Penny For Your Thoughts

Permeation

2011-12-14T23:08:00.000-05:00

I want you in me. As me.

I want to know all about you. Discover a little
egocentricity and possible falsities that
lie deep and are undiscovered underneath. I want to ripple your wave
be the shadow replica of the movement in which
draws your orifice into being. I want to explore you.
Be the origin as navel (0,0)
go across undiscovered planes and rudimentary
shape shifting.
You are beautiful. And I want to trace you.
Draw little lines with my finger
where ink hits upon warm skin
supple fat and coarse stubble from 5 after 5
ante meridiem. I want to be your sunset.
Force the colors across cumulus clouds and earth shattering
hailstorms. Be the west end of equinox and its flaming orange and red
bursting a fireball within you,
as you.
You are my truth. My beginning, and my end.
You are the simplistic of words and the complexity of Babel,
scattered tongues that all equate the same meaning. And I adore you.
Want to sit front and center as your student
Where chalked lines become patterns of discernment. Repeat vowels
and consonants that others have fell short of. Ooohs and Ahhs becoming
much more than the cliche over thought choice for stumbling thoughts.
Yes and Yes becoming more than affirmation.
I want to know all about you.
Discover you.
Understand you.

Because I love you.

And In you,
I am you.

-b.r.rivera

Dissonance

2011-11-28T00:29:00.000-05:00

he called it a kiss.

i called it a misrepresentation of a moment
held lip to lip. hardly mentionable. if anything, exceedingly
questionable of the stillness that holds silence in the dark.
it lays thick.
the silence.
a hung canopy weighted in the air of deadly gasses to the masses
particulate clouded in smokey haze and devilish grins of sarcasm
and uncompensated limbs.
how dare he even
speak that word? he calls it a kiss.
I take a drag of a menthol cigarette
and exhale bullshit.
we were once so beautiful then. no wrinkly lines to expose
wasted years and wasted tears held with grains of sand
and unspoken arguments that became our religion.
the passion, an unrequited love
marked by inked x's and o's reserved for secret lines and tell tale
signs of what was passion of a honeymoon phase
now the spark sprinkled from the star gazing eye dreaming of a
hundred ways
to become that reverie again. that mystical way in
a graze of the skin became an ignition in the warmth of untold regions
the nape of the neck gave premonition to electricity in cohesion
the small of the back curved a path to the squeeze of affirmation
the lick on my clitoris became your cue to end starvation-
and we sit here untangled in the shadow of the dark
back to back held onto what was once a spark
a misrepresentation, a fallacious causation of what I deem a lie

he called it a kiss

i call it an alibi.

-b.r.rivera

"Epicenter"

2011-11-03T00:15:00.001-04:00

he must be a god.

Exhume him as a cartographers secret fetish
twisting lines and deep curvatures as
mountains stretch forth east and west. Ripples and valleys more.
Much...much more.

i am his center.

Enveloped in the sweet moisture of his breath
fuzzy memory of auditory beckoning shadow his reign over me.
the unlike cliche of deep sound where it meets vocal command
even the whisper of him makes me listen.
I hear him. Mouth and lips more.
I listen.
Cadence becomes undocumented synchronicity the mere
parallel universe where I once escaped from emotional purgatory. Could you imagine a yell?
His raising of octaves would command oceans to part and separate the seas from the
salt of the earth, counting grains to become glass struck down from the result of the Heavens
a faint sound to open ears.
He's calling-
and I come.
No hesitance. No second thought or momentary lapse of indecision.
He is so much more.

he exists as truth,
and I am his philosopher.
Dare I ponder this creation.

Skin unscathed by battle wounds and fallacious marks of immortality
he is beautiful. Cells and glands forming the elastic bands
of skin, i dare to touch him
and feel him. Flesh and veins more. I stroke him.
Liquidity becomes exchangeable morphing the simple
gesture of two as one and math doesn't matter in the state of mind that I'm in.
I hear something like e=mc^2 in the background. His mass producing energy, too much energy in this speed of light
Who cares about the logistics,
the scientific explanation of this.
His towering height a conquest of dominance

Branching onwards and upwards, roots burrowing in my infrastructure.

