maybe america is one of those guys on suburban street corners in a lady liberty costume waving a sign about taxes and loans who makes minimum wage and has music in his ears to help pass the time
maybe america is an ugly boxer dog poking his head our of the window of a beat-up ford pick-up truck panting
maybe america is an old married couple who watch the same news program over and over again all day in forgetfulness holding each other’s hands approaching god
maybe america is the muffled voice of a fast food drive-thru speakerbox
maybe america is a kidnapped bonsai tree held hostage in a business office
maybe america is john hughes eighties movies where the girl always gets her guy

maybe america is a man in a hospital waking up from a coma after twenty years alone to find dead flowers and having to figure out where am i?
maybe america is noisy caustic manly monster truck commercials frightening little boys with delight
maybe america is a rich woman who leaves her lavish lifestyle to pursue her dream of become a prostitute
maybe america is an oiled-up car mechanic hiding his anti-depression medication from his coworker buddies so they won’t make fun of him
maybe america is late night talk show hosts with their hands in their pockets spewing comedy to insomniacs
maybe america is one of those slow down electronic speed traps that no one pays any mind to

maybe america is a grandmother letting her blonde little granddaughter press the buttons on the elevator
maybe america is a man too fat to walk falling in love with a woman too skinny to function
maybe america is the auctioneer who reads the speedy disclosures at the end of the medicine commercials
maybe america is this week’s host of saturday night live
maybe america is the foreign man who swam across the ocean to fulfill his dreams of opening his own perfume shop
maybe america is the call center employee who writes in his spare time because he’s sick of talking forty hours a week
maybe america is the native american heroes whose names have been erased from history books

maybe america is a scientist conducting experiments on himself and his pet goldfish
maybe america is a teenaged mother reading nursery rhymes to her two kids while she waits patiently in the unemployment line
maybe america is grumpy doctors grumpy patients grumpy clinics where everyone is grumpy
maybe america is the jabbering cocaine white teeth of a politician in career puberty
maybe america is the conversations that never happen between cute girls and mute boys
maybe america is the combat boots stomping in unorthodox rhythm in underground punk rock scenes
maybe america is a textbook that only gets used to ready the marijuana to be smoked
maybe america is santa claus drinking coca-cola with caucasian polar bears
maybe america is mothers who don’t now and have never had any children to breastfeed
maybe america is a hillbilly hanging a shotgun over his door like a star on the top of a christmas tree
maybe america is the crazy man who stalks you at work and asks you unanswerable questions while you’re trying to refold all the disheveled t-shirts
maybe america is a green screen in the bowels of hollywoodland
maybe america is a fatherless child who sacrifices his life because he knows everyone is his family and he just cares too much

maybe america is that lady who sued that one fast food place because they didn’t warn her that her coffee would be hot
maybe america is union workers praying to god for super bowl sunday
maybe america is sugar cereal characters playing poker at a board meeting
maybe america is a cancer patient waiting for the doctor to come back to check in on her but the doctor never does
maybe america is the music on the jukebox at waffle houses at way too late o clock
maybe america is the hips of elvis presley stamped ‘property of the military’
maybe america is the stuffed animal from your childhood that you have tucked away in the attic somewhere
maybe america is the gangrenous arm of an overseas soldier trying to crawl its way back to the homeland
maybe america is prisoners of war tapping on chamber walls desperate for the sound of another human
maybe america is a psychologist psychoanalyzing his patient’s multiple personality disorder
or maybe america is that patient


READ “337”


hi. my name is brice maiurro. and i am here to tell you why you should follow my blog.

i will begin my something-part argument by saying that i may or may not be a little inebriated, thus making me easy to relate to. whether or not you are a little inebriated right now, or care to lie to yourself on said matter, i think you’ll find we have a lot in common. other things we may have in common: i love Love, some people, and music. my favorite kind of music is… all of them. if you don’t like music, you need not apply, unless you still feel a strong desire to do so. i write poetry. for those of you out there who went to high school, common to what’s been crammed up your mental asshole, poetry is not a bunch of pretentious white british assholes commenting on the existential nature of butterflies and the consequential consequences that may thus incur from the artificial conscientious beauty we craft of nature in our bloody mindholes. poetry is about honesty. it’s about being willing to admit that you’ve had a half a bottle of wine and are sitting in a shit t-shirt in a basement apartment in an unimportant city in littleton sweating balls as you write this rant that you may not have had the tenacity to write while you are sober.

which brings me to my next point. did i mention i am devilishly handsome? i won’t post a picture, but just imagine, my hair that falls as gracefully as doctor who’s and my six pack abs and my pearl white smile. that’s me. sorta kinda. which brings me to my next point. i am here to break down the walls of anonymity. i want to crash into the glass walls of museums and ride the taxidermy bears into the dawn of ecstasy. join me. follow my blog. hear my rambles. see my dearest friend of a doodle, Rant the Ant, and the situations I force upon him, whether he likes it or not, because isn’t that exactly how we should be living our lives?


