(brilliant revelation, you bloody moron…)

i could really use a shoulder to rest my head upon for this long drive home
through the american night and into that most certain day that comes rising up over the mountains like a herd of buffalo

i could most certainly use a drink
and a Love to share it with at some foreign train station bar where the wood floors rattle when our train leaves station without us

i could really go for a glass of cold whiskey
bourbon like marmalade with frosty sweat on the glass and two ice cubes floating around in it like two Lovers freezing in the ocean

i could take a nap and just find myself sleeping for days
wake up with a long long beard but not before dreaming of cities built from the sky down and a woman with eyes like blurry carnival lights


a woman with a voice like old raspy jazz songs and hands that rock your hands to sleep
a woman who dance with you alone in kitchens in the middle of the timeless night to the sound of your shaking breaths
a woman who smiles like the sun rises from within her
a woman who will wake you up from a deep sleep when you work early the next morning because she wants to make love
she is dying, rampaging heart beat within her ancient rib cage to love you and to have you love her back

forget the whiskey
i could really use a woman like that


READ 02.11, DAY 11 OF THE 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginningĀ CLICK HERE



Good Morning.

I wanted to take a minute to let you all know about a project I am going to be starting up on Februrary 1st. It’s called “02.2013” and the concept is fairly simple: I am going to chronicle my experiences daily through the month of February here on the blog.

Other than that, I don’t know what will come of it. I’d say the biggest difference between this project and my normal entries is there should be a more cohesive element to the 28 poems I intend to write.

I hope you all will check in daily with me, and join me through this journey. Should be a lot of fun.



lift up your spirits!
to this cataclysmic evening!
this parade!
of howling wolves! and monkeys!
to the altered perspectives!
of angels!
and their subjective

let our warped worlds come together!
like pangea in reverse!

let all religions reside within us all!
and all around us!

this is my wish for you.
and all of you.

let us toast!
to the fact our irises
are all different colors!
and our pupils are

let’s get lost!
in the rambunctious sound

and remind our souls
that love
is not just romance:
it is
every breath
the flowers give us
and each one
we return to them!

that are dead
in winter
and alive
with lush green grass
and wide-
eyed people
in summers!

let’s toast!

to the smell of rain!
to the taste of laughter!
forever! tonight!
and ever after!




Rant Unicycle

#1: TIPS FOR WRITING BETTER GOD DAMN POETRY PART 1: I’m not a big fan of how to guides, especially how to guides on writing, but I really enjoyed writing this. I decided to shoot from the hip. Say what I truly feel. Focus less on the structure of poetry and more on the what keeps me going.

#2: THE OBNOXIOUS SOUND OF MUSIC UPSTAIRS: Most of my pieces I write and five minutes later, I post them to my blog. The fact that this is something I wrote a couple years ago and still held up on my blog made me extremely happy. I don’t write short stories or prose very often, but I was happy to find myself writing this piece, that not only helped me rationalize alot of things from my past, but also better understand love.

#3: MTV: When I sat down to write this, I thought it was gonna be shit. I thought it was gonna be pure angst and cheesy and trying too hard to be trendy, but in the end, I don’t feel that it’s any of those things. I didn’t realize until the comments started coming in that this piece wasn’t just about MTV. It was about the things we lose along the way, sometimes include our whole selves.

#4: AN AMERICAN PORTRAIT: A personal favorite. My trip to California really inspired this one in me. I wanted to speak of this iconic idea of America that we’ve created in our memories and our history, and maybe point us to the fact that it’s time to redefine what it means to be an American.

#5: I AM AN APARTMENT BUILDING: One of those ones where you know the title, and the rest just kind of comes from there. I feel like this piece really helped me to rationalize a lot of aspects of who I am in so many ways. My roommate and I talk about how I don’t really edit, but what I seem to do is rewrite the same poems in different ways until I get what I’m after. This one seems to be a later, but I don’t think necessarily better version of SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE THERE’S A COWBOY ARGUING WITH A BUDDHIST MONK.


More than anything, what I’d like to say is thank you. Thank you to anyone and everyone who stops by and reads my blog. Poetry is not something that is easily made a career. No one gets into poetry for the money. What I’m in it from is to share something I felt with the growing circle of people around me. I want to inspire people to be better. I want to challenge people to rethink who they are. I want to make a personal connection with someone on the other side of the world as me, and I have been lucky enough to get to connect to so many fantastic people, all with incredible stories and nothing but kindness to give back to me. You’re not a poet until someone reads your poem. I believe that too. Often times, I’ll read poems to my family and friends, and whenever I hit that publish button on wordpress, the same rush of satisfaction and honesty hits me.

Let’s make 2013 the best year there ever was. The world didn’t end, so we still have a responsibility to make our resolutions as courageous as we can, and our words equally as brave.

