it was a strange phenomenon. the way that
your insecurity ate away at your sweater
like moths. each second a little more of
your soft curves revealed beneath the
material war being sieged around your
looming aura. your fingertips lost in
brushstroke against the walls of a dying
dream. you were an entire ecosystem.
creating while you destroyed. earth
rattled around your apple core while
you projected angel dust onto an
unsuspecting audience of time and
space and there you were moving
through the compartmentalized
rooms of my lungs like the smoke of
sage through a haunted house.

and there we were four hands gripping
the reckless drunk wheel of death
and speaking tip of tongue to tip of
tongue. speaking amphetamine binge
of life to sweet holy surrender to
honesty. speaking i.v. drip to punctured
vein. speaking holy new gold moment
to fourteen reincarnations of stars come
to fruition in sparks. flying drawn together
but at the very last moment lost. to a wall.
so blatantly before us the whole time. and
so we learned how to dance in the blind

and some glowing sun rose over the
graveyard where we buried our tension. i
tossed and turned without a blanket and
underground until this flood of light lifted
my one million bones to the surface where
i found two choices. and i took one maybe
even older than us. maybe even older than
this soil these musical notes that ramble
incessantly now in my head. that is the one
i took.

and you disappeared like a ghost into
a fire and i consumed by another life and the
fire you went to wrap around your life was red
satin and when it was too late i unwrapped
you and you twirled and you twirled and you
were down to bare skin and you twirled and
you twirled and you were down to brittle bone
and you twirled and you twirled and what
i saw before me was nothing but the empty
space that created this strange phenomenon.

so now i set out on a sea of trouble unable to
rationalize this idea of love not believing in
love. of a doctor not believing in medicine. of
a dancer that doesn’t trust the body. a painter
that cannot see the color in the dead canvas.
of a portrait of love stuck in still life. unable
to see itself. or see at all. or see at all. a strange
phenomenon. a blindness from refusing to
ever stare into the sun.


Author: brice maiurro

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

6 thoughts on “A STRANGE PHENOMENON”

  1. Very sad
    …but beautiful
    Do you think some people are addicted to their sadness?
    Does it make them feel alive?
    Is it better than feeling nothing?
    I had my heart broken so many times, it turned numb and calloused,
    but every now and then joy creeps in through the cracks when I’m not looking.

  2. “…there you were moving
    through the compartmentalized
    rooms of my lungs like the smoke of
    sage through a haunted house.”

    Hot damn, I like that

  3. I’d love to hear this as a spoken word. The intonation and idea with intention. It would interesting to hear it from female perspective also. Quite a mixed blessing this, but you gotta soundcloud it dude xx

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