KILLING ME SMALLS

08.04

you bought a house
then decided to take a wrecking ball to it
and i stand before it and you
a peaceful protestor
hands flailed open eyes stern
against your eyes hoping you’ll hear me say
“stop this now”

that’s the thing i liked about you
you were ferocious
unafraid to work hard
unafraid to let the world splatter paint
at your abstract painting
but the gallery has such weird hours now
and rumor is it’s shutting down

don’t do it
it’s not a game
it’s a symphony
it’s not a chessboard
it’s your fucking life
and you can chase gold
but you’re missing the rain
identify the beads of sweat
that pour down your face
are they crocodile tears
or jet fuel?
your choice

but i’m hoping you don’t, man
it’s your decision but i hope you don’t
we’re children thrown into the lion’s den
but while we’re shivering in the shadows
we can at least practice our roars
and i know it’s in ya
i can see the cacophony percolating in your drum
there are monsters waiting patiently
in your tarpit stomach

when the earth opens up
they will stare in awe at the titans
that you send sprawling from your arms
but if you don’t
maybe i was wrong
maybe it’s not your time
but fuck it
answer me this riddle that perplexed my bones
for two solid decades –
when will it be?

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

CHAOS THEORY/ JAZZ SYNAPSIS

08.03

can’t fuckin pin me down
i wander up the sides of denver buildings
i walk slowly smoking someone else’s spliff
up towards the stratosphere
out of this coughing grey cloud cover
out of this shit hole city
that i love
the one that found me crawling into its bosom
twelve and skinny and awkward
no friends just a basketball and too much gel in my hair
and here i am bald and charmingly depressive
it’s a funny feeling when people you think
curmudgeon old man is a face that you put on
when in reality that’s the truth
you are that curmudgeon old man
you cover it up with witty optimistic young suitor
but that gets old
so you slap on another wall of grumpy
you piss and moan around your one bedroom apartment
fans blaring
guitar gathering dust in the corner
you read the ingredients of the back of yer toothpaste
while dostoevsky turns yellow on the bookshelves

living the dream
another day another dollar
same shit different day
we’re so good at finding grace
in our repetitive dance steps

the record skips
you write tired poetic cliches
stars and flowers
beautiful women that remind you of roses
looking out the window at the rain
la dee fucking da

sometimes it’s organic
and that’s nice
i’m talking poetry and love
when it comes natural
and sometimes you find yourself looking at it
like a fucking denny’s menu at 3 a.m.
and yer stoned and the waiter is drunk
and he’s wandering around with yer chocolate milkshake
lost in the forests of narnia

is that the one i want?
is that the candle i’ll burn?
my favorite stick of incense
i like the roma tomatas better than
the cherry tomatas
what’s yer favorite color?
i like green
they say geniuses choose green
well, they did
until they realized that any idiot can
become a genius
just by thinkin to choose green

you’re the sally to my jack
you’re the nancy to my sid

yeah what’s that all about
choosing our idols based on mugshots
idolizing addiction
the music sounds better
when the album ends with a shotgun in the mouth

it’s all sugar donuts
it’s all candy cereal and three thousand
types of vanilla ice cream
it’s 300 pack crayons and condoms
that are ribbed for her pleasure
it’s antipsychotics and the pills that ya gotta take
to counterbalance the antipsychotics
maybe you were just dehydrated

fuck
i just
fuck
fuck fuck fuck
this fuckin thing
still going
here we are
chapter thirteen
in which the writer divulges his ennui
from always writing about his ennui

ennui was a word invented
by some french asshole
who was too fuckin pretentious
to admit he was fucking confused

he weeps beside the seine
smoking a cigarette in a beret
black and white
striped shirt
playing the accordion
he looks up from the rainy streets
now and again
to see if any girls are watching

he writes poetry
and he throws on his best red plaid
blue jeans
the vanishing american hobo
beat up hat
poem that’s kind of jazzy and has phrases like
kandinskily he crosses the mad river of society
yeah man
he’s pretty cool
just about fifty years too late
to be properly redundant

he looks up from the rainy streets
now and again
to see if any girls are watching

a zoo
all the cage doors lift
flamingos vaulting across the concrete
zebras galloping across the street lights
a lion roars but is nowhere to be scene
monkeys swing from urban jungle gyms
emus do emu things
elephants trumpeting down mainstreet at night
this is my brain
aren’t you so jealous

