the man who won the lottery.

the man who won the lottery
i saw him on the tv twice
first when he won it all
and then when he took his life

he stood on an overpriced chair
inside his overpriced home
six thousand handsome square feet
where he lived alone

he wrapped the noose around his neck
and took his final breath
when money couldn’t cure his pain
he turned his hope towards death

and the tv stared right back
at ten thousand watching eyes
they never saw this coming
but no one was surprised

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “i am a chair.”

About these ads

i am a chair.

your boring poems offend me
just as your boring life offends me
i don’t pretend my life isn’t often times
boring or predictable or hellishly tedious 
(i type this poem in a starbucks cafe
in a barnes and noble on my phone)

so as i was saying
before i rudely interrupted myself
(there’s a woman in here
staring at the christmas chocolates
but her eyes scroll across the boxes
like spiders away from a human hand)

so yes
your boring poems bore me 
they read like hallmark cards
and there is nothing worse
than hallmark cards
to substitute a synthetic heart
into the guts of a card

i can’t stand haiku
(but admit i’ve written them)
but they tend to be

boring

rushing water is overrated
unless you can smell its salt
and hear its thunder 
and feel its biting cold
and see its eternity
eternalness?
eternality.

(a woman in a peacoat
just ordered a caramel macchiato
(i guessed she was wearing a peacoat
before i looked up))

i think this poem is to me
i think my poems bore me
should i spice up my marriage
to poetry?
purchase a copy of the kama sutra
for me and poetry
from this suburban barnes and
noble?

should i jump off a cliff?
should i shave off my eyebrows?

(ghostwriters are worse than
hallmark
except maybe when they’re 
not)

this poem is dying 
a woman reading danielle steele
just yawned

a woman behind the register 
with resting bitch face
is gesturing authoritatively
a man has been wandering for
approximately 45 minutes 
and still has acquired nothing
i am that man
i have been writing this poem
for approximately 26 years
and i have acquired nothing

i am a chair
in the starbucks cafe
at barnes and noble
in suburban c o
there is a Red Robin
and a Ruby Tuesday 
across the street
it is december 22nd
and everyone in here 
is secretly a robot 
and their poems bore me

(oh.
except for me.
i am not a robot.
i am a chair.)

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “TURN GREEN”

TURN GREEN

there’s this woman behind the wheel of a car driving down the road in the middle of nowhere. it’s pitch black. middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. she comes to a red light and she comes to a steady halt and waits at the light. a minute goes by, the light is still red. she still waits. several minutes go by and she still waits. hours, days go by, but no, she thinks to herself, she must not run this light. it would be wrong to run this light. chances are if she runs the light no one would be hurt, she knows this, but if we disregard the laws that have been established to protect us, what separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom? nothing, she says to her self. birds hover above her. the sun rises and sets again. insects jump onto her windshield and off. the world changes around her, but she remains the same, unflinching to her convictions and the convictions she has been taught. babies are born, the elderly pass away. new technologies come into existence. couples fuck in their warm beds. people bitch about the weather, but refuse to talk sex, politics and religion, but this woman is not concerned about any of that as she waits desperately, starving to death on the inside, for this light in the middle of nowhere to turn green.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “KEROUACIANA #1″

KEROUACIANA #1

I was napping under the freeway in the bone city of Los Angeleez, when a man walked by and he stopped and he asked me “Who are you?” “Who am I?” I said. “Who are you?” “Who are we?” and next thing I knew we were in his flat uptown, drunk on red wine, listening to Charlie Parker through the radio. Charlie was manic panic writhing up and down his saxophone beneath the electronic fuzz. The man who took me in paced around his apartment aimlessly. He was a strange man – his books scattered across his cigarette floor. I asked him what he did for a living and he pretended not to hear me, I’m pretty sure.

The wine hit us hard and we laughed at the Bodhisattva residing in our hearts. We laughed at fleeting enlightenment and we bonded over cold Chicago. I passed out on the dirty floor, but in my haze, I heard his girl come home and ask who I am and they riffed for a minute, her asking if I was another junkie and he said “No, well, I don’t think so,” but they calmed down and I faded to black again.

When I woke up, I was alone in the apartment. A note had been placed on my chest “Don’t worry about locking up. No one would rob this shithole anyways,” and that was that. I gathered myself and caught the next train out of the city of angels.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “BREAKUP WALTZ”

BREAKUP WALTZ

and the way
we go on
when our words
lose their weight
is all just
a strange form
of grieving

and the way
that we call
with nothing
left to say
is all just
a strange form
of grieving

when they’re there
they are there
so you have
things to say
to these ghosts
who walk down
your hallway

now, listen
i’m sorry
i loved you
that’s the truth
it’s too late
it’s over
it’s over

time is not
always in
four four time
sometimes it
does what it
wants to do

sometimes we
dance and when
the song halts
all we have
left is our
waltz

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “10TH & OSAGE”

