WINTERSONG

cold white hands claw their way through the earth reaching up hopelessly
silver roads turn to white ash into the distance where the earth swallows itself whole
the days are solemn and honest and empty and we are underground with the rabbits
hibernating with the thought of a dead deer on the side of a frosty mountain road
no one sees anything, this is one of the many faces of peace and this is the church of death
this is the small sound of an ice age and the path we follow each year when our luck runs out
the canyons are tossed in white and the air is tiny daggers that pierce the pale skin to the bone
and the bone is the same bone that is exposed meatless on the face of the earth where there is no sun
and the ice is the mirror buried beneath the powdered ground where we cannot see ourselves
and does anything matter when everyone is frozen alive and love is a distant season
as the fortunate are lost within the summer they’ve harvested and hoard within their thighs
while the rest of us are anorexia and devastated ghost town wind blowing chiming crackle
and i am left with nothing, abandoned by the leaves that once clinged to me

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “THE KING OF HIS LAWN”

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COMING SOON

FEATURING THE POEMS “HOW TO SET YOURSELF ON FIRE” , “WHEN I WAS MAYBE TWELVE YEARS OLD” , “TO VEGETARIANS” , “SUBTERRANEA” , and “THE PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE OF VARINIA RODRIGUEZ”.

AVAILABLE THIS SEPTEMBER THROUGH FLASHLIGHT CITY PRESS.

Interesting in reviewing? Please email me at bricemaiurro@gmail

ON GOOD DAYS

on good days
abby and i go to the burger king
down the street from my parent’s house
and order french fries
we park in the wal-mart parking lot
and as we roll down our electric windows
the fat seagulls approach the car
waddling over
and we throw french fries to them
we do this on good days
it’s one of my favorite things to do

of course,
the birds always fight over the french fries
there’s always the fattest and most aggressive one
and there’s always one that abby points at and says
“aw, he hasn’t gotten one…”
and abby, my huge-hearted sister
will do whatever she has to do to make sure
that bird gets a fry

we always turn the music off while we do this
at the burger king at wads and quincy
down the street from our childhoods
it makes me miss my youth spent on a bike
it makes me miss abby
she’s so busy and i’m so busy
i’m so proud of her
she gets up everyday and goes to school then to work
she gets up early to dress nice and do her hair
while i sit in my car writing poems about birds

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “NOVEMBER, REVISITED”

COMING SOON

Flashlight City Press

REDHEAD (TO DENVER)

my dear
you are between a rock and a hard place
your face does not illuminate the same as the others
your lights are few and speckled
but i’ve always loved freckles
you are a grid system at first glance
i know they tell you real women have curves
but real women know better than that
sometimes you are cold and the conversation runs dry
but it’s not easy being as high as you are all the time
i love you
i never want to leave you
and i know you don’t believe me
but you are the manic pixie dream girl
who at times is slightly annoying
but i know your heart is too full
homeless men laying out sleeping bags
on the floor of your rib cage
great tent cities on your shoulders

they try to tell you your heart is a cash register
but i have heard your heart ticking at the cabaret tower
sixteenth street a string on your cello soul
i am in love with you
you smell like the west
like dust and beerspit

you are the little sister anxiously awaiting her groom
california, california, california
they all leave you for california
but you and i both know they’ll be back
california is a pathological liar
her lie detector tests look like her richter scales
it is you i love
when i am within you i hear your quiet insecure voice
you’ve been torn up, torn down
and the mountains will always take your shoes off
when you party too hard

your children
they play along the light rail tracks
they run off to school at d.u. at m.s.c.d. c.c.d. at b.f.e.
but at the end of the night, they’ll always come back
i am a part of you, beautiful
let the jesters run off to hollywood
we will show our unpainted faces to the world together
“next stop, 10th and osage” you whisper
“convention center”
“pepsi center elitch gardens”
let them think you’re vain
i know why you stop where you do
i know in december you get lonesome for your heroes
you refrigerate poetry in your cold air
the mercury cafe measuring your temperature
big blue bear
your awkward oversized blatant invitation
your 2 am curfew

don’t cry
the tears will freeze in your eyes
you are the rose that grows from the black ice
you are an indie movie theater
you are a redhead
my midnight streetlight as i caress up and down you elevators
you are leela’s coffee
tarantula billiards
you are definitely not wells fargo
they may tattoo you
but you are swing dancing at dazzle and above poetry cafes
you are 18th and market 21st and wynkoop union station tattered cover cheeseman park wash park everywhere inside of yourself
you are two-fisted mario’s blasting shit metal into your bitter chilly hair
you are the girl in a hoody and a skirt
hot dog stands that new york rejected and chicago was too tired for
you are the moodiest girl i know
you get a little too drunk on coors light
and you let far too many stoners crash on your city park couch
your heating bill is way too high
and you are never the same person twice
but i like crazy girls
the mad ones
and i know you will get the everything you desire
just keep being a mile above the rest
freckleface
a beautiful underdog who dances best drunk

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “BOSTON LOGAN”

