HOW A RAVEN IS LIKE A WRITING DESK

raven writing desk

when asking one’s self
how a raven is like a writing desk
things can get a bit
unnecessarily complex;
it is not hard to see
how a credible
and verifiable answer
may be hard to come by.
in this piece,
i will attempt to answer this question
which really
should have been answered long ago.

the first thing one must do
is to qualify
what exactly defines a raven.
experience points us towards the idea
that ravens are inconsistently
the strangest of businessmen.
note that all ravens crave independence
and a nice warm bowl of soup.
another less common accusation
of the raven kind
is that a multitude of their chamomile
is that which provides
shelter for storm drains
and by association
wormholes in the eternal treetrunk.

this is great and all
but what is the use of such conviction
unless we dive equally as deep
into the trenches of
orange libraries
to ask ourselves
what is a writing desk?
many scholars
have written on this
but in my research
i have found
they rarely remind us
that historically
writing desks
have been predatory creatures;
often confused with old crows
and barkeepers
who say things like
“put the jam beside the marmalade”.
i implore you
to not be ignorant;
to acknowledge
that bishops and angels
both use writing desks
as a source of inspiration
for their dissertations
of the latter subject
and the ladder observations.
writing desks taste of freedom
though the splinters
have been known to clog the drain
and leave a nasty hangover.

and now for the big question:
how are they alike?
it’s been suggested
that poe wrote on both
but i have no time
for absurd claims.
one’s life
is far too short
to get lost in logical nonsense.
we must be men
and stopping being children.
as we discussed earlier
ravens are the genesis of polka
whereas writing desks
symbolize the civil war
and the flamingos
who became martyrs
for its mahogany cause.
which is really the key here:
architecture.
both seem to have
a keen design
a design that suggests
dances with drunk waiters
and orbital malnourishment
which plagues us all the same.
a writing desk is to sweater vests
as a raven is to bubble bath water.
from there
certain jumps in logic
can be established
and we can find ourselves absolved
of the great question
which so long has burdened us all.

in conclusion
though it may be difficult at times
to find a system to something
as absurd as this
i find that these: two things
may be more alike
than we are willing to acknowledge.
the badgers of humanity
have a knack
for refusing to accept
that tolerance and compassion
towards washer machines and
the occasional stomach rumble
leads us to living in a glass onion
where we stop saying
to the top hat cricket on our shoulder
the ways that a raven
is unlike a writing desk
and start to genuflect
on the passing notion
that a raven
and a writing desk
are in factualitization
the exact
same
thing.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “CRICKETS”

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“A SUMMER CIGAR” BY NICI E. BROWN

Recently, I ran into this poem and thought it was fantastic. I know it’s the middle of winter, but I think maybe that is the best time for a summer cigar.

A Summer Cigar

Glass splits burgundy into facets
through the crystal ball of a wine glass
that has no power to tell the future,
only quiet it down to a numbness.
I have to laugh at the idea
of a ten dollar bottle of wine paired
with a ten dollar cigar.
It takes four matches to light –
What hidden pleasures
will the thick, spicy smoke enhance
in my cheap Malbec?I hear the neighbors cursing at each other,
taking the stress of back-to-back retail jobs
and a janitorial position during graveyards
out on the family they work for,
the bus hydraulics hissing from Meridian,
an immigrant grandmother laughing as she ticks
off hopscotch numbers with her first-generation
grand-daughter in between planting
her soon-to-be blooming annuals in the neat
boxes of her tiny Garden of Eden
in poor East Boston, a pristine space, the only thing
still sandwiched between calamity and the sea.

Smoke curls from my lips
to cast about into the breeze.
I have to keep pace with the cigar
and carefully note the wind’s strength.
If I smoke too little
the flame will go out.
Sometimes I think we could break with the intensity
that’s in the beauty of a single moment in our own skins
but the taste is fleeting,
quick to be scattered away.

