UNFORTUNATELY HONEST

drunk on caffeine i escaped out into the night
hands in pockets i began to walk through the forest
of my fingers into the clearing of my palm
where i looked up at the great ether of my own
two eyes above me
and therein i saw something calling back
the shadow of my own giant looming over me
but the anxiety still called so i kept pushing it out
through my feet
and i moved through the blood in my arms
down its red path
until i came to the great stonehenge
of my dismantled rib cage
white stones torn asunder i sat beneath
the tree of my gut
and there i climbed in and waited
until the poet left the home in my heart
through a little red door
completely naked and covered in paint
he danced like it was someone’s birthday
and me in peacoat and dress slacks
and pinned in with belt and exhausted
i jumped down from the tree
and with my great long scarf
wrapped around my hands into fists
i swung the fabric over his neck
and there in the moonlight
that poured in through the hole in my throat
i strangled the poet lifeless
and i was so sure what it was that would happen
i was sure i would ring out some great eulogy
from the lips of the dying poet of me
and i was sure they would cast into the dome sky
of my internal organs and radiate from my bigger body
like caffeine
but the poet said nothing
nothing was said but it wasn’t quite silence
and then it was over

i didn’t bury the poet that was me
nor did i say grace for the fallen stars
that he cast from his dry heave mouth
dim shining with the looming reminder
of the guilt
the same guilt he carried with him
and now i
but now wordless
just kept walking off the caffeine drunk
but the headaches are so bad
and when you can’t sleep all you can do
is walk and walk and walk and walk
and hope that somewhere out there
is the magical monster you’re after
that after all is just you hiding in a peacoat
and dress slacks
or in some poem that you wrote
when you remembered that’s something you do

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

MILLENNIAL BLOGS A LONG WINDED AND UNFOCUSED RANT

First of all, there’s no such thing as a millennial. It’s something your mother made up to scare you. Sure there’s positive and negative attributes pushed on millennials but the bottom line is those negative attributes end up creating dissonance between different generations. I have made a point in my life to not identify generation y as generation y or the same for baby boomers. They are just persons. Peoples. Individuals. Folks. It is insane, especially in a time in history that feels as if it is moving so fast, to think that you can put people in a box. To think that any one quality exists among a group of people is ludicrous, not to mention, in my humble opinion, a huge factor as to the disconnect that exists in our society.
I think that the world is so big that the only way we think we can manage it is to label it. Maybe labels are useful societal tools, but I think it’s much more likely that these labels we fling out are lazy ways to categorize varying opinions on groups of people who in fact are barely even groups of people. They are just humans huddling around the fire for warmth.
And good for them. Common interest is the breeding ground of society, but remember this: everyone loves food. I think it’s impossible that anything has brought humanity together more than food. Maybe sex, though that’s debatable too. My point is that we can build up common interest as reason for separation from other people, but at the end of the day we’re just slowly surrounding ourselves with people who are more and more like us. No wonder we are such a polarized world. I think the big thing is to break through perceptions, find the people you’re afraid of, and talk to them. I’m not saying to find the evil dictator and ask him out for a drink, but I kind of am.
I witnessed a conversation at work today between two people with very different political affiliations and it was one of the most respectful things I have ever seen. This is what the world asks of us. To not think we are right, and to remember that the person who believes something so different from you has needs that are not being met too. So say something. Get outside your comfort zone. Make sure we keep talking to each other. And I mean talking. Wars are made from people who are too afraid to talk to each other. End rant.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

this
is the way that the world
fell to its knees when they came
to take the brains
of the children who punched
through the lampshades

poem
of pills and sugar
wild worldly master of technological
filth unorganized yet so organic
and bitter

is
the ear the slave to the sound?
or is it the other way around?
who pens the monologues that
expand through time and space?

bullshit
i say. what did you get from it all?
did you come out the other side
feeling clean? feeling holy? did i
stamp upon your soul some sacred
orgasm of thought? i cannot say
first impressions are important.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

