Poetry by Brice Maiurro

Shave your beard and go home, Sam


shave your beard and go home, Sam
there’s no more light in this lightless room
there’s no more weight left to put on this heavy story
you’re not this room made smaller and smaller
you’re not this dance done into the point of exhaustion
you are in fact Marin County and the faceless trees
the roadless highways, the elation at every other star
the differed sense of self that you chase after at the nose
of your undying headlights in the california night
the hidden stitching on each and every book you’ve ever read

shave your beard and go home, Sam
you are a wild bird in an opened cage
you are dragging around barbed wire for too many miles
kiss clean the past and let it disappear into the deep end of it all
take this baby deer into the field and shoot it in the head
that gun will sound louder than any shouting match in history
but in history it will disappear from profanity into grace

shave your beard and go home, Sam
this is it
my last ditch effort to brazenly remind you to save your own life

​


Portrait of a Horse Spooked by a Gun


this is not an easy poem for you to write
you wander around in the attic of your own skull and wipe dust from some old mirror
for the first time in a long time you examine the lines of your face

you identify a new gray hair, an abandoned missile silo in the field of the dreams of youth
you identify a new pair of crow’s feet resting on the phone line of your eyes

in the soul of your eyes there is the shrapnel pieces from a dozen love bomb explosions
the pieces dancing like dust as you float into the ether of your own past

you muddy your face with the dirt of your unending apologies
you muddy your face with the water of your everything will be alright sing-song

your face become unrecognizable it collapses into the black of that same ether in your eyes

and this is where you hide
in unrecognizable spaces that flicker between fragments of film reels of you riding your first bike
film reels of you crying at your birthday party when you blew the candles out too soon
film reels of you, in bee-swarms of temper-tantrum, stomping up the stairs and slamming the door
your pillow soaking up tears like a sponge, you disappear into its collective fallen feathers

someone flips the gravity switch off
we find that we are seven billion humans floating just above the surface of a round planet
with your feet in the air and your head on the ground
you control grab at a car door or a windowsill anything to stop from floating off
sideways upside-down fire hydrants blasting cold water stuck frozen in time

and how do we proceed from here?
in a world without gravity we are free
but what do we have left to ground us?

you are walking walking and walking through a dense forest of dead trees
you are searching searching for any semblance of something still alive
but still dead trees still dead trees like ten thousand dead spiders
why is there not a single thing that is alive?
your bouncing souls crackle on the dead leaves and the dirty ground
why is there not a single thing that is alive?
why is there not a single thing that is alive?

you assume the role of priest in this strange confessional of friendship
you sit solemn-eyed fingers cross-hatched as they scream into your ear
i can’t do it any more i’m stuck i’m lost it’s too late i’m gone i’m gone i’m gone
and you you can you’re free you’re everywhere it’s never too late you’re here right now eternally
the confessional walls break down
there before you in black mascara tears sits pagliacci the clown, crying
and in your other ear another someone crying
and the red face of anger screaming in your face and the squeaking of the broken dryer in the basement
and another someone calls and tells you they might be pregnant as you sip your camelbak of coffee
as you revisit the past against your will it’s here it’s back in this present moment trying to drag you back
as another someone sings off key, as someone screams at you in traffic
the harrowing violin string tornado warning of catholic guilt, of hebraic neurosis
of america the last battalion of clashing anxiety shot up onto the jumbotron
ten million deadeyed faces all crying and screaming enveloping you enveloping you
and in this overflooded megachurch you speak in drought and ask yourself if anyone is praying for you
your hands clasped tight in conservation of energy of energy

a strange dream where when you step forward you move backwards
thoughts fogged and lost to the eternal moonshine of the blotted mind
a strange dream where when you step forward you move backwards
an old timey movie scene where the car is clearly not in motion
film reels of you behind the driver’s seat racing into the heart of darkness
you’re trying to reach her love but you cannot reach her love
you’ve let the flowers fly out the window
you’ve left the bride at the alter
you wake up alone

a strange dream where when you step forward you move backward
you find yourself in a massive empty museum
staring at a portrait of a horse spooked by a gun
and you are the horse and the gun and the portrait and the museum

and recognizing yourself the horse you can stare the fear in its dirty face
you can nuzzle right up against it and sleep with it by your aching side

​


The Eight of Swords


you keep handing me this crying baby like it belongs to me
and i think what i’m finding is you are a broken boat
i think it’s time i tell you i can be a river but not an ocean
you keep asking me to sing in keys my sore voice can’t reach
i’m not a singer, i’m not a dancer, i simply bleed blood
and usually i’m searching for a sponge to clean that up
so take back this crying child that’s screaming your name
take it back it’s not mine

i know there’s blood all over my hands
but i’m not going to paint us red with it

i’m resolved to stay in this forest for a while
i’m resolved to sleep in tiny beds
but it’s three in the morning and my eyes are fire
i can’t even hear your howls anymore
i can’t use my broken hands to dig for bones in your backyard

i see the cage around you and i see the open door
i’m not going to slam it shut
i’m not going

i’ve counted my own doors and left them open
i’ve counted my own doors and understand that these rooms
are just compartments of one swollen heart

i’m staying home
where its home and i know how many doors there are

open your doors and carry your child
before it carries you
​

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BIO: Brice Maiurro is a poet from Denver, Colorado. His work has previously been featured by The Denver Post, Birdy Magazine, Suspect Press, and The Denver Poetry Map to name a few. His first collection of poetry, Stupid Flowers, was released in June of 2017 by Punch Drunk Press.