Love, Brice

p.s. let me know what your favorite pieces were. šŸ™‚


Thank you all so much! 2012 has been a good year. Here’s to 2000 more in 2013!

A few things:







i know what it’s like to be so lonely that anyone will do
i know what it’s like to chase after a dream that was never going to become reality
i know what it’s like to find yourself lost in your own house in a room full of the people you know the best
i know what it’s like to lay awake in bed all night because the adderall stops you from sleeping but it’s that important that you learn to focus
i know what it’s like to accomplish everyone of your new year’s resolutions and still feel like it wasn’t enough
i know what it’s like to be stared at like a monster or the most charming person in the world
i know what grass tastes like and i know what the bottom of a whiskey bottle tastes like too
i know what apple cider vinegar tastes like and i’ll tell you this; it’s way worse than any whiskey
i know what it’s like to be under the bright lights of an operating table
i know what it’s like to stand beside a woman i love(d) on the stage of a church as her parents stare at me with hateful eyes
i know what it’s like to dig holes for eight hours for free
i know what it’s like to be 350 feet off the ground
and i know what it’s like to like six feet underground
i know what it’s like to not answer the phone for bill collectors
and i know what it’s like to wait by the phone to find out if someone is still alive
i know what it’s like to not have a car, to take the bus in the heart of denver’s winter
and i know what it’s like to have nothing to complain about when i look over and see a woman with two strollers and a bag full of food stamp groceries doing the same thing
i know what it’s like to learn you’re on the wrong side of history
and i know what it’s like to be waken up by sprinklers on a strangers lawn
i know that none of this is worth not knowing

if i’ve learned anything from this
it’s that the things that have taught me the most about myself
are never the motivational speakers on the grand stand
they are never the power point presentations on happiness
or the venn diagrams on good versus evil
the things that have taught me the most
are the burns on my tongue from drinking coffee too fast
and the moments that tasted bitter going down my throat
shitty coffee from waffle house at who cares o clock
served by some waitress who’s hard to look at
and doesn’t give a shit about me
never a venti skinny vanilla no foam latte
handed to me by some trust fund brat in a green apron




that poem’s gone
it was
good intentions

sitting in a
basement with tickering
it’s starting
to feel
like home

there’s a
paranoid hum
air conditioner
breeze about
probably just the
apparition of my

it’s starting
to feel
like home
in the

for a while there
the walls were
the inside
of a rubik’s

my books
were going
the sun
was a lamp
that could be
clicked on at

everyone, everywhere
all at once
felt like
to me
but the adderall’s
and my eyes
and his eyes and her eyes are

i must have been
punch drunk on rust
and lust
for a month
but that

was two months

a month long hangover
can be
a god damn rattlesnake
punch to the

i’m barefoot at night with my
barefeet on the dizzy table

i want to paint a painting of this
painting on the wall

what i really wanna do is
kiss humor
in the back seat of a

i can’t get over April
she’s this
lost month lump
in my throat
bermuda triangulation
i’m so lost at sea
let May crash on me like a
mack truck

i’m wearing my favorite jeans
hearing “Imagine” for the first time
skinny-dipping at
Sea World
like the Adderall

it’s starting to
feel like
in the
all the
junk the
laptops and
books and
bowls and
bags and
deceptively empty
Mountain Dews and junk
seems to be in
it’s place

there’s the air again

that computer

(i don’t know where this is going)

but blindfolded
people are
often pushed
surprise parties.

the world isn’t

it falls off
at the
horizon of
neighbor’s fences
where we become
to talk to
the mutants in the mirror

to feel
like home
in the

the whole place
like a basonet

this thing’s gonna
like a crescendo

this apartment’s home and you all
are little kitschy items, snow-
globes and candy
tins, handsome whiskey
bottles and
clever salt shakers
on my






Interesting in reviewing? Please email me at bricemaiurro@gmail


Over the last 6 months, I’ve written roughly four hundred poems, and I feel like I’ve learned something (God, I hope I learned something; otherwise, I really have wasted a lot of time writing poetry.) I’ve seen lots of these tips on writing, and some of them are pure bullshit (i.e. “the timer method” or “write a villanelle today, and a sonnet tomorrow”)

Let me tell you something, and please, if you disagree, let me know. The villanelle is DEAD. The sonnet is DEAD. Do you know who your audience is if you write one of these poems? Someone who is trying to get you to read their villanelle and/ or sonnet and/ or haiku. Haiku is great as catharsis. Don’t get me wrong. Haikus can be lots of fun. But they’re just small words.

No one wants to read your nature poem, unless your nature poem says something that’s not been said about nature. Don’t tell me about how nature’s beauty fades. Robert Frost kind of owns that with “Nothing Gold Can Stay.”

