If you’re interested in picking up my book, it’s currently discounted on Lulu to 10.50. If you can grab a copy, please do.
Just click the Puppers in the Basket if you’re interested.
you find yourself falling apart like wooden blocks
toppling over your self
you don’t know if this is the norm
or if this is an experience completely unique to you
you were in a car eight hours down the pacific coast highway
but you missed it all you slept so hard
your body is constantly reinventing itself
checking scars is a good way to make certain you are still alive
very similar to lucid dreaming
we all need something to ground us
something to yell at us that we’re okay when we find ourselves in a wind tunnel
if god is real then i think they’re probably suffering like all of us
their garbled brain gone schizophrenic
multiple personality disorder as they try to decide which human reflection of them is correct
post traumatic stress disorder from watching city after city fall
like wooden blocks toppling over themselves
your heart is a parakeet at best
some kind of mid-sized bird in a shoebox
you don’t really see any of this coming you’re so busy buying better shoes
you’re exhausted you don’t allow yourself to see it until you get stress sick
and you find yourself hopped up on dayquil watching people’s court and price is right
you start to wonder if you should be your self as you find yourself older each day and still single
asking your self am i that one individual milk jug at the back of the fridge at work?
eternally stuck restless half frozen past expiration waiting for some magic warm hand to grab you
your feet fall asleep as you balance on the strange telephone wires of time
asking yourself had someone not told me i’m good with people would i be in customer service?
if i didn’t excel at mathematics would i have any interest in being a mathematician?
you’re like a swan boat maybe, with a hole in it
a tiny hole on the underbelly
not enough to capsize you but definitely enough to make things uncomfortable
enough to make you feel bad for the attention that you require to continue to float
you shouldn’t feel bad
god is somewhere counting change to see if they can get themselves a rodeo burger before payday
we’re all just ditzing around and there’s a few of us who really think we’ve nailed it
but those people’s houses could get hit by tornados
or sometimes they get crushed beneath the extreme illusory weight that the stack on their chests
i’m not blaming them i’m just saying we’re all the weird green potato chip somedays
i’m just saying if you figure out what normal looks like please draw me a diagram or make a pie chart or cast some sort of line out because i’m starting to settle down on the idea that it most likely just doesn’t exist and that pretending that there is an answer is probably the best way to destroy riding this question out until our inevitable descent into the guts of Dexter, the turtle that someday will swallow us all
COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2017
the earth is pulling back against us all
as we push off we realize we are all just scratch n sniff stickers glued down by gravity
mannequins set into motion marching out of cars into light rail trains
big trucks stuck in traffic
whales in sardine boxes
broken pencils trying to carve our initials in an asymmetrical heart below our loved ones
a big fucking cake
shared joy empty beds
faces unpixelated and repixelated across empires
across oceans full of skeletons and sunken ships
and then in the clockwork of it all we begin to burn up
ten thousand grams of mess
disattached in smoke and flame
dear john letters and IOUs
trains halted before the crash frozen in grayscale in pictures
dead watches on anxious wrists
wedding rings on the claws of monsters
for the strangers who prefer to stay strange
and the family too distant to be familiar
a swan in a tar pit
the brain busted from the jar
i organized my smut films
pray to the government
haikus for hitler
scorsese was a saint
taxi cab yellow
born on the forth of august
died in the arms of a clock
anger management problem
kentucky fried children
the age of bob dylan
god bless you, mayor hancock
twenty dollar motel room
and letters i do not have the letters that i wish
to have to letter you i do not know where to
begin i love you in a language that i do not
speak and i am so afraid and desperate and
desperately afraid that i will never have the
letters to build the ladder that i wish to build
to climb into your left lung and sail across the
air of you like waves i do not have the letters
and each day you are further away from me i
do not have the letters all i have is this poem
made only from these letters which i use so
very damned often i just wish to hold your
hand in a flea market and i wish to spend my
last days on this earth wandering aimlessly
to the local fruit stand missing you so very
immensely and it will be a hurt that i have
never felt but i don’t know how i will ever
climb into your left lung to have it because
i do not have the letters and so i write in
circles and predicted patterns like a paint
shaker hoping desperate for a crack in the
lid and when the whole colors of it all
splatter maybe i will see that i did not need
the letters because i had the colors i had the
colors inside of me and if it’s your love then
you will have it and that i like to believe i
like to believe i like to believe because i
close my eyes and you are not so sky distant
you are tangible and somewhere maybe
drowning in letters and desperate for color
and i know i will be your favorite color i
know i will if only i can find the letters or
the colors or the maybes tucked behind
bricks in the strange alleys that we’ve
both passed through in dreams
she thumps across carpet like a feisty kitten
she moves through rooms like a fairy –
lost in the shrinkwrapped forest of reality
she pops the bubble wrap and dances
like there is a fiesta hiding in her headphones
and everyone is invited
she is green forest burning from skull
red lake on fire in a clearing in the blur
oceans of mastadons rising clinking tusks
crimson rivers swarming like bees
through transparent skin
pulsing like eyes dilated
she manifesto the dizzy dance of time
she rock around the clock
she ornament the christmas tree
she stand on top of the turtle’s back
from a golden throne of feathers and bees
shouting her queenly commands
to a sea of deaf dolphins
she illustrates the spaces between bricks
cuts at the fabric of life with sharp nails
she takes two palms and squeezes life lemons
and makes a modge podge colosseum
of noise and thunderous thunder
I guess I never really announced that I started a publishing company, Punch Drunk Press. Currently, we are not accepting manuscripts but we are accepting a wide variety of media for the online site. Please submit and take a minute to check it out! There’s a lot of great stuff up on the site already.