The mere electricity thumps between two synapses and create contact in an overstatement. Could you imagine a walk? His foot steps of imprinted power would shake the earth in violent tremors and become plate tectonics in the middle of the planet.
He forms new continents.
Gives me a lesson in geography.
Shows me the undiscovered regions on brown earth
the power of gravity,
the stillness of weightlessness.
and I want to explore him.
I want to be the polarity in which he balances me,
the axis and mutual attractiveness in the bindings that a body creates.

he is a god.

Limbs compass north to south. No compass necessary. Muscles and tendons more.

So much more.
so much
more.

-b.r.rivera

Push

2011-08-26T20:45:00.000-04:00

Push.
Broken walls and shove into shattered dreams.
Glass strewn across paced feet.
Disrupt any clear thinking and
Dissolve any hope of the future.
Wasted tears,
Wasted years.
Push.
Shout out into screams and yells
Harsh tones and echoed
Wedding bells
Photo memories thrown into a flame
Smoke filled air, a cigarette to blame.
Push.
Shake the vibrating truth
Have misery seat itself in lies that are mute
Dare to speak living in enclosed walls
Feel nothing in skin, emotionally starved.
Push.
Shove.
Push away have no clearance for embrace
Shove me again, to the arms
That will take.
Push.

-b.r.rivera

Besame

2011-08-26T20:14:00.001-04:00

Your kiss

made me experience advanced linguistics.
Crossed the line and enticed the spiritual
reminisce in the swirl of the tongue,
delight of a dance,
moment of endangerment.
I recite unknown adjectives and strange dialect
Secret musings and told reverence.
and I dare you. Dare you to re-enter
the atmosphere summoned by the gods
between a vibration of tongue
and surrendered indulgence.
Wave a white flag,
lick my lips and set me free
I am a prisoner to your
sensuality.

I remember.
Your oratory storytelling of electrical sparks
pulsing veins re-charging nerves and tendons
Where muscled neuropathy left feelings
in the dark
Wakening from the emotional comatose state
Relying on time to
tic
toc
our little dance on fate.

I dare you to remember. Dare you to
come into my world and brave the dusty soil
Thirsty earth and shallow oceans.
Be my cartographers dream
walk through foothills and valleys unknown
draw new lines in the regions of my thighs
scale the longitude in the orbs of my eyes.
Point north into twin peaks
Down south into the wetness of your dreams.
Re-enter into
the definition of me
Set your tongue on fire
Swirl
Move
Ripple and
softly
kiss
me.

I adore how
Your kiss
made me experience advanced linguistics
Your mouth screaming everything in silence
muted words in knowing eyes
Rapid breathing and pulsated replies
and I dare you.
Dare you to re-enter the pure pandemonium of a parallel universe
where everything is sweet for a moment,
the honey is dripping from every orifice
the buzz comes alive in the connection of lips
Your kiss.

Do you remember?

That your re-entered me,
Shaped and shifted me
Glorified me on a pedestal and lifted me
Loved me and suckled me,
Shared your deepest moments with me
Held me and elevated me
Cared and dared me
and I challenge you all the same
To kiss me
that way again.

For that moment. This.
My secret moment and told reverence-
Have you walk in and sensuality oozes from thee
and in this very moment,
all I want
is to
have your lips upon mine
and kiss
me.

-b.r.rivera

For you. I know you think I forgot to write a poem for you; I didn't.

Cursive Lines

2011-08-03T19:08:00.000-04:00

Does a hope inscribed
begin with subtle little lines
engraved in shallow letters and hardened dreams
faced with cursive lines and
silent pleasantries

How can a borrowed memory
Become a shadowed past
Fuzzy with details distastefully described
In purgatory of Jacob's Ladder
Worlds collide and clash
and within, I find lies.

When a love letter becomes a complaint
Where two wrongs become a right falls play to
victim and Heavenly Saint
When excuses become statements fallen from the lips
Where complacency holds no wrongs because ultimately
ignorance is bliss
Where entering a home becomes a hostile territory
When opening a lock becomes synonymous with dread
from the flick of a key

Does hope inscribed
begin with subtle little lines
Shaped as certificates that mean nothing
Rings that are not eternal and
dreams that give birth to become woeful funerals
Anniversaries as impending doom
A interruption to something-

A toast to life,
raise your glass
Two young lovers that ultimately clash
Crowd cheers here here
Voices yell and scream
Borrowed memories become forgetful pasts
Suddenly we becomes I
and I am stuck in purgatory?