I don’t want to hear how the clouds look like pillows in the sky. Or marshmallows. Even cigarette smoke has been said. Tell me the clouds look like albino mustard gas. Weird, huh? At least it’s interesting.

Thou shall not speaketh like this. Poetry has to, has to, has to be honest, so unless you’re Shakespeare who somehow caught a hold of a time machine, do not talk like Shakespeare. Talk like Jake, talk like Lucy. Poetry is not pretty words. Poetry is words that you think need to be said. That’s about as terse as I can get. If no one cares what you have to say, then it’s probably not poetry.

Which brings me to rhyming. Rhyming can be really great. Just know this: your job as a poet is to trick people into reading poetry. This is a general idea of what people think of when they think of poetry:

What sun rises on the east

Tis the eyes of lovers in love

What wretched soul bequeaths the beast

That crushes the soul of fragile little dove

It’s cryptic. It’s cliche. It’s all naturey. I don’t think I’ve ever used the word “bequeath” before. It’s overdramatic, and to get back to my main point for now, it rhymes.

If you’re gonna rhyme, you’re taking on a bigger challenge. Plus-sides of rhyming: it can be catchy, it’s is more musical, you can play with putting ideas into the words you rhyme (i.e. mate and hate (contrast or juxtaposition)) What you’re not doing is thinking about who is going to read this. This is why people say poetry is dead. Poetry needs to become a part of its times. We get more real as a society, more honest. That’s all we’ve ever done. We break down barriers, and I think when you write like a 16th century poet you lie to your reader. I admire rhyme. I wrote rhyme a long time, but if you want to be heard, talk (or yell) more like you do, and less like Francis McFancypants, Esq.

You have a rhythm. Everything you say has a rhythm. And believe it or not, it is a challenge to write the way you talk. To find the poetry in the words that press down on that god damn keyboard. Think about the way you type even. You type faster and slower. That’s one of the reasons I’m an advocate for typing poems. It’s rhythmic. It’s like playing the alphabet piano. It helps. You find. Your internal rhythm. Your pace – your flow – the way you truly. Speak.

It’s a bummer coming on here. Though there are some great poets on wordpress, tumblr, facebook, you have to filter through massive hills of shit to find them.

Read modern day poets. Go to a local poetry slam. Even better, don’t find your poetry in poetry; find it in music, on billboards, in other people’s words. I can’t tell you how much poetry I hear people say everyday of my life. My sister the other day said “We are not infants in business suits, though…” in casual conversation, and I knew there was a poem there. That she meant more than just an obscure reference to an episode of Rugrats we watched when were little kids. It was amazing. It made my day.

More than anything – write. Write shitty poetry. Shitty poetry is warm up rounds for the good poems. Trust me. I can see the patterns in my books. Sometimes it takes a few tries to get at what you’re getting at.

Also, before I misguide someone there, think less. If you try to be deep, you are going to sound like you’re trying to be deep. I had this idea I written in my phone “Life is the murderer. Death is just waiting for you on the other side.” I really like that thought, BUT it’s too “profound”. It needed to be humanized, rationalized, and a little bit bastardized. I ended up writing a poem on it, two months later, might I add, where it came out:

life. shit, man. life is your friend sometimes. death
is always waiting by the phone for you to call and
hear me, you. when life stabs you in the back. when
she sleeps with your best friend and turns off your
alarm so you’re late for work. when life cancels your
insurance before driving your car into the first brick
wall she can find. when she strikes you with sodium
penethol (truth serum) just before your lifetime achievement
speechĀ and calls your mom and tells her you murderedĀ someone

and the cops catch on and they break into your house
in the middle of the night and arrest you for the crime
that life committed, hear you, me, brother. death will be
the friend who takes a taxi to the penitentiary to come
and bail your sorry ass out.

Be down to earth. Every poet is trying to become a god, when the whole point of poetry is to utilize it to become a human being. Consider your audience, and I don’t just mean that in a high school English teacher way. I mean that in a “learn to empathize and sympathize and apathize with everyone, so you know how to speak to them” kind of way.

Write everyday. Bring a notebook with you. Send text messages of poem ideas to yourself. Write down advertisements you see. The other day, I was driving to work and on the radio, there came a flash flood warning, at one point the man on the radio said “Do Not Drown.” Whoa. There’s a poem there. Everyone can hear that flash flood warning in their head. They can hear the baseball announcer’s voice; they can hear the preacher at the funeral; they can hear the preacher at the gospel church; they can hear the 1950’s ad for Brillo pads; take advantage of your multiple personality disorder.

I have a lot more to say, but I’m gonna stop, thus marking this part one. Please leave me any questions or comments, and I will include good questions in my next post on the subject. In the mean time, I dare you to write who you are, and how you are. Write the whiskey that’s burning through your liver, and write the spit that’s stuck underneath your tongue.


P.S. I think this poem speaks to this subject a bit, too.




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


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