Kansas City

Somewhere in Kansas City someone might be saying these words.
My friend Sarah is locked up in Alberta,
the bars are birch trees,
they surround her,
and day after day she draws them,
these spines that spring from the earth.
She draws them
as if maybe she can work her way through them.
She draws her lover beside her
and she draws us again in Denver
or together in the birch trees.
She draws them as if she can conjure something

or someone
to another place.

Lost in Conifer
I walked through an endless field of evergreens
and miles deep into my head
playing a long tricky game of object impermanence
I stumbled onto this great field of birches,
and unbroken
I stepped into them
and I was not there
I was with Sarah and her Ivan in Alberta.
Sarah asks me
Do you believe in time travel?
Somewhere in Kansas City someone might be saying these words
and there is a currency too valuable
to knowing that my breath has traveled as far east as it is west
into the mouth
of a stranger
that I met in another life.

i shot a bullet at the mirror and the mirror shot back

i shot a bullet at the mirror and the mirror shot back
and my head hit the tile with a thunderous clack
and the clack sounded loudly such an echoing sound
and as i stared at the ceiling all the cobwebs i’d found
they reminded me time has a way to keep moving
and i found myself stuck with no patience to lose and
my patience was gone it had leaked from my brain
and it packed up its suitcase and boarded the train
and the train went to nowhere or at least so i heard
when i sat back and watched and i realized absurd
things happen and we just keep sipping our coffee
as we stare at our watch in some strange hotel lobby
that we call our existence where we never are sure
if our intentions are selfless or if they come across pure
but i’m telling you this that i learned looking up
at the ceiling of the bathroom where i swallowed my blood
that if the train that your riding ever goes off the track
and you pick up a gun and it goes in your sack
and you go to a room with a mirror that stares

and it’s empty and hopeless with too many chairs
and not enough people and you look in the mirror
and you’re just staring back at everything that you fear
when you pull out your gun from your oversized sack
if you shoot at the mirror it is sure to shoot back
this i know beyond reason this i know for a fact
cause i shot at the mirror and the mirror shot back

Brice Maiurro is a poet, publisher, editor, community organizer, and writer based out of Denver, Colorado. His first book of poems, Stupid Flowers, was released in 2017 and is available at Revolution Records in Kansas City.