THE DISTANCE

some watch it
walk off into the distance
and each second

the fade removes
the pain you’d feel
for most of us

but some of us
can never forget
what walked away

some of us
bite the same cigarette
for the magic

so quickly
we can pull close to us
that thing

that thing
that we had forgotten why
we let it get away

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

I WILL RELIVE THIS DAY UNTIL I GET IT RIGHT

i will re
live this
day until
i get it
right

pen
sively in
circles i
pace the
room pen
sively in
circles

i walk
across the
bridge
i crossed
to the past
and pull
the weeds
i planted
i once
thought
them flow
ers

i will re
member pink
skin and
soft hands
and barbed
wire words
wrapped in
soft blank
et

i will re
live this
day until
i get it
right

and every
shelf of
my kitch
en is o
verflowing
with knick
knacks that
i have
collected
like tears
made out
of ceramic

and every
shelf of
my book
case is on
fire
and i
am on fire
and always
on fire

i don’t
know how
to stop
a tsunami

i tried
my best
and re
gret not
trying
more
better

i am all
ways on
fire

i am all
doors
locked

i am
seven o
clock
alarm
snooze
seven
snooze
fifteen
snooze
thirty
snooze
late for
life
and all
the people

at the
board
meeting
just stare
and stare
and stare

and i
will re
live this
day until
i get this
right

at night
i plug this
soul into
the wall
out let and
i turn off
i sleep
i sleep
and when
i awake
i am 100%
but so quick
ly i drain
i drain
i drain

same tooth
paste upon
the same
sixty
bristles
the only
thing that
changes is
the black
beneath my
eyes and i
die and i
die

i will re
live this
day until
i get it
right

no cali
fornia
stopping
no rubber
necking
past my
dreams in
patriotic
flames on
the side
of the by
way i run
into the
arms now
of hope
of hope
of hope

i re
start
boot up
i kiss the
ground grate
ful to be
and to be
here and
two thousand
doves escape
my van gogh
soul and fly
out into the
city that
was a town
until it
realized it
was a city
am i a city
that will
be a town
until i
realize it
i must
realize it
this pacing
is not waste
i create
this day
i make my
mark in the
tree
and i must
not waste
this day

i will re
live this
day until
i get it
i

i will re
lieve this

i will re
live this
day un
til

i will
re
live

i will re
live these
days

i will re
live this
this here

this day

i will re
live this
day until
i get it
i get it
i get it

i will re
live this
day until
i get it
right.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

PB&J

in the trenches of the midnight hour
a beast comes rising from the bowels within
the blossoming of hunger’s yearning flower
the haunting knock of this eternal sin

upon bare feet i walk across the tiles
i open up the pantry to unveil
my hand pressed firmly opening the vials
this ship of knife begins its wayward sail

into the nuthouse dives my desperate blade
and pulls the nectar from this opened head
it moves across the sky and down across
this empty canvas, lonely piece of bread

the damaged ruins of fruit is soon to mesh
and in their marriage, i have found sweet death

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

CAMERA OBSCURA

a darkened box, a convex
lens, an aperture.

a projection of image
of external object
onto screen.

a transference
of what once was
into what will be forever.

do you see it?
ten thousand dead eyes
staring out
from some digital plane
to the otherside.

and here we spend our days:

tossed and turned
in immediate reflection
of the moment before
this one.

(a watched pot
never boils)

and a watched clock
never moves.

a ticking time bomb
is a movie device
in which a deadline
is created
to give a growing sense
of anticipation;

we are all ticking time bombs

trying to place the
red wire to the green
no wait – the red.

in hopes
of becoming immortal.

in hopes
of being
remembered.

we step into the box
and we come out
two-dimensional.

we lay flat on our
backs

and we die each time
we close our
books.

she stares through
the ether

into this flesh
machine
i’ve become

some overpriced gear
of the eternal engine.

we pierce through the
snowy screen

to piece together
the pieces
of the life we could be
living.

(he said from a
keyboard (the
pot calling the kettle
black.))

the sun going
into sleep mode.

the sweet grass unavailable
as it goes through
a software update.

we created god
and he has swallowed us
whole.

i will be here.
lost in the belly of the
wail.

you look like
you’re having a great
time.

we’ll have to catch up
when you come back
home.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

