WHEN YOU REALIZE YOU ARE WITHIN THE DREAM RIGHT NOW

when you realize that you are within the dream right now
when you look to the wooden rose on the bedroom stand
and realize about the wooden rose on the bedroom night stand
when your hands sink into the bed like your floating on the top
half of the hourglass
you’ll be on the bottom side of the hourglass
and then you’ll most likely break free of both sides of the hourglass

when you realize that you are within the dream right now
fixated on the piloting twisting blades of the fan gyrating
the hula girl bouncing around on your dashboard
her plastic cleavage subtle and underplayed
and you’re curious
you’re always curious and you begin to sandbox
you stop trying to steel building and you begin trying to sandbox
and there you are again
on the top half of the hourglass
you’ll be on the bottom side of the hourglass
and then you’ll most likely break free of both sides of the hourglass

or a marriage. or a personal personal conflict. you’ll break free of
your credit score. the high school pressures of your baseball dad.
you’ll break free of your chainsmoking mother.
of that story that you keep flipping back through with your licked finger.
when you realize that you are within the dream right now
when the punctuation marks become. some  what        irrelevant

when you become somewhat irrelevant
and maybe you float like wifi across a populated teenaged food court
and maybe you float like god

Image result for dali paintings

POEM COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016
PICTURE BY THIS SALVADOR DALI GUY

HER HEART IS A DRUMKIT

her heart is a drumkit
crash cymbal flash light
boom bap across the stage
that splays her arms
across forever dance stoned
caffeine fingers smoke rings
emanating to the consolation
of every single constellation

her heart is a drumkit
kick drum dig deep
into the well rock drop
ripples into persistent
persistent persistent
legs against legs
harmonic hopesong
lost in honesty

that’s where to be lost

her heart is a drumkit
rolling snare downhill
kissed to death to bed
to sleep to dream to love
again and over and again
punch to the heartgut
drumkit kickdrum
snare snare snare
legs against legs
bottom of the bot
bottom of the bot
bottom of the bottom
of the bottom of the
well rock deep
deep skip lost drum
kick drum beat drum
kick snare lost drum
drum lost in honesty
honestly lost in honest
we lost in honestly we
honor thee honestly
lost in honestly
that’s where to be lost

her heart
a drumkit
and we
lost in
hones
ty

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

LANDSCAPERS

and maybe god paints like an etch a sketch
shaken up and then twisted on both ends
he lets writhe the pixelated confines of his or her mind
and bleeding black across the gray canvass
they’ll say what is it
and he (or she) will say
“it’s a pony,”
but it don’t look like no god damn pony
not unless you know what a pony looks like
“what is it?” you’ll ask as she (or he) shakes and twists it again
“it’s a natural disaster,”
god will say
but this time you most likely won’t question it
if it’s a natural disaster it’s a natural disaster
and the streets will fill with the wreckage of one thousand broken
wooden homes and you’ll sit and you’ll ask yourself
“is this really what it is,”
carefully stacked cards
second after second of grain of sand within tight tweezers
moved carefully over into sand castles
and then the wave hits
and they may come through
truck after truck
the landscapers taking their giant paint brush
and painting over your beautiful scars with two-dimensional
television shows
all televised
all tossed up on the internet like a giant fucking billboard
wrapped around the mouth of liberty like a ballgag
that says
“everything is okay,”
because the tiny little landscapers came along
and they trimmed that grass right to regulation length
they wiped up your blood with a swiffer wet jet
and they told you
it’s over
move on
everything is okay

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

I SHOT A BULLET AT THE MIRROR AND THE MIRROR SHOT BACK

i shot a bullet at the mirror and the mirror shot back
and my head hit the tile with a thunderous clack
and the clack sounded loudly such an echoing sound
and as i stared at the ceiling all the cobwebs i’d found
they reminded me time has a way to keep moving
and i found myself stuck with no patience to lose and
my patience was gone it had leaked from my brain
and it packed up its suitcase and boarded the train
and the train went to nowhere or at least so i heard
when i sat back and watched and i realized absurd
things happen and we just keep sipping our coffee
as we stare at our watch in some strange hotel lobby
that we call our existence where we never are sure
if our intentions are selfless or if they come across pure
but i’m telling you this that i learned looking up
at the ceiling of the bathroom where i swallowed my blood
that if the train that your riding ever goes off the track
and you pick up a gun and it goes in your sack
and you go to a room with a mirror that stares
and its empty and hopeless with too many chairs
and not enough people and you look in the mirror
and you’re just staring back at everything that you fear
when you pull out your gun from your oversized sack
if you shoot at the mirror it is sure to shoot back
this i know beyond reason this i know for a fact
cause i shot at the mirror and the mirror shot back

