About brice maiurro

Denver poet. I like spaghettios.

SNOWGLOBES

i saw one thousand pictures of your face over the course of time and it looked to me more like a history book
a story of massacre and rebirth, of the human condition, of pushing through when faced with unparalleled conditions
men with swords and guns and love and heartache white horses frozen on battlefields redcoated troops caught in the snow
i watch as your hair changed from spring to winter, from summer to scorched earth
and there imprisoned in your eyes was a cold war
nuclear missiles aimed at the moon
and deeper yet was a shaggy olive green rug and on it the ghost of a child fascinated
swallowed completely by a snowglobe
and in the snowglobe was a city and in the center of that city was an apartment building
where in the basement a boy sat on his phone where he saw
one thousand pictures of your face over the course of time and it looked to me
more like a history book

i am you and you are me

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

XMAS

the fan stopped spinning the
dish washer stopped washing a long time
ago so i guess that just leaves me sitting here twiddling
my thumbs til trump jumps into temper tantrum and hits the button
on the big
one
yeah that’s me
trying to find optimism in momentary existential crisis
but on the flip side can
a flower
really grow as big as it likes if it doesn’t
take a minute
to compare itself to the sky which never ends?
i’m just saying
ennui is just a fancy french word for going numb
trying to figure some stuff out but that’s neither here nor there
i guess that’s
what i’m getting at
the fan stopped spinning and there
is a sufficient amount of winter floating around the house
two pbr’s one shaken rolled and lit partridge in the pear tree
you know
i’ll get where i’m headed
i’m resilient
i’ma push through the nihilism
like the militantly happy fucker i am
so here i am you know
merry christmas
hallelujah
amen

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

THE ASTRONAUT

while they looked
to place their flag
deeply into the moon

she looked to the stars

unfazed by what was called
unrealistic

she knew something
that they did not

we will never arrive
we will just continue to unravel
into the threads laid deep
into the irises of our children
and theirs in turn

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

CALIFORNIA KING

he carved a trench in south broadway
with the simple two step of his left hand brain
shoesoles grinding into the worms and dirt
the dirty ground drizzled with blunt wraps

he tried to solve the puzzle of strange love
that two backed beast which was sometimes a love
and sometimes not flipped over on its white belly

a canary with whooping cough
carrying out flat broke melodies
in the coal mine of his head

birds perched on the sides of brick buildings watched
their short term memories mistaking the lurch
of his pending heartbreak as déjà vu

the trench dug deeper
up to his neck in undelivered love notes
written in braille for the girl with no arms

then the rain came
ten million tiny fists falling then pixelating
ten million drops of water:
the polar opposite of a candlelight vigil
and the rain swept through like a political revolution
here then gone

the polar opposite of wedding vows

cold war on opposite ends of a stage the size of a california king mattress

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

ALAN WATTS ON THE BACONATOR

Living today the way we do, among the chaos, and here in a time full to the brim with a sense of self-imposed purpose, we really are given no choice, but to consider what it means to be, the perfect hamburger.

Now picture if you will, a cow; spots, four legs, perhaps a bell around its neck. It is, for all intents and purposes, aware that it is a cow. What it is not aware of, is that it may some day be the ground beef patty of an American hamburger.

And does it need to know? It was thinking about this hypothetical cow which led me to consider if we, in fact, have made hamburgers the way best suited for the continuance of humanity, above all things, in pursuit of the perfect hamburger.

Long ago, some man, or woman, some person, decided to recreate a large bovine creature, in part, into the patty of a hamburger. What if that person had not had that inclination? What if they were inclined to translate, say, salmon fish, into a delicious hamburger? What if there were no fish to be had? What if this person had not been? What if this person had opted to dig instead into their own flesh and blood to consider that which we can consider, a hamburger.

Perhaps what happened is what was meant to happen, perhaps not. But I do know this – Wendy’s Baconator (C) is, beyond any fashionable spark of a human doubt, far superior to any other hamburger ever conceived by the human race.