Flashlight City Press


Last week, Lana Del Rey covered the song “Heart-Shaped Box” originally by Nirvana, spurring an interesting response by Courtney Love over Twitter. ¬†Courtney Love composed a now infamous Tweet about how the song is about her vagina:


Hey. Wait. I’ve got a new complaint:

What I’d like to say is Huffington Post got it right when they called Courtney Love “outspoken.” I don’t care if you talk about your vagina online. That doesn’t bother me in the least. What bothers me is how Courtney Love managed to demean this song for me and possibly plenty of people around me. I am a big Nirvana fan. I place Nevermind on the list of my favorite albums, up there with The Beatles’ White Album and Hail to the Thief by Radiohead.

“Heart-Shaped Box,” off of In Utero is not about your vagina, Courtney Love.

Who am I to say this? Courtney Love was married to Kurt Cobain, for crying out loud. She would know if the song was about her lady business.

Let’s go back: Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. “Oh, that song is about LSD,” said every moron ever. These songs are not about drugs, they are not about Courtney Love’s vagina. Sure, Heart-Shaped Box has a very sexual connotation. Sure, Courtney Love might have written some of the lyrics. What I don’t appreciate is limiting the ideas of what a song is.

Heart-Shaped Box, to me, is about the claustrophobia of love. It’s about the addiction of being lost in someone. Once again, this quickly leads to a sexual connotation, but there’s an intention to that too. I think Courtney Love would acknowledge this as well, but God, is she so desperate for press that she makes these outlandish statements?

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, to me, is about childhood innocence. It’s about vibrant life, it’s about imagination, and yes, John Lennon being the cryptic genius he was, I guarantee it’s no accident that the name also spells out LSD.

Note that I put “to me”, because this is all subjective. The fight I’m trying to fight is people who limit their perspective on what music is about, or limit what anything is about to something as simple as “Courtney Love’s vagina,” or “drugs.” This idea strikes me hard as a writer, specifically as a poet, because when I write, and when most of the people around me make art of any kind, it’s never as shallow as writing about one controversial topic. They have something to say. That’s why it angers me when a complex and timeless song like Heart-Shaped Box gets put inside of another box, gets limited. I just want to challenge people here to not let that song become a one-note song. Don’t let it become an allusion to that one time Courtney Love opened her mouth on Twitter. The same way I challenge you not to define yourself as a hippie, or a hipster, or a rockabilly performance artist, or a mom, or a senator. These things are important to who you are, and may help you find yourself, but you cannot be describe in 140 characters or less, and neither can Heart-Shaped Box.

More on Courtney Love’s vagina:






i jammed a piece of pencil lead into the skin over my heart

this is a true story
it never came out
the skin grew over it
and i am convinced that little freakin piece of lead is shuffling around inside of me still
it mostly squats in my skull
listening to bad 90’s music at three in the morning
reminding me how much life is a drag off a bummed cigarette
a piece of lead with a penchant for marcy playground and nada surf
when it’s not doing that it lodges itself into the joint of my knees
reminding me of my father
who sacrificed his knees to the insatiable gods of retail in return for warm meals

i like when the lead makes my knees sting a bit
sometimes the piece of lead goes to my liver
usually the weekends
it duct tapes my liver hostage and demands i waterboard him with whiskey unil he spills all his secrets
this piece of lead wreaks havoc in this vessel
little red cartoon demon with a pitchfork
sometimes he stands in front of my retinas
playing home movies of ex-girlfriends
stupid fights
sober drunken moments of pure cherished regret

in my nose he burns the incense of their perfumes
he meditates
and when he lodges himself in my heart i hate him most

he tugs at my heart strings like the ghost in the bell tower and i ring out everything everywhere all at once

i ring my mother’s chicken noodle soup
i ring my sister’s diamond soul
i ring my father’s fireplace hugs
i ring death waltzing with life
and the karma of martyred hearts

the cosmic kaleidoscope of america
i ring bad knees and good fridays and pilot episodes of life stories that rest in jars in doctor’s offices
i ring the towers falling down
and people without legs standing up

i ring the man whose job is to talk people out of suicides and i ring the times he fails
i ring for nothing – that lies between second hands stroking but i ring
everything everywhere for everyone ever all at once

sometimes the piece of lead travels to my pencil
but i just set the pencil down
don’t want to write him off just yet
this ghost in my belltower
i won’t let him out.




Looking to connect with more poets and writers through Facebook. If you have a Facebook page for writing or poetry, or any kind of art, leave me a link in the comments and I’ll follow you.


