and in the middle of the night
the boy sneaks back into his poet soul
out of nowhere
he climbs into the rib cage of his heart
pulls up the skin of his arms like sleeves
and finds his electric fingers bouncing on the keys
sometimes the brain packs up its shit
lifts its trousers and two little suitcases
and hops on a plane to nonsenseville, nowhere
sometimes it’s meditation
sometimes yer running from a life yer afraid of
throwing on kicks and pushing off the ground
into the dark forest
push through to spectre
where some blonde girl throws yer sneakers up on the line
sometimes some times some times
blah blah blah
here we are
you and me. a fireplace. a bottle of whiskey.
a really fucking big bottle of whiskey haha.
you and me.
(it’s inescapable really the way i think about
but dear reader it’s you too!
it’s you i love too!
you’ve been so patient with my anxious stupid.
you’re always there for me.
i am sorry if i’ve been an absent father of a poet.
life isn’t always linear.
in a world where we are multiple people
there’s a lot of group therapy to be had.
my path has never been that of a paintbrush –
i’ve got bills to pay
debts from past lives
(kind of makes me sound like a drug dealer)
but the truth is
i’m more of a free spirit
with its ghostly tail attached to a dollhouse.
but i’m here to visit.
here to say hello.
to shake the hand to kiss the baby
to go around the wedding saying nice things
to dance with the bride
to love the way the love manual tells me to love
in the middle of the night
i pull my heart up from under the floorboards
throw it in my tin man chest
and i splatter my red all over the walls
i graffiti the city and i flood the streets
and the townspeople will awake
to find christmasday in july
to find the sonic echos of my soul
and a dead poet in the street
then buried in the ground
then mixing with the worms and the roots
that is how they will find me
and you and him and her and the mailman
COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015