposite of nirvana?

there are mirrors everywhere.

what is the opposite of nirvana?
what is the opposite of nirvana?
what is the opposite of nirvana?

(reckless poem implodes on its own structure)

 

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012