You can follow me too if you’d like:¬†http://www.facebook.com/bricewriting


we tattoo our saints on our skin
whoever they may be
we take still life versions of happiness
and shove them into electronic time capsules
we are documentarians
we plan kisses in the rain
and film them as candidly as we can
we give each other diamonds
we write each other songs just the same
we stick flags in our moons
and try to become immortal
we want to live forever
we frame our successes
and store our failures in attics
we send our past child-support
and we manufacture half me half you hybrid
creatures and stuff them with our ideas
like cotton
we strap them to car seats in the back of
subaru legacies
we pay money to ride giant metal death machines
and eat cotton candy afterwards to celebrate life
we purchase a snapshot of us screaming sitting next to
those we love
we build houses out of thousand-year old trees
(what a superiority complex)
we sit on dated fossil couches
watching the history channels
we visit graveyards
and talk to people with petrified ears
we leave flowers that die
for people who have wilted noses
we burn things we want to forget
and we burn things we want to keep
so we can make intangible memories
the past is always prettier
cities look closer than they appear in rear-view mirrors
we reminisce over reminiscing
in late night diners
telling waiter faces we recognize
that we’ll have the usual
we date our writing
(january ninth, two thousand eleven, 12:34 pm)
we celebrate anniversaries
even our dvr’s and bank accounts have histories
this is a good thing
these are all good things
we are writing post-dated fables to the future
we assign value to objects
and sometimes capitalism wins that battle
but most of the time
they become souvenirs
photo albums
snow globes capturing a world we shook up
posters on the naked walls of our minds
refrigerator magnets that draw us together

death is exiting through the gift shop
buying mementos for the memories we just made.




and it burns like a bad relationship
i need a cigarette i need a cigarette
the whiskey cabinet’s empty and some voodoo
horror ghost has replaced my water of life
with tequila
and the tequila tastes like sand and dead dry cacti
and the truth tastes as synthetic as sugar-free bubble gum
when i said goodbye to you, i seemingly forgot to open my mouth
and since then, my mind won’t shut the hell up
and it’s taking moves back in a chess game it lost a long time ago
and you are a dent on my driver’s side door that i keep for character
and i carry on the way cancer does
and i carry the weight of the featherwords i’ve wasted on my skeletal back and bare a demon child on my hips
and lust is just love that is more fun to rhyme

these people on the television are trapped and none of us can get them out
al bundy watching us watching television with our hands down our pants
and the television is just the middle man
forced to talk; never knew it could plead the fifth
and the fifth of whiskey is gone
and i’m forgetting what i’ve already mentioned
and it’s 11:14 and it’s the witching hour
and somewhere in the world it’s 3 pm and christ has just died
and somewhere in the world someone someone loved
and somewhere in the world someone someone loved
had some form of something happen to them
yes – i am – affirmative – positive reinforcement backed up only by centuries of black plague barn burning flames of fires ashes to ashes dust to dust
beginning to end and in the beginning someone had to be there to tell the story
who wrote down the story of adam and eve?
who heard god firsthand?
the world’s longest game of telephone
who heard god firsthand?
i hear him firsthand everyday
dead white male
living black female
salvation from this sideshow circus that was created by the people who brought you
absolutely everything
baby-back ribs made from bunson burners
and love made from sound filtered through the tiny holes of a car radio
and the bass bumps
and the bass bumps
and everyone has a headache
and people don’t know what a migraine is
and we are all the 1%
we are all the 1%
and through the eye of the needle, america is too obese to fit itself
and i am typing this; thank you, google, thank you, dell, thank you hp and mac and electricity and edison and/or tesla and panasonic and whoever it fucking was
who wrote about adam and eve
we need to set up tents in the caverns of our robot hearts
and reteach them to beat involuntarily
we need to reteach our bodies to climax without two-dimensional naked fairy tales
and we need to remember that the greatest search engine is communication
and social networks are talking mouths
sleeping narcolepsy
haunted coffins
turn your cell phone off
(the show is about to begin)
walk naked to your neighbor’s house
shovel their sidewalk
and don’t stop when you get to the concrete
i couldn’t decide what to wear to bed, and i can’t decide if these little orange pills in my stomach are god or the devil
but i do know the color of blood when i see it
and i know human beings produce tears because they are sad, or sometimes cold
and i know that these thousands of towers that we built were built of hopes and dreams
and men turned to dirt so steel could stand
and i know that lobbyists just want to be cowboys like the rest of us
and i know that the seats in the senate house have cupholders
i know this, because we know this
and you can occupy route 66 from one end to the other
and you can occupy every store front and back alley of new york city
but when the twin towers fell, no one worried about the printers and the copy machines
no one worried about the papers and no one should have
these towers are lifting us towards god
and we can keep continuing being groundlings babbling about these suits with ken-doll haircuts
their briefcases filled with secrets and repressed orgasms but this fight is as faceless as the fire we all threw our cigarette but’s into
and whined about the high price of gasoline to feed it
you can occupy any place on earth
but i ask you, orange pills or no orange pills
please, occupy yourself
occupy you wife’s bed, and your husband’s tombstone
occupy your daughter’s baseball game and your son’s ballet recital
occupy each and every one of your fibers of skin as they are touched
we can expand outward to the universe but we will never conquer every frontier
it’s time we implode, two-at-a-time, and occupy ourselves

these little orange pills are to help me focus
these little orange pills take away the deficit attention
these little orange pills help me build cross streets and crucifixes
over weeks and weeks
and they are little and they are not perfect but they occupy within me
and one by one allow my fingers to type individual characters on this alphabet piano
let your enemies be faceless
we are all good men
and we need to rebuild these skyscrapers
not crash into them