DOCTOR’S ORDERS

lay on your bed and listen to girl from the north country
turn up the blinds and off the lights
let evade you the wars outside your windows
neither their spoils nor their losses are yours to be had

let go of your eyes and let levitate the weight of your body
so very human so very connected to the fascism of gravity
forget the tips of your fingers the taste of the roof
of your mouth forget the humming of the air conditioner

there are over seven billion people in the world
take a second to think about that imagine that there
are seven billion people in the town that you live in
the city the providence the whatever now forget that

now divide that seven billion people by seven billion
watch their beautiful faces faded out watch as they
step backwards into the walls from which they came and
realize there is only you and those seven billion faces
are not gone

they are not dead they are not ghosts they are not any
single thing not some figment of your imagination they
just existed outside of you and now they are all within
you they are swollen in the rests in requiem within you

not in some sort of chaotic time square medley but praying
they are meditating they are still like terracotta
soldiers they are not unmoved by the wind no that is
impossible but they are unafraid of it

and forget about them now

plant a seed in the base of your skull. now water it.
now watch it rise from the surface. now watch it bloom.
outward and outward still it is craving just to be
as much as it knows how to be

now pluck each and every petal from the flower
one at a time each petal between the fingers of your mind
now fall deep deep into the earth and fall through
to the sky to the cosmos and learn to writhe gently
learn to swim through cold water and you’re there

ambivalent sweet indestructible river of silent music
of empty sight of the justice of unasked questions
ten million pounds of feathers thrown into surrender
swayed only by the holes in the letters of the words

and if you forget
lay on your bed and listen to girl from the north country
the freewheelin one

doctor’s orders

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

A STRANGE PHENOMENON

it was a strange phenomenon. the way that
your insecurity ate away at your sweater
like moths. each second a little more of
your soft curves revealed beneath the
material war being sieged around your
looming aura. your fingertips lost in
brushstroke against the walls of a dying
dream. you were an entire ecosystem.
creating while you destroyed. earth
rattled around your apple core while
you projected angel dust onto an
unsuspecting audience of time and
space and there you were moving
through the compartmentalized
rooms of my lungs like the smoke of
sage through a haunted house.

blink
and there we were four hands gripping
the reckless drunk wheel of death
and speaking tip of tongue to tip of
tongue. speaking amphetamine binge
of life to sweet holy surrender to
honesty. speaking i.v. drip to punctured
vein. speaking holy new gold moment
to fourteen reincarnations of stars come
to fruition in sparks. flying drawn together
but at the very last moment lost. to a wall.
so blatantly before us the whole time. and
so we learned how to dance in the blind
dark.

and some glowing sun rose over the
graveyard where we buried our tension. i
tossed and turned without a blanket and
underground until this flood of light lifted
my one million bones to the surface where
i found two choices. and i took one maybe
even older than us. maybe even older than
this soil these musical notes that ramble
incessantly now in my head. that is the one
i took.

and you disappeared like a ghost into
a fire and i consumed by another life and the
fire you went to wrap around your life was red
satin and when it was too late i unwrapped
you and you twirled and you twirled and you
were down to bare skin and you twirled and
you twirled and you were down to brittle bone
and you twirled and you twirled and what
i saw before me was nothing but the empty
space that created this strange phenomenon.

so now i set out on a sea of trouble unable to
rationalize this idea of love not believing in
love. of a doctor not believing in medicine. of
a dancer that doesn’t trust the body. a painter
that cannot see the color in the dead canvas.
of a portrait of love stuck in still life. unable
to see itself. or see at all. or see at all. a strange
phenomenon. a blindness from refusing to
ever stare into the sun.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

YOU ARE NOT A FLOWER.

you are not a flower.

you do not rise
from the soil
like some dandy little
spark of life

you are not
overflowing
with green vanity

you just are.

when spring hits

you do not bloom

you do not rise up

from the cold winter

to burst forth into
some spectral showcase
of expressionistical color

you are not some
kaleidoscopic
manifesto

you are not
in constant competition
with the bright roses
around you

you are not
in constant praise
of the sun

your tongue is not
held out before you
drinking in
the ultraviolet rays
you’ve been fed

you do not
think of your roots
as being for
gathering life
into your body
like stranger prayer

you are not a flower.

you bloom inward
you burn circles
in your living room rug

trying to find
unidentified life lying
in the widening crack
of your ceiling

you lick the salt
from your wounds
and watch your hands
swell

you waste days
you boil water into boredom

you’ve torn your roots
from the bureaucratic soil
of bureaucracy

lifted
your two-dimensional legs
from the blueprint
they laid out for you

and you’re not always
so beautiful

you don’t have
the distinct privilege
of a best laid plan

you are something else

seedless
fruitless
without petals

you dance best drunk
and to heavy metal

you are not a flower.

you are the crayon
that walked to the edge
of town
and outside of the lines

and when you bloom
it’ll be in the middle of winter
in the middle of the night
and you will not bloom delicate

you my dear
will bloom fists and fury

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015