Food scientists, through carefully centralized, organized and deductive research have concluded, in tandem with the scientific method, that when it comes to the hamburger, there can be no doubt, that the combination of beef patty, of cheese and of bacon, is far beyond anything else we, as modern humans, within our realm of thought creation, could induce into existence.

Now, what of those who do not like bacon? You see, there are those among us who do not like sizzling, crispy sensation, delivered to us from pork, from the animal the pig to be consumed by the mouth, and bigger picture, by the human digestive system.

The main question I wish to pose to you is this: if I one refuses to acknowledge, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that there is within the spectrum of human personality, those living among our large tribe, who do not like bacon, do they truly exist? Do they have to exist? And if you join in this larger thinking, in this collective mentality that if we focus energy on the idea that those who do not like bacon do not exist, how would it be possible that they would truly exist? I think of the old question, the old allegory regarding a tree in the woods. If a tree falls in the woods, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

So for our purposes I ask, if we acknowledge that it is absurd, that it is impossible to not like bacon, especially to not like bacon when paired with cheese on top of a delicious Wendy’s Baconator (C) hamburger, do those people exist?

I believe they do not.

This is the nature of human beings, really. To be able to see that at the core of human life is the identity of an undeniable attraction to the perfect hamburger, which is, as science provides us, The Baconator (C) from Wendy’s restaurants.

We are limited only by what we allow ourselves to see as the perfect hamburger. But if we can escape our ego, and see the eternal, immeasurable, objective reality of hamburgers, we can then acknowledge that the perfect hamburger is in fact the only and only Baconator (C).

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

CENTRAL PARK LOVE STORY

A man sat at dinner with his beautiful wife in a restaurant in New York City.

The restaurant was nice. Very nice; the kind of place that not just anyone could get into. The kind of place with chilled salad forks and tiny portions and luminescent views of Manhattan.

The beautiful wife was seven months pregnant. They were out celebrating their one year anniversary. She was radiant. One of those women who maintained her glamour even through pregnancy.

They spoke of their marriage and all of its successes. They spoke of their excitement to be parents and how privileged they were to live among the business elite in one of the most coveted cities in the world.

The man’s gold watch shined brightly in the white light of the upscale restaurant.

The man told his wife that he had been thinking about things and that he really wanted to be a dinosaur that lived in Central Park.

The woman laughed, and said, yes, and I would be a giant squid that made its home in the main pool of the Manhattan Rec Club.

They smiled at each other.

The man told his wife he was serious. That his life with her was rewarding and beautiful and heartwarming and gratifying, but he wanted to be a dinosaur who lived in Central Park.

The wife looked blankly at her husband for some time. Told him this wasn’t even funny anymore. Told him she was confused. A great silence overcame the couple. A tension shared by both their sommelier and their waiter as they came to see if they would like more wine and to deliver the check respectively.

That night they lied beside each other in bed in their beautiful apartment in the heart of Manhattan but the great silence remained.

In the morning, the woman awoke and her husband was gone. She put her hands on her stomach and she began to cry. It was not a weeping cry. It was an empty, almost tearless, cry. The kind that fills you with confusion and then like the wind being knocked out of you, even that is then gone. It was a very empty cry.

Meanwhile, the man went to a costume shop in Manhattan. He flipped through a catalog of costumes and requested that the costume shop employee bring him, of course, the dinosaur costume to purchase. The dinosaur was the Tyrannosaurus Rex. So named for its perception by human beings as having been a superior being in the dinosaur kingdom.

The man put on the costume and stopped by the bank. He had his funds transferred to his wife’s account.

And finally, the man went to Central Park, where in his dinosaur costume he roamed the great trees, the great fountains, the great green fields of the park. Day and night he roamed as the dinosaur he felt deeply in his heart he was meant to be.

