CHAOS THEORY/ JAZZ SYNAPSIS

08.03

can’t fuckin pin me down
i wander up the sides of denver buildings
i walk slowly smoking someone else’s spliff
up towards the stratosphere
out of this coughing grey cloud cover
out of this shit hole city
that i love
the one that found me crawling into its bosom
twelve and skinny and awkward
no friends just a basketball and too much gel in my hair
and here i am bald and charmingly depressive
it’s a funny feeling when people you think
curmudgeon old man is a face that you put on
when in reality that’s the truth
you are that curmudgeon old man
you cover it up with witty optimistic young suitor
but that gets old
so you slap on another wall of grumpy
you piss and moan around your one bedroom apartment
fans blaring
guitar gathering dust in the corner
you read the ingredients of the back of yer toothpaste
while dostoevsky turns yellow on the bookshelves

living the dream
another day another dollar
same shit different day
we’re so good at finding grace
in our repetitive dance steps

the record skips
you write tired poetic cliches
stars and flowers
beautiful women that remind you of roses
looking out the window at the rain
la dee fucking da

sometimes it’s organic
and that’s nice
i’m talking poetry and love
when it comes natural
and sometimes you find yourself looking at it
like a fucking denny’s menu at 3 a.m.
and yer stoned and the waiter is drunk
and he’s wandering around with yer chocolate milkshake
lost in the forests of narnia

is that the one i want?
is that the candle i’ll burn?
my favorite stick of incense
i like the roma tomatas better than
the cherry tomatas
what’s yer favorite color?
i like green
they say geniuses choose green
well, they did
until they realized that any idiot can
become a genius
just by thinkin to choose green

you’re the sally to my jack
you’re the nancy to my sid

yeah what’s that all about
choosing our idols based on mugshots
idolizing addiction
the music sounds better
when the album ends with a shotgun in the mouth

it’s all sugar donuts
it’s all candy cereal and three thousand
types of vanilla ice cream
it’s 300 pack crayons and condoms
that are ribbed for her pleasure
it’s antipsychotics and the pills that ya gotta take
to counterbalance the antipsychotics
maybe you were just dehydrated

fuck
i just
fuck
fuck fuck fuck
this fuckin thing
still going
here we are
chapter thirteen
in which the writer divulges his ennui
from always writing about his ennui

ennui was a word invented
by some french asshole
who was too fuckin pretentious
to admit he was fucking confused

he weeps beside the seine
smoking a cigarette in a beret
black and white
striped shirt
playing the accordion
he looks up from the rainy streets
now and again
to see if any girls are watching

he writes poetry
and he throws on his best red plaid
blue jeans
the vanishing american hobo
beat up hat
poem that’s kind of jazzy and has phrases like
kandinskily he crosses the mad river of society
yeah man
he’s pretty cool
just about fifty years too late
to be properly redundant

he looks up from the rainy streets
now and again
to see if any girls are watching

a zoo
all the cage doors lift
flamingos vaulting across the concrete
zebras galloping across the street lights
a lion roars but is nowhere to be scene
monkeys swing from urban jungle gyms
emus do emu things
elephants trumpeting down mainstreet at night
this is my brain
aren’t you so jealous

a tap at the door
who would that even be?
i don’t know anyone
i’m not the booty call type
i’m no drug dealer
just a poet
which is kind of like
an unsuccessful drug dealer
who’s at the door?
who’s at the door?
is it the ghost of thelonious monk
come to collect royalties from cruella deville?
who’s at the door
it’s 9:30 on a monday and i have no friends
i did but i got so busy
with my paradoxical nonsense poems
but they’re beautifully rhythmic really try this one on:

cornerstone mad case madness
operatic opera operating on a dime store decision
beautiful chaotic symphonic nostradamus
mad jester of the case of the hardy boy blues
this america ain’t no america at all
it’s all just riot and shitty press
it’s all just chaotic pencil pushing
hounds on the search for the last true american dollar

tell me
tell me how do you find the time to sleep
tell me how do you find the time to sleep at night
there’s so many huff post articles left to read
there’s so many ted talks left to be heard
npr’s and hannity and colmes and fox news
and the blues oh the endless facebook blues
jack’s scroll ain’t got nothin on my newsfeed
the amphetamine dream don’t give up
it bounces on and eternally back to february 4th, 2004
a post-pubescent white rich american man-child
sitting behind a keyboard
no, i’m not talking about myself
i’m not rich

god help us
we’re in the hands of
engineers

yeah
but john
when the pirates of the caribbean breaks down
the pirates don’t eat the tourists

there’s another example
see here
now i’m sitting by myself
talking to myself

that’s
that’s chaos theory

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

This poem is part of the 08.2015 project, 31 poems in 31 days. To read the poems from the beginning click here.

Author: brice maiurro

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

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