a tap at the door
who would that even be?
i don’t know anyone
i’m not the booty call type
i’m no drug dealer
just a poet
which is kind of like
an unsuccessful drug dealer
who’s at the door?
who’s at the door?
is it the ghost of thelonious monk
come to collect royalties from cruella deville?
who’s at the door
it’s 9:30 on a monday and i have no friends
i did but i got so busy
with my paradoxical nonsense poems
but they’re beautifully rhythmic really try this one on:

cornerstone mad case madness
operatic opera operating on a dime store decision
beautiful chaotic symphonic nostradamus
mad jester of the case of the hardy boy blues
this america ain’t no america at all
it’s all just riot and shitty press
it’s all just chaotic pencil pushing
hounds on the search for the last true american dollar

tell me
tell me how do you find the time to sleep
tell me how do you find the time to sleep at night
there’s so many huff post articles left to read
there’s so many ted talks left to be heard
npr’s and hannity and colmes and fox news
and the blues oh the endless facebook blues
jack’s scroll ain’t got nothin on my newsfeed
the amphetamine dream don’t give up
it bounces on and eternally back to february 4th, 2004
a post-pubescent white rich american man-child
sitting behind a keyboard
no, i’m not talking about myself
i’m not rich

god help us
we’re in the hands of
engineers

yeah
but john
when the pirates of the caribbean breaks down
the pirates don’t eat the tourists

there’s another example
see here
now i’m sitting by myself
talking to myself

that’s
that’s chaos theory

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

This poem is part of the 08.2015 project, 31 poems in 31 days. To read the poems from the beginning click here.

FUCKING AT THE DINNER PARTY

08.02

08.02

dedicated to Mitch Anders and Esme Lewis

and then out of nowhere it happened
the couple crawled up onto the table
smearing the mashed potatoes with their knees
cranberry sauce tipped over mixing with spilled gravy
they began to make out ferociously
lips and tongue and sixty-four teeth
the family stared on in awed silence
as they began to undress, chucking plates at the wall
button by button she removed his oxford white
as his hands began to slip up her pencil skirt
stiff china crashing onto fancy carpet
his head fell down against the turkey like a pillow
as she viciously straddled him
her left knee by her mother-in-law
her right by his great uncle louie
and there they were
heavy breaths beneath the chandelier
rising and falling at thanksgiving dinner
eyes closed then open rolled back in ecstasy
some of the audience left the dining room theater
some just stuck in breathless paralysis

they broke off the off-switch on their love
they drove separately to the dinner party
but you can believe they came together

when dessert was served
it went on in a silence where even breaths were hushed
the clinking of spoons in coffee cups
chairs pushed gently away from the table
when the evening was over

and no one ever really was sure
if they broke a commandment
or started a revolution

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

This poem is part of the 08.2015 project, 31 poems in 31 days. To read the poems from the beginning click here.

ATROPHY

08.01 (Sorry, I’m late)

08.01

set the guns you call arms down
swallow the powder on the top of your tongue
stop stepping to the rhythm of war drums
the great turrets in your chest are raised
lower them as well
there’s no reason to continue this show
this parade this decadent destruction
it’s all fun and games
until someone gets hurt

there’s burning buildings in your eyes
tear gas comes pouring from your ears
deep in your throat there are trenches
where some soldiers may never get out
they just drown in the muck of the things
you should say but never do
because your stubborn ankles
are held to the ground
by the anchors of warship

your eyebrows sink down like missiles
your finger tips just march on and on
you ball up your fist
like the congregation of troops
your voice box a megaphone
commanding the whales out of the water

when your body is a war
sleep is a luxury you can’t afford
but i say this to you now
from a dream where you could be
you can sleep when you’re dead
but trust me when i tell you
it hurts to dream of what could have been

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

This poem is part of a project I’m doing for the month of August called “08.2015” where I write 31 poems over the course of 31 days. To learn more, click here.

08.2015 – Daily Poetry Project

08.2015

Hey guys,

Happy August. It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve written poetry and I’m looking to get back on the horse so I’m going to be doing a project called “08.2015”. I did one back in February of 2013 appropriately titled “02.2013” and it was very encouraging. It holds me accountable to post a poem everyday and it challenges me to think outside of the box. One day during the 02.2013 project I was feeling super uninspired and the fact I was forced to write something resulted in one of my favorite poems, called “EMPTY HEAD“. I hope you guys will join me through this journey, whether it be reading each day or stopping by now and then to make sure I’m being true to my word! The poems tend to become slightly cohesive as they are so back-to-back. I love this, and look forward to it. Thanks for reading.

Love,
Brice

If you’d like to read the 02.2013 poems from the beginning you can click here.