10TH & OSAGE

the night rolls on
like a silent film

it flickers like old home movies

and i am shadow
void of vocal cords

i am lost in denver
in love with denver
awake in denver
forever in denver

where life is
the slowest american speed
possible

where you be
and people accept that you be
where stages erupt with talent
in the shittiest of dive bars
underwater

just waiting for the wave to crash
this giant frozen wave
this tsunami lost in time

lost in denver
love with denver
awake in denver
forever in denver

in love with the story
that it weaves around me
in love with love
and you
uncatchable jellyfish
away from denver

the north star forever in motion
one thousand lives away

that is you
and i am astronaut
space cadet
chasing infinity by the tail

circles in the sand
lost in denver
where lights reflect on lights
where we cannot see truth
so we make our own
from whiskey and fire
from moonlight and confusion
and death sets in the west
just down the california way
but we lay on the frozen grass
and don’t think about it
we just hold our breath
and count the stars
and lose count
and don’t start over
when we lose count

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “YOU PAINT YOURSELF IN RED AND I PAINT MYSELF IN BLUE”

YOU PAINT YOURSELF IN RED AND I PAINT MYSELF IN BLUE

you paint yourself in red
and i paint myself in blue
and i keep painting-
and i keep painting-
and i keep painting-
and my paintbrush escapes
the crooked-cruel-edges of my canvas
and i explode like bluestars across the blacksky
and i paint my entire house (in blue)
and i don’t miss the ceilings no sir i do not
and this – all reckless
and you, all restless
and me – all deathless and dreaming of death
i take a breath. and i breath in the red of you-
and i wonder where we are and who we are and wait what-
where the fuck is my refill on coffee?
and where the fuck are the stars in this nightless sky??
and where the fuck am i??? dead and alive
and angelic and, lost and, finding comfort in your red paints
and your lighthouse when i’m lost at sea
(always lost at sea this one – always lost and never found and
al ways painting portraits of the back of my head
with shotgun hands and sinking ships for lips
and my adam’s apple elevator stuck between floor one and two
the heart and the head it meanders through my throat
like a lost child in a target store
where the what the who the why the fuck am i?
i am blue i paint myself in blue and i lie on the floor of my kitchen
as dull knives live boring knives in drawers
forever will they ever find their way out i don’t know
i am not wise man – i am the boy with firecrackers for hands
trying to dance with girls drenched in kerosene
i am love ha ha ha nope that’s not how this song goes
but i am trying like hell to soak my sheets in sweat of compassion
night terror alcoholics sing to me through open city windows
howling like mad wolves lost in their tiny coffin apartments
where the what the who the why the fuck am i?
i paint myself in blue you paint yourself in red
and the purple mountains majesty
that live in my parking lot
will laugh that we can’t be half what they have always been
nope we never will be what they be
)

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “WHATIF”

Don’t go to Walmart

i deleted my facebook today. this is probably the ten millionth time i’ve deleted my facebook. also, i see the stupidity in deleting your facebook and then writing a blog post about it, but that’s where i’m at. it’s overwhelming, especially with things like ferguson. there’s just so much entitlement and hate and confusion and it’s overwhelming. it’s not the lens that i want to see the world through. beyond that, i can’t tell you how many times today i had the though “i should make that my status.” oh man.

i watched before sunrise with my friend, kathryn, the other day. there’s this part where the main woman talks about when she was in russia and away from media and all of that. she talks about how clear her head felt. that’s what i need and want. i’ve been feeling like time is finite, which is problematic, though i’m starting to see it’s not finite, but it is valuable, and i want to focus my time more usefully. hopefully, this means more blogging.

november really is my favorite month of the year. it’s just so transitional. it’s like when the plane begins its descent, to me.

i would give anything to be on a plane right now. a red eye flight over new york city, seeing those lights for the first time as the plane circles in like a hawk stalking its prey. i worked on thanksgiving and i don’t understand why. i think we really need to step back and remember that we will not die if everything isn’t readily available all the time. i saw the walmart parking lot full on the way home. full. just packed to the brim. it was too much. why? sit and do nothing. it’s okay. i promise. sit and do nothing. hug your family. write about your life, or do a backflip, take a nap, climb a tree, build a blanket fort, build a bench. do something, but please don’t go to walmart. and delete your facebook. maybe for a week? or maybe you’re just better at it than me; not getting consumed by it all.

my sister got married yesterday. it was beautiful. i’ve never seen her that happy.

i already feel ten million times better. hope you’re doing well, everyone.

happy thanksgiving. i am thankful for everything and i try daily to realize the responsibility that comes with the everything i have. i am thankful for you, dear reader.

love,
brice

WHATIF

i think about what i would do with my time
if i wasn’t a writer and i am pretty sure i’d be a carpenter
but i think i’d probably stop halfway through a project
to go lock myself in my room and write poems
because i couldn’t focus on carpentry
with all this nonsense floating around my skull
yeah
if i was a carpenter i’d probably just be a poet with a bunch of wood lying around my house

if i was the president
i’d be a terrible president
but i’d write some brutal poetry

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014