TRACES OF YOU

traces of you remain in this scantily-clad burnt-
down apartment
unfinished glasses of water (melted ice) frazzled bed
sheets hanging on for dear life
my hands smell like your perfume
i don’t think you wear perfume
your harsh red lipstick stains my white cigarette
your words click through my head and
they click through my
head and
they click
your ghost arm keeps me warm at night
momentarily
and then
i wish you were here god
damn do i wish you were
here
queen-sized beds are substantial enough irrefutable
evidence that god does not want us to be alone –
shut up
and you said you didn’t want to be
white trash and leave your bra
here
(will i turn every woman into a poem?)
(i start to wonder with that – am i an
assembly line chauvanistic asshole but
then i remember how these poems write
themselves)
“slow down” she said, and my tin man
mechanical heart died trying to alter the
natural pace of the universe
i didn’t make you breakfast – bought a
bagel – orange julius – at two p.m. in the
morning and
oh god
do i want a million restless nights for you
for you
and i am putting on my shirts
backwards
and i am so terrified of
hurting you
and having to watch you
cry
and this is what we do
and these traces of you are everywhere
i find your bread crumbs leading me in circles
i am saying
yes
to our arrhythmic kisses, my
fault
and you
you are
incredibly explosively indefinite car crash
heroin supernova fleeting angel that i caught
in my net
animalistic instinct tells me to push
through
because i
am in love, but thus far,
only with the
traces
of
you.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

Advertisements

PORNIFICATION

i went to the grocery store today
and i ran into a woman
in a vinyl maid’s costume
as she rounded down the cereal aisle
she adjusted her garter belt
and pushed her forty-year breasts into cleavage
she ran her finger down my chin
her red nails scratching my beard

“hey big boy,” she said.
“cut the crap,” i said.
“what?” she said, “am
i too old to be sexy?
are maids not a fantasy
of yours?”

she grabbed a box of
captain crunch and
put it in her overflowing
shopping cart.

“I haven’t had sex in fifteen
years, three days, seven
hours and thirteen minutes…”
she said.

“are you married?” i asked
her.
“don’t ask questions you
know the answer to,” she
said, “of course i am.”

“price check on aisle
twelve,” said the overhead
speaker.

i saw the register girl
start stripping on the check-
out counter.
a man
threw money at her –
well,
to pay for his eggs
and milk.

then he got the hell
out of there.

“see!” said the middle-
aged, leather-clad, house-
keeper, “you men
are afraid of sexuality,”

and i said,
“first off, we
are not ‘you men,”

she winced at me.

“second,
we are all
afraid of sexuality,”

“i’m not!” said
the maid, wrapping
one of her
legs
around me.

“stop it!” i
said,
“that
is not
sexuality. we
have
all
been
pornified!”
“pornified?”
“pornified,

objectified.

fed cereal box caricatures
of what sex
actually
is,”

and then a scantily-clad pool-
boy bought a
banana.”

“pornification!” i said.

“come with me,” i said.

and i grabbed the vinyl
maid by her soft
hand and we ran through the
store until i found a
man
shirtless,
carrying an ax.

grizzled and manly
he said,
“hey there, sugar.
what’s your name?”

and she said,
“whatever you want it to be…”
she bit her
lip.

“no!” i said,
“no! no! no!”

“what?!”
they said,
together.

“what
do you want?
lust or love?”

“love,”
they said,
together.

and i said,
“good,
you.
lumberjack –
take her on a
date.
dress nice.
wear a
god damn
shirt,”

everything has taught us that sex
is all about
sex.

that sex
is saturday morning cartoons
mixed with
saturday night skinemax,
but despite
what you’ve learned
sex is communication.

it takes more guts
to lie naked in the arms of
someone you have true feeling for
than it does to play
make-believe.

pornification.

we all feel sexy.

we have
high heels and
gritty colognes.
we need to remember
what
happens when the heels come
off and our natural scent
creeps through the artificial
chemicals.

why would anyone want to make love?
hollywood does such a stand-up job
on their own.

i caught my breath.
the man and woman stared.

“mommy…” a voice came around the
corner, “can i
get some fruit
snacks?”
said the tween, dressed
like a victoria’s secret
angel.

pornification.

robot whore houses.

the below-the-
waist version of tv
dinners.

sex sells.
we buy.
love dies.

pornification.

a generation of desensitized role-
players.
take off the costumes.
turn off the lights.
begin the conversation.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012