The Bardo

it’s strange to think that there is someone above my head right now. that as i lay here in bed that someone is just floating above me, playing guitar terribly, maybe in a chair. it’s strange to think we’ve crossed paths in halls and that’s not significant, or at least we’ve decided it’s not.

i just passed by  a woman at the coffee shop watching porn. just neatly watching two naked lesbians go at it, her hands neatly in her lap. and i think maybe she’s allowed to do that. i’m not harmed. i’m almost indifferent, yet on the flip side it’s worth noting as i’ve never seen a woman at a coffee shop watching porn before.

the thing about old jazz music is you know that the people performing it are dead. it’s strange to think that their breaths were recorded. that i’m hearing their dead people breaths through brass. it’s strange to think i love it.

i don’t really think i know how to write a poem. a lot of days i sit down and i feel like how i imagine those people who tried to put together an ikea set on acid felt like. poems aren’t really tangible. old poems always sound angsty.

it’s strange to think that i watched a movie of an actor playing Basquiat and then after that, switched on, i watched a documentary with footage of Basquiat painting that painting. and now, years later, it’s strange to think i’ve seen that painting. they don’t want you to touch the paintings because they need to preserve them, but i think it’s probably for the best because i don’t know that i could handle it.

it’s too available. all of it. it’s all too available. i quit my job after six years and right now i could do pretty much anything and a large portion of my time goes to putting game pieces on the monopoly board for the contest my grocery store is running. it’s strange to think we can do just about anything. and we don’t just have the now. we have the then. the Basquiat painting, the brass breath of dead jazz musicians, the incredible freedom to call a poem whatever we want to. there’s indifference to a woman in public watching two previously recorded women have sex. we’re all one and we’re all connected but that’s not just beautiful. in a sense it’s kind of unbearable, like putting together an ikea set on acid. i am seven billion humans, a bunch of trees, a lampshade, an episode of “everybody loves raymond”, a Beatles song in reverse.

i am brass breath from a dead trumpet.

there might be someone over my head but it’s definitely not god.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2017

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Author: brice maiurro

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

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