Brice Maiurro

Why I Write Poetry

when it comes
it comes like a mack truck
and i don’t have the strength
to plant my heels
firmly in the dirt
and slow it down
and i don’t want it to pass on by
so my only choice
is to stick out my thumb
jump in
and ride along
with this shady strung out
truck driver
until one of us
is ready to kill the other

when it comes
it comes like a great woman
and i’m usually and inconveniently drunk
so i ask her to dance
in a loud room
where maybe she won’t notice my slurring
and i wear my cologne thick
so maybe she won’t smell
the booze on my breath
and the dance never lasts long
and usually
i end up taking a cab home
and usually
she goes her own separate way
but sometimes
she comes with me
and we spend the night together
tossed in madness and revelation

when it comes
it comes like shock therapy
and in the pain
the swelling of the temples
the shaking of the muscles
the boiling of blood cells
there is a moment of strong breath
where some ghost escapes
and someone else sees it
and them and me
will always have that
even if i’m not all there

when it comes
it comes like a letter bomb
and i could just throw it away
never open it
and the truth is
if i did that
i would be fine
but time and again
i play russian roulette
i do what’s worst for me
i open the letter
i inhale the toxins
i remind myself
that i am not god
and i am reasonably sure
that god would not be who they are
if any of us
were ever considerate enough
to give them a choice
in the matter

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