He was in love.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

PAST LIVES

my friend told me that she wears gold bracelets because she believes she was cleopatra in her past life
says she has nightmares where she is weeping for the death of marc antony
or that she is rolled up in a carpet being smuggled into caesar’s palace
she tells me it’s where she gets her fire from

i told her that i suspect in my past life i was steve gordman, an overweight mustachioed used car salesman from duluth, minnesota in the late 1970s
at times, i wake up in the middle of the night, and i swear my clothes smell like exhaust fumes and fried chicken
i believe this is where my mediocre selling abilities come from

i mean
that’s the thing about past lives, guys
if they’re a thing, they’re not always gonna be winners

sometimes you’re cleopatra
and sometimes you’re steven gordman
used car salesman from duluth, minnesota

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

FLC Blues listed as top 25 poetry blogs!

Poetry Blogs

I woke up this morning to see Flashlight City Blues had been listed as one of the top 25 poetry blogs on the internet by Feedspot Blog Reader.

The qualifications were:

  • Google reputation and Google search ranking.
  • Influence and popularity on Facebook, Twitter and other social media sites.
  • Quality and consistency of posts.
  • Feedspot’s editorial team and expert review.

You can check out the article and the other winners here.

Thank you, Feedspot, for the recognition!

 

CLONE

if i could
i would clone myself
and leave me with you
i would still walk away
but also i would stay
and water the pots in your garden
and feed the dirt of your girls’ sunlight
while i sat here away from you too
writing poetry about you
and when the winter came
i can’t be too sure that then
the clone too would not go

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

GEOFFREY DONAHUE

geoffrey donahue’s day started as normal. he went to the printer where he scanned his badge and printed the copies he needed of a document to help facilitate his morning meeting. geoffrey made a mistake though. where he only needed 10 copies he accidentally printed 100. he had hit the 0 button excessively in error. but in that moment of watching the 100 copies of the document to help facilitate his morning meeting, geoffrey felt a great wave of soothing energy come over him. he became entranced, watching as paper after paper came shuffling down the print tray. it was mesmerizing. geoffrey then thought nothing. geoffrey then felt nothing. when the 100 sheets of paper finished printing, he printed another 100, like it was nothing. like the strings of the universe were in full command of his actions. like geoffrey donahue was nothing more than a vessel for the will of the universe. geoffrey donahue, who was now running late for facilitating his morning meeting. geoffrey donahue, know around the office for his dad jokes and being a good listener when someone was having a bad day. he printed another 100 copies. geoffrey made a mistake though. where he only meant to print a third set of 100 copies he accidentally printed 1000. he had hit the 0 button excessively in error. around 73 copies into this batch of 1000 copies, the printer ran out of paper, and once again the universe commanded. some invisible ominous puppeteer pulled strings at geoffrey to gather paper from the nearby filing cabinet and fill the filing cabinet with papers. geoffrey was not aware of any of this. geoffrey donahue was elsewhere. geoffrey donahue was thinking about his past. geoffrey donahue at last was taking the time to work his way through the daunting moments that led up to and followed his divorce from his once wife, mrs. elizah donahue, who was now elizah brown. a coworker or two walked by, unaware the exact details of what geoffrey was doing. they assumed whatever it was was important, and kept walking. geoffrey continued to retrace the steps of his failed marriage as the 8 1/2 by 11 papers continued to travel magically from the guts of the printer and onto the printer tray. until finally, the geoffrey had no more thoughts to think about his divorce, or his life in general for that matter. it was then that geoffrey donahue’s legs kicked slowly out from beneath him until he was levitating about 2 feet off the ground. light as a feather and still as a board. slowly, geoffrey donahue began to float upward and through the ceiling. he disappeared like jesus on easter sunday but no one saw this. they were very busy with their monday workload, mostly catching up on emails and scheduling down meetings for the current work week. geoffrey had ascended to another plane. the papers continued to print en masse from the printer. later that day, the management staff pulled geoffrey’s direct reports to inform them that geoffrey donahue was no longer with the company.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016