I’m excited to announce that forthcoming is my first book of poetry. I am currently looking for people who have book and poetry review sites or otherwise who would be willing to read my book and review it. Please feel free to share this info however you deem fitting.
Thank you for your support,
my apartment is small and has too much stuff in it. i don’t think i’m a packrat, it’s more that i’m a goldfish whose bowl size has changed a lot. i was living in a townhome, then an apartment, then a small house, then a bigger house, and now a very small apartment. so all this nonsense i’ve accumulated, nonsense i’m attached to, has just piled up in here. and maybe the attachment is the problem.
i’ve got this great piece of furniture that i use as an entertainment center. i found it by the side of the road. i used to use it as a sort of alter. put a bunch of candles and gemstones and my tarot cards on it. that was a different time for me. i’m still spiritual but there’s an activeness to it. i think the spirituality for me is born out of flexing the muscles in my soul. going on road trips. quitting a job i hate. putting myself in uncomfortable situations. forcing myself to reckon with unknown parts of me and how they interact with unknown parts of the world. so now that alter is an entertainment center. maybe that’s symbolic, but i don’t think so. i still read the tarot. i do love that.
i’ve also got this metal frame shelving unit. i found that in an alley near my apartment. it was rusting in the rain, but i love that too. it’s very industrial looking and beat up but when i moved to south broadway, i started to pick up this affinity for the grit of the city. i found this dirty beer sign by the trash and i just grabbed that too. in my bathroom there’s this sign for a concert that i just ripped off a pole in my neighborhood. it’s got packing tape surrounding it and it falls off all the time. you get sick of beauty, i think, or at least the normal idea of beauty. i love the shit out of van gogh but i wouldn’t want his prints on my walls. and it’s not the most innovative thing to find the gritty city stuff beautiful either. i’m familiar with heroin chic. i’m also familiar with the idea that a homeless person’s life shouldn’t be your artistic expression. these items don’t come to me in some sort of interior decorator mentality. they scream at me. take me. it’s rare but when they scream at me to be taken i take them.
most everything i own for furniture i found or was given to me. my bed and bed frame were gifts from my former landlord. he lived upstairs and i think he pitied me for the breakup i was going through when i left so he threw me that bed. and also he’s just a genuinely nice person. i’m glad he came into my life. he’s your traditional red-blooded conservative, but i also was around while he sat at his computer for hours researching the judges up for election. i’ve also seen nothing but kindness from him. i also saw him give up alcohol to get the woman he loves back. i’m pretty proud to be the recipient of a bed from him.
on my wall is some drywall that my friend sarah painted a painting on. one night, in the twilight of this round of our friendship, her and my friend ivan came over and big surprise we just drank a little whiskey, listened to laid back music and painted to our hearts’ desire. sarah and i painted, ivan i think read. ivan is a person of integrity like that. so sarah takes this torn up piece of drywall and paints this magical barren frozen tundra of a landscape on it. with these harsh red streaks that look almost digital. and in the foreground, the focus of the painting is this polar bear, and it’s got red on it too. it’s dripping with blood but i’m not so certain that’s the case. she just did this with a piece of drywall. and now she’s off in vancouver with ivan and she just started her first day at a job that she hates and she’s going to quit on day two. she asked me what she should do.
there’s this weird cycle where i used to give shitty impulsive emotional advice, and then i gave empathetic advice based on what i would do, and then i started asking people questions to help them figure out what they wanna do, and now i just don’t think i know anything at all.
i found a wheelchair the other day. i don’t need a wheelchair, but i couldn’t stand to see a wheelchair, an old school wheelchair covered in sharpie graffiti, by a dumpster. i couldn’t let it go. i don’t need a wheelchair but this thought lingered over my head that if i didn’t take it, it’d be gone. so now it’s in my living room. there’s three chairs in my entire house. the armchair i’m sitting in, the wooden chair at my desk and this wheelchair. it’s empty but it feels like it’s here with me in person. like we’re two old men sitting by the fire shooting the shit.
i don’t think i’m going to keep it, but i’m not going to throw it away. this isn’t a moral story of one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. and some things are just trash. and these things i own i don’t know that i think of them as treasure. i think of them maybe as friends looking for my advice.
Lenny Chernila, from what i heard secondhand, would take objects from someone’s house and put them in someone else’s house. like this belongs here now. some would say that’s weird, or rude. but you don’t own these things, not really. and if they’ve come to you, it’s only fair to know that at some point they’ll leave you.
i don’t know how this wheelchair is going to leave me. i picture a scenario where maybe danger will happen, god forbid, and someone will be incapable of walking. maybe a stroke, maybe a broken leg. and i, walking by, will say, wait here, i have a wheelchair. i’ll run gallantly down to my apartment and grab the wheelchair. that’s too heroic though. this wheelchair doesn’t have a hero complex. but it’s not my chair either. and me, i’m just hear to give it advice, but the older i get, the more i see how unqualified i am in fact to give advice. maybe i should just listen to the wheelchair on this one.
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:
You can check out the article and the other winners here.
Thank you, Feedspot, for the recognition!