Did it not start with a simple dream,
my once beautiful reverie
Did it not begin

with a dream?

-b.r.rivera

Disrupted Cadence

2011-08-03T18:53:00.000-04:00

You invade me.
There is no hidden offbeat path
where I can dust myself off from rubble and shattered dreams.
Bury myself from conflicted wounds and organized chaos that
inevitably surrounds me.

I wave a white flag.

Simply surrender to the noise created from empty graves,
beckoning scythe and Hail Mary's
fingers approaching forehead, rosary laid to rest in
heartless coffins.

You are here.

You hear no bugle horn calling its falling back,
no wave of retreat into the dusk falling over the horizon.
I have no place to go,
no place to hide,
no place to run
Only a dream of what simple freedom felt like
before the day
disrupted cadence entered my life.

-b.r.rivera

A Note About Nothing. Or Something.

2011-06-28T12:54:00.000-04:00

I've been gone for a while. Yeah...its like that sometimes.

I was just two poems shy of the #30in30 challenge. Wanted to conquer this goal, but it was just within my reach. I would have liked to do this, but I just couldn't. I fell ill during the month of April, and just didn't have it in me. During this period of time though, I did explore the many facets of poetry and then began to fall in love with it over and over again. That's what love is. You think you neglect it, and it was there all along. And its so beautiful, and new, and wonderful when you find something you haven't discovered within it before. That's what love is to me. Love is poetry.

During the month of May I was getting a lot things together. Finally moved the first week of June, and I am now happy where I am at. I hope that happiness stays with me. I always want peace in my environment. Sometimes its hard to have that peace when you crave other things, want the this and that of your life aligned so perfectly. Its perfectly a mess-and I would love to have it another way. Its in my reach, but I just can't grab it.

Got a lot of people giving me unsolicited advice, but then again, everyone will when you tell them that you're not feeling so hot. Everyone's a guru. Everyone wants to have that quote or phrase that shakes your soul and you will have to thank them everlasting for something that they will never do. Pull you up by the bootstraps. Only I have the ability to do so when there is so much going on in my life that even prevents me from doing things which I want to do. To live the way I want to live. To be the Beverly I want to be. Can't even cry in peace if I wanted to. Would have some people questioning why, while others not even caring. Tears are wasted. Tears seem to only be a momentary outlet in a wasted span of years. Wasted years, wasted tears as they say.

Well, while I wait for patience to give me strength, I have some stories to tell in the meantime.

Senryu Not About You

2011-06-28T12:46:00.000-04:00

cigarette smoke dance

puff puff, inhale exhale out

shadowed memories.

-b.r.rivera

#27of30

#30in30

He...Just

2011-06-28T12:45:00.000-04:00

he loves me,
beautifully
he
wraps each hair
around his finger
eloquently
dances in twhirls
of the tongue
sways in
laps of tastebuds;
pools of savory sweetness.
he loves me,
beautifully
he
singles each finger
around the nape
gracefully
smooths in goose pimples of the skin
swags in
the coolness of evaporation
he makes love to me
he
beautiful
makes love
to all things
entirely.

-b.r.rivera
#26of30
#30in30

Polaroid

2011-06-28T12:41:00.000-04:00

Shoot.
A simple memory.
A soon to be
forgetful matrimony
of a smile upon cheek,
its lines wrinkling upon the sun
a dried prune of
wasted years
wasted tears
wasted facade
of what hope brings,
joy always takes away
-a grin oddly photographed
where sunshine should have been rain.

-b.r.rivera

#25 of 30
#30in30

Prose

2011-06-28T12:38:00.000-04:00

I'm slipping in it
Tumbling
Fumbling
awkward
crumbling
mumbling
Unknowingly
Shifting and lifting
Gratifying and Satisfying
Denying and Crying
Laughing while hoping
Wishing while kissing
Utterly
just
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
in love.
Where the fuck in the midst of this
Am I supposed to stand in love?