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

27

last few moments
of feeling everything

bundled winter
that runs so deep in me

i’ve set out just to get by lately
i find my time is coming back around

chasing paper
and leaving little notes

erasing stigmas
and trying not to breathe

i hold my breath from disposition
i hold my breath until my face turns blue

but in these dripping drops of sand
executing me
i find i’m nothing less than mostly whole
the most i can ever hope for

i was born this way
the way i am now
all mannequin stuffed to the brim
with the tree limbs that the lightning
strikes down

i creature of habit
holy brain
all one million thoughts
never time to listen
too busy feeling what’s coming in
the next moment
aren’t we all we all

step halfway through your mirror
and chase the time like quickly fading life

there’s a shadow
that’s casting over me
like clouds on mountains
i feel my destiny

i was born to make it through
these 27 years
come tomorrow
and in the passing traffic song
i just might find a fraction
of something worth saving
until this next life
come tomorrow

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

WE WERE NEVER MEANT TO BE ANYTHING LESS THAN GODS

we were never meant to be anything less than
gods

we were born to give birth to creation and take
from that creation a sense of purpose
and take that sense of purpose to church
real church life church
the church of no religion
that’s where we were meant to share this
heart thing

and there among the listening ears of one thousand
hearts
all dolled up all eyes all silence all honest
eardrum
it is there that we can be heard
and capture the anthem we hear
like a lightning bug in a mason jar
and wear it around our neck
not so much like a medal
and much much more like a locket of memory

i say this all with humility
we are each and every one of us so tiny
but maybe that’s exactly where we got it wrong
we wanted the gods to be so big
but really i do believe
that the gods are so tiny
and maybe we each and all are them

maybe we are the tiny gods we pray to

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

AND IN THE RED CORNER OF THIS HERE LIFE

boxiat

alright, kid
you got hit pretty damn hard
but this shit don’t stop

this ain’t the
holiday fuckin inn

i need you to
brush that dust off
your shoulders
wipe that blood from
yer cheek
and remind us all
why you’re the champ

it’s not how hard
you can hit
it’s how hard you can
get hit

so pick yer heart up
off the floor
and put that shit
right back into yer chest

there are kids
who would die to be here
sweating under these lights

don’t do it for me
don’t do it for the glory
do it because it’s what you
were born to do

your vocation
is tooth and nail

and yeah
it’s gonna hurt
it’s gonna hurt real bad
yer gonna sting in places
you’d never known
but at the end of the night

you can lay down beside her

and push yer fingers
through her soft hair

and that glimmer in her eyes

yeah that glimmer

it’s the only two stars you’ll want
in your sky

and at the end of the
long long long long day
you can rest
like yer broken ass
has never rested before

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

THE GLASS MAN

his skin was made of glass. most stunning of all was his heartbeat in full display systolic diastolic every time blood rushed through his veins. his lungs too, expanding like wings. but so gently did he try to step wherever he went. one thousand onlookers unflinching locking eyes on what they did not know nor understand. when he stepped on the sidewalk the ground clacked like his heel and the concrete were trying to make a fire.

skin is not see through. in each and every person there is an entire intimate ecosystem that is rarely glanced upon. no one knows the churning of your gut. no one sees when you swallow your words and they river down into the pit of your stomach.

of course the man who was made of glass was out in the open. sometimes he would stand at a busy intersection, glass top hat before him, still and steady, just letting the world look on at his public secret. he stared blankly into the sky as children and adults examined him as if he was a museum. as if he was no more than an exhibit tossed out in urbania, here for all to see.

he could not hide, and one day it became too much and he smashed his hand crashing into a brick wall. where once there was delicate glass fingers there was now sharp scattered shards. it’s amazing how quickly fragility can turn to fear.

and the world looked onward still. and the glass man one day decided to never again be shaken up. to not be afraid to show his organs in their fierceness, but to learn to control them. so steady the rhythm of his lungs. he took deep breaths. and his heart for the muscle it was grew larger and larger. all in the eye of the world around him.

when he died, it was an open casket funeral. a still life painting of a life lived thrown out into the open. and as they closed the casket, the glass man became like the rest of us. remembered for those moments where the world was allowed to see right through to the soul of you.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

