WIND UP BIRD

seven
thousand
pounds of
salt water
pour through
my window

crashing
against the wooden
furniture
burrowing in like madness

i
golden child
cross-legged
on my frameless bed
light a cigarette
and breathe deep
every single sip
of my twenty seven years
of nonsense

i meditate
inhaling the apathy
exhaling the nicotine
this meditation
so american
so very concentrated
on the idea of my own self
like this poem

pushed past the door
the one
my landlord’s fist hits
on the fifteenth
of each month
i travel downstream
into the stomach
and the guts of my
existence

i am no longer being chewed
i have been swallowed
and now
i am being digested
dissolved in the acids
of experience
uncomfortable
i sleep blanketless
on the hardwood floors
of my brutal belly

and then
awoken to
a wind up bird
haunting the rafters
my attention deficit eyes
averted
pierced to its movement
like a thumbtack
to a bulletin board

the most
beautiful bird
i had ever seen
in spite
of its winding
in spite
of its clear dedication
to exactly
as it was programmed
to do

i vomit
seven thousand poems
as i sleep
in my own stomach
i dream
murakami dreams
walks down hallways
following some strange black
cat
following some suppressed urge
to not follow form

poised
and at the ready
as if i’m holding a crossbow
sternly towards my own throat
i stand like a soldier
i breath like a buddhist
and i die
like a seed
being buried
in the ground

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

Author: brice maiurro

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

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