-b.r.rivera
#24of30
#30in30

Past Moonlight: Haiku

2011-06-28T12:34:00.000-04:00

dew sprinkling on

shadowed memories of grass

sunshine, anew day.

-b.r.rivera
#24 of 30
#30in30

Suicide Note

2011-06-28T12:33:00.000-04:00

A empty cup on a tv tray.
Scent of coffee,
lipstick of a woman.
A unfilled journal.
Scribbled passages,
A forgotten lyric
pen of a poet.
A forgotten ashtray,
Smoke of tobacco
pull of a worrier.
A letter in the mirror
Sentence of the forgotten
Remnants of what
could have been.

-b.r.rivera
#23 of 30
#30in30

Safety's Snare

2011-06-28T12:31:00.000-04:00

Who's got me
When I need to unplug
the electric idiosyncratic bullshit
of the world above
down low

Who's got me
in deep valleys and shadowed paths
when growls and snares
smell blood, fresh
which they entrap

Who's got me
if a net is cast for safety
and not a soul to hold it
laced fabric, a web
a 50 star flag on a coffin
bugle calls/fold it
El fin, the end.

Who's got me?

Who's got me?

Who
has
me?

-b.r.rivera
#22 of 30
#30in30

Dare Not

2011-06-28T12:27:00.000-04:00

It's cold outside
but I dare not pull fabric around me
to guard against the icy wind
my only heat source
a lit cigarette in full bloom
turned grey from ashes
its red glare fading against
the winter solstice.
Commemorative, actually
a tobacco laced with chemicals
stick pulled to its knees
a symbolic ode
to the bullshit
laced with roses that is disguised as life.

I defy it.

Dare each sucking moment of a billowing puff
to choke me. This. The only thing that
warms just the tip of my finger
while the rest of my body goes numb.
I never really understood
how the largest organ of the body
has survived. Internal stress
exuding permanent madness
flaking skin to match
the air of the tear which fell on my cheek
just moments ago.

More air comes.

And I take it.

even the atmosphere has no limits.
The air is cold,
but I am colder
and it ain't no use
of arguing
with the wind.

-b.r.rivera

#21 of 30
#30in30

Confidential

2011-04-23T17:12:00.000-04:00

You want to be my secret.
You want to be my hushed space
cornered in acoustic walls.
My muse. My inner workings of a piece
that will always be unfinished,
A stroke always to wet for the brush.
You want to be my secret.
You want to be my whisper in inner ear canals
breath hot and heavy
My Adonis. My outer completion of an art
that will always be mastered,
A signature listed small on the bottom of epic greatness.
You want to be my secret.
You want to be my rumor spread far
and wide,
telling stories of untold regions and a cartographers map.
You dare to be the north
and south of me
the east and west
of we
the compass shaken entirely
by rhythmic needles dancing to go this way
in the direction
of nowhere.
You want to be my secret space,
my secret place
my unreserved dust in a room
reserved to be shined and placed on
a shelf, never to be found
by others.
You want to be my treasure.
My buried dirt
shoveled under years of cobwebs and
translucent slime,
dug deeply
until it is found.
And you found me,
A simple secret
That walked the earth
A revealed shroud of nothingness
That is everything
To you
under concealed thread count sheets
and squeaky mattresses. Me, simply me,
Found under undisclosed tears and shadowed paths
intersection of fate
Public in view.
You wish to be my secret,
and I dare to be
Identified by you.

-b.r.rivera-taylor
20 of 30
#30in30

I Wonder...

2011-04-23T17:01:00.000-04:00

I wonder if he loves me.
He uses that word
verbally
i mean, that word as a verb and
honestly
I wonder if it satisfies him
internally
as I know it would. Can I be that
lick upon your lips when you think
of me at the wee hours in the morning
and she says your name
under hushed covers and warm
sheets
can I be that
wonderment that is the excitement
in which you kiss
this and that of this
and I am just another
indulgence in which
sweetness is me?
I wonder if he loves me.
He uses that word
sweetly
I mean, that word as sweet and
says that I am that pucker in his mouth
that utters blissful secretions and
when he sucks me dry I am the lollipop
which hits the stick and I melt
liquefied in what he magnetized
come to me
he says
come unto me
he whispers
come into me
he yells
and I am this and that
of his and
I am an indulgence
in which
he permeates
satisfactorily
unto his lips.
I wonder if he loves me.
He uses that word
once or twice to me
but we all know love is a verb
and verbally
he speaks action
into love making.
I wonder if he
loves
me.