A LETTER TO A BANK

dear bank,

i know what you did, and you broke my heart
i hear your clinking heels come by my window at night
i’ve been nickeled and i’ve been dimed
you are 52 fictional stories tall
a full house of cards
and a plastic laugh track plays when we beg for a loan
your wagon has driven off the coast of california
and as it collides with the ocean floor its tremors
turn to earthquakes
birthquakes that tremble dresses of bimbo whores

dearest bank,

you broke my heart
then charged me an overdraft fee
i can’t remember the last time i held a physical dollar
i can’t remember the last time i held your hand
try and understand
i want you back
i do i do i do
when the fridge is crying at midnight
telling me it’s hungry all i’m thinking about is you
oh great cash register building!
wolf in sheep’s clothing
masquerading as guardian angel to my sweet denver
homeless hobos and scummy bums shine your shoos
oh great cash register!
beneath your great ship slaves row – oh ee oh –
to move you along
how could you do this to me?
customer since 2006
platinum debit card
and all the pretty horses on the merry-go-round
under the reigns of your painted wagon
come circle-jerking backaround
and the music plays laa la la dee da
and i am enamored once again
instantaneous forty hour work-week come to fruition
at the click of a button, slide of a card
convenience with a convenience charge
oh great cash register in the sky!
you are squatting without permission in the house of the lord
and denying god a second mortgage

my dearest bank,

the buck stops here
i don’t want my money imaginary anymore
and i understand
that you have overdraft fees
account transfer fees
balance inquiry fees
atm fees at your
automatic teller machine machines
to help teach me about responsibility
ain’t that the pot calling the kettle black
i’m leaving you
loyalty department (talking paradox)
try and stop me

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “MOTIVE”

MOTIVE

was it because you were bullied in
school? were you abused as a child?
did you have a vendetta against society?
did the world just rub you the wrong way?
was it because you could only see sin in us all?
did you have undiagnosed mental issues that should
have gone diagnosed?

were you exposed to violent video games,
violent movies, violent comic books at a young age?
were you plotting this for months?
where were you when you decided to take the terror
inside of your broken rib cage and turn it into the
terror we all feel carving holes in our hands?
was it drugs? was it years and years of pent-up rage
and silence? was it something someone said to you
a long time ago that you could have told someone?
are you godless behind your hidden eyes?
were you broken to begin with? are you proof
that some of us are born with two demons on
our shoulders? that some of us enter through exit
doors in shameful masks to rip down the red curtains?
to pierce the surface of innocent skin and beautiful lives?
did you feel your skin pressing the trigger of the gun?
do you hear any of this in your head? most of us do.
most of us are playing judge, jury and executioner in
our hearts and in our heads. hosting trials
asking ourselves what is right and what is wrong
don’t you dare
be proud of yourself. don’t you dare
think i will remember your name. don’t you dare
say you’re sorry – most of us are questioning the state
of the color red but some of us
aren’t around anymore to do that. twelve of us
are stories that couldn’t be saved. twelve of us
are the names that should be remembered. twelve of us
will never see the end of the movie.

the rest of us
are still here saying prayers at dinner tables with empty
chairs. we are listening instead of hearing. we are speaking
instead of listening. why weren’t you? when did your sun go
down and why in the black night of aurora did you sneak
shadowed into these happy homes and tear apart the very
fabric of our humanity? where are you now? who
are you? i will not remember your name. you are not god.
you are not the devil. you are everything we are not; and
you are unanswered questions that you could have just
asked somebody.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “SIMON SAYS”

My thoughts and prayers go out to the families and loved ones of those who died early today in the Aurora Theater Shooting. May those lost rest in peace. I can’t imagine what you’re going through and I wish you all the best in this impossibly tough time.

SOCRATES BEAT

i like having my arms tug-o-warred between nazi germany and hippie utopia
i like playing pin the tail on the next president of the united states of america
every day colorado is a different shade, a different mood a different temperature so i must mimic her dance steps in the dark
i like considering the entire menu because the moment i order the same i always do – i feel vindicated and why is the waitress staring at me?
from henceforth when people ask me my political views i will answer “yes”
from henceforth when people ask me my religious views i will tell them i subscribe to the church of Allah, Buddha, Jesus, Ganesh, Thor, Zeus and the flying spaghetti monster sitting on a cloud having a religious debate
i want to be a child again – when my favorite ninja turtle was ‘all of them’ – and that was okay
i will stop ending my sentences with periods and begin to end them with question marks?
because i know, and everyone can agree on the fact that, i don’t know everything and you don’t know everything and the guys on t.v. with podiums for legs don’t know everything but collectively we can get a lot closer
screw their very important person tea party – we are all the united nations
we are truthseekers and truthspeakers and truth is the mental atomic bomb i hold most dearly
the freedom of truth, the beauty of truth, the love of truth, and god, do i love her
truth is my lady, she’s never wrong but she’s a good listener, but she loves to argue, but we never go to bed angry
and neither should the rest of us, unless we need to
we need to document the world we want
we need to break down our neighbor’s door with a giant cup of sugar
let us be open doors and patient ears – not wind-up chattering teeth talking to ear plugs

i like having my arms tug-o-warred between nazi germany and hippie utopia
and i like earth better than heaven, because there’s more books to be read and written on the subject
we are still rebuilding the tower of babel and they will never let us finish

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012