CAREFUL PATIENT MINDFUL

never have two strangers known each other so well
sitting side by side careful not to cross the crack in the cushions
but every random glance carried the weight of everything
everything there ever was between us and eventually my fingertips
abandoned their post in this armistice to commune with yours
interlaced and quiet they rested like lovers sharing a twin-sized bed
i and you we found ourselves stumbling right back to the page
that we had dogeared the shit out of

this poem is worth its weight in paper
but what comes with it is one thousand ounces of time
dropped from a dropper onto the paths we cross
not always together but never without the other one
and where we’ll end up i do not know but i do know
that these liquid ounces of time will form a mandala
careful patient and mindful that love isn’t this thing
that you take a bite out of and you’ve got it with you always

you’ve gotta keep chewing
through the sweet there is sour and seeds and
moments of pure confusion where you find yourself
in a half empty bed and the wind is too warm
and sleepless and bruised you wander through the halls
you sonder at the dreams you’ve had since you were a child

but if you keep chewing through that
then you’ve got it
you’ve got four lips two each smashed in passion
wandering the edge of another person
delicately traveling through the stories
that never come out in words

in this world you may never be without
there is always fireflies to be caught in jars
but when their bulbs burst like old cameras
when the stars disappear down the broken drain

there in the dark
careful patient and mindful
is love.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

AMERICA

america
you pray like russian
roulette

you kiss like you’re trying
to commandeer our teeth

you smell like the little samples
0f perfume in skinny magazines

america
you’re pirating porn on the internet
wearing nothing but a stolen pair
of air jordans

america
you’re panting like a dog
do you ever put your tongue
back into your mouth?

america
your gums are bleeding
from brushing your teeth too hard

do you ever do anything
with grace?

it’s always 75 miles per hour
drunk on jack
jacked up on red bull
listening to two metal albums
on your cell phone
while playing candy crush
in seven o clock rush hour traffic
because life is too short
not to do
exactly what is most important to you
in that exact moment

america
you may listen to podcasts
on new age philosophy
be here now
live in the moment
but you always fast-forward
to the good parts

you always cut away the meat
of your steak
and sit back and chew on the fat

america
you’re so good at interrupting
the people you ask
to speak on your show

america
you borrowed from me
whenever i tell you you say you didn’t
but you did
and i want it back

america
you invented advertising
and marketing
and coffee and beer
and whiskey and electricity
and freedom and democracy
well
at least that’s what you tell everyone

america
you pretend to be attention deficit
but the truth is you are consciously choosing
not to listen

plus you can get great turnaround
selling addy to high school kids

america
were you ever great?
will you ever be great?
hyperbole is a french word
but its nine-hundred percent american

i once thought i saw you
through the brush of trees
that line flathead lake
there i know i saw you
this grand estranged deer
wide eyed and still
your black eye gazed back at me
full of one-thousand yard stare
post traumatic stress disorder
you looked at me
like you just discovered
the human concept of time
0r math
or internet-streamed television service

i picked up my AR-15
and i pointed right at you
as you bolted
deep into the thick trees of bigotry

i swear i saw you

the one that got away

a hologram of a dream
of an invention

a colossal invention

there in the hand of every american
there in the heart of those who believe

not a device to help you
a device that is you

america
are you recording this call?

america
why do i have to press one for english?

america
why is my seat so small and inconvenient
in this giant bullet
that flies through the sky?

america
you’re pronouncing
“patronizing” wrong

america
i asked for no special sauce
my daughter is allergic
i can’t believe this
what are you going to do
for me?

america
what are you going to do
for me?

america
why aren’t you the country
we talk so fiercely about you being?
we spent so much time so far
talking so fiercely
about what you could be?

america
tie your shoes

america
get a job

america
love your neighbor

america
i’m not going to pay for your webcam
i don’t care h0w handsome you tell me i
am

america
if you say a word too many times
it starts to sound funny
it starts to stick to the roof of your mouth
like jiffy (c) peanut butter
america

america

america

america
when will the illuminati
reveal themselves?
was 9/11 an inside
job?
when will those walmarts
be turned into internment camps?

america
you manufacture paranoia
shelf after shelf
aisle after aisle
section after section
department after department
store after store after region
after enterprise

america
take my tickets
i brought my swimsuit
i want to ride the preschool to prison
pipeline

plea bargain my politics

mass incarcerate my poems

america
you can’t fall asleep sober
if you even fall asleep at all
you keep counting sheep
like you’re tallying days
on a prison cell

your eyes are automatic doors
that slam shut behind us all

america
your bloodsteam is refugees
you’re just too intoxicated to see it

you’re so busy building walls
you forgot to put in a door

you’re so busy campaigning for president
you’ve got not time for your family

you’re the kind of ugly
that happens over the course of a lifetime

you
america
are a pyramid scheme

you
america
beg for food
while you choke to death
on your thick privilege

you
are the one
who was born so late
to sing the world to sleep

america
you pray like russian roulette
to a god who can’t hear you
over the sound
of your own
gunshots

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016