this is a photo of a window. it is intentional bleak.








the past and the future
come crashing into my room
like a jet engine
like my name is
donnie darko
like the world can’t just
sit still for a second
like the world is
a 7 year old boy
who just ate a box of
trix cereal and
a bunch of cocaine
and i hear the monsters
through the paper wall
at 9:52 in the
grey morning
i hear the monster mother
yelling at her monster children
to get into their monster minivan
or they’re going to be late
for the day
that none of them look forward to
and if she ever sees me
she will smile
and all of a sudden
she will be as serene as monk
and the children will be silent
but that doesn’t solve my headache
and the truth that makes it swell
so i tinker at the
technological typewriter
and i calculate my odds
of finding a sincere real romantic
and human connection
on a planet
that can’t even wait in line
without tugging ferociously
on the sun’s pant leg
are we there yet
are we there yet
are we there yet
and the sun imagines backhanding
the earth and how gratifying
that would be
but the sun knows that is wrong
and the planetary police
can’t arrest you
for what you stop yourself from doing
and looks like here we go
i should make myself some eggs and toast
i should open the blinds
and let that sun shine down on me
like an interrogation lamp
like an officer’s flashlight
as he asks me have you had anything to drink
and i say to him
i wish



Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

7 thoughts on “DONNIE DARKO”

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