Life only deals out
happiness fractured into fragments
here and there, from time to time.
For some reason, I always reach
for the same happiness recipe
though I never have the same ingredients.
You’ve got to learn to cook what’s in your kitchen.

It’s been a long winter, so
get drunk on summer, and spin
what love you can from the warm air.

When the cigar burns down,
the closer [it] gets to my lips, the
sparser my breaths become, or
it’ll burn too hot.

READ MORE POEMS BY NICI E. BROWN

READ “A GIRL NAMED AMERICA” BY ME, BRICE MAIURRO

Interested in having a poem featured? Email me at bricemaiurro@gmail.com. Please just one submission at a time, until I get back to you.

A POEM’S APOLOGY

i’m sorry i’m not a cartoon show.
i’m sorry i’m not a greatest hits CD.
i’m sorry i’m not a dubstep remix of the national anthem.
i’m sorry i’m not a virtual striptease.
i’m sorry i’m not a plastic book about vampires.
i’m sorry i’m not a scripted reality TV show.
i’m sorry i’m not a live bluegrass performance.
i’m sorry i’m not a wet t-shirt contest.
i’m sorry i’m not a commercial for tampons.
i’m sorry i’m not a stand-up comedy routine or a dueling
piano bar or a beat boxer or a heartwarming
bible about chicken soup or a legal document or a closing
statement or a viral youtube video or a first-person-shooter
game or a broadway musical or a circus with clowns and
juggling bears and tamed tigers and the mustachioed
ringmaster,

but i am not sorry that i am a poem.
i am not sorry i am a penguin
looking for my true love penguin
to give her
this
one
pebble.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “ON THE FIRES IN COLORADO”

MARCH 12TH

and here i am
burning fossil fuels in the pitch black
something
carving through the rockies
meandering down I70 like a punch-
drunk fool.

tonight, my love!
i kiss you
goodbye.
your trees are green
with envy
but i
have got to
confirm

that there is a world
past your western
slope.

i am slipping
through the cracks
in a black soul.

and this black soul of mine
seems
nervous;
a puppy, with its
tail between its
legs.

breckenridge burns to the ground
in my rear-view.
and my rear-view mirror
frames flashlight city
chasing after me
but this storm
can’t be caught.

this vehicle
is in motion.

i want my eyes to be
panoramic.
i want my limbs to
stretch history.
i need to know what my feet
feel like
in utah.
i have to breathe in the grand canyon’s
sighs
and the artificial air of vegas
casinos.

i am not retracing anyone’s footsteps.

and i am
not
tracing my
shape
into someone else’s
shadow.

i am disappearing.

i want to know
how it feels
to be in a ghost town.
i want to know how it feels
to be
a ghost town.

(may america lend me the disorient-
ation of not having the mountains to show me
which way west is.)

i need to talk to strangers
uncomfortably
and wake up
hungover
in the afterbirth of the womb
of the west.

i am not trying to erase
christianity.
i am trying to
talk to god
first-hand.

i want to see god’s face
without
any makeup on.

i want to hear that
voice:
mountain whistles
slot machine jingles
tumbleweed scratches
bob dylan’s harmonica

i know god exists.
i just want to meet him in
unexpected
places.

please…
sweetheart
try to understand.
i will
boomerang back to you-
don’t take it personally that
i shoot through your veins at
eightyfivemilesperhour
it’s not in your nature to be so
low.
and tonight!
in the darkest of dark

we can be whatever we want to be.

i’m letting my gut
blindfold my mind
throw ’em in the trunk
and drive
us all
into
oblivion.

the road there is lit
solely by mountain stars
close enough to grab
between the boulders
and the neon stripper signs
i am sway-
ing like a crane game.

on the road
i am finally home

on the road
i am charming
and good company

on the road
i am as confused and conflicted and beautiful as
america

it’s march 12th
(happy birthday, jack kerouac)

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “SOAP OPERA OF VAMPIRES”

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