b.r.rivera-taylor
19 of 30
#30in30

Unplugged

2011-04-23T16:55:00.000-04:00

Unplugged.
Not the MTV special
followed by tear jerking moments
everlasting on a digital color tube
randomized in speakers and auto-tune.
Unplugged.
Minus the
stimuli and aggravated yells
the acoustics of nothingness
the shallowness of empty vessels banged until
auditory shells become vibrant.
Unplugged.
Zero beeps and hums
Whirls of magnetic electronics
filled with sim cards and control alt deletes
sympathized in a fury of
talking.
Unplugged.
No buzzed syncs of
updates and tweets
shallow narcissism filled with nothingness of everything being said.
No likes and dislikes
forms on auto-fill
shades of #0000 and binary code
mixed with internet thugs and bathroom pics.
No more.
Unplugged.
Stimuli meets stimuli
A shaded mix of colors whirl
and nothing can even tempt
the clickety clack of fingers typing
texting
tweeting
updating
buzzing
blipping
posting
blogging
commenting
on every noun, adjective, and verb used
with nothing
ever being said.
Unplugged.

-b.r.rivera-taylor
18 of 30
#30in30

Satiation

2011-04-18T23:22:00.000-04:00

the human tongue weighs 60 grams
and few people can hold its weight.
sour
sweet
bitter
salty
and the words evolve around the
choice that puckers the lips
in its bittersweet finish.

-b.r.rivera-taylor
17 of 30
#30in30

Hans Bethe

2011-04-18T23:04:00.001-04:00

He said I lost my spice.
The kind that metaphorically exists
when little girls become sweet
and enter puberty for their round hips
and razor sharp tongues.
My oomph.
My electric glow invisible in
orbs, its aurora tingling into
goose bump nerve endings.
My je ne sais quoi,
the essential me that categorically bursts
unevenly, its disruption a force
that kept scientists mad in the lab.
He said I lost my self
my dark being thrust down a deep rabbit hole
where I was much
muchier.
He said I lost a part of the x factor
the human chromosome of me, drowned in nothing-less
genes misplaced in a million of blood cells.
He said I lost my spice
my oomph
je ne sais quoi
x factor.
In a time reserved from point A to point B
I wonder where the muchness was
taken to derive at the result
of x - c ?

-b.r.rivera-taylor
16 of 30
#30in30

Woe is Me: Hood, Mentality

2011-04-15T22:15:00.000-04:00

There is no excuse for ignorance.
There is no excuse for blatant talks of nothingness.
There is no excuse for the woe is me,
There is no excuse for a ghetto mentality.

I enter a revolution here.
Sprinkle in a quotation from a militant
and declare that one is setting up oneself to fail
cold iron on hands declaring a phone call and bail.

There is no excuse.
There is no excuse for a choice.
There is no excuse for predetermined fallacies
That once that choice is not made,
you live unto your own default sublimely.
There is no excuse for single mothers doing it alone.
There is no excuse for single fathers living at home.
There is no excuse for being raised in the projects
Or living in the burbs'
There is no excuse for not reading books
Or using idiocy as words.

I enter a light bulb here.

Sprinkle in a Eureka! followed by a euphoria
I awaken the brain cells so that they can smell the truth from lies,
the honesty in which your soul simultaneously surrenders decries.
I declare upon mountains and speak this as your elegy,
How stupid is it to blame others, when a choice is only made within thee?

There is no excuse for excuses.
There is no excuse for lateness when you have a clock,
Because your importance overrides my schedule
And my patience rides a thin line is no shock,
as I tell you that your life ain't making it rougher for me-
Your perspective is your excuse
living in hood mentality.

There is no excuse.

I enter an Aha! and sprinkle this with with a little bourgeois
Mind as well be uppity compared to hood mentality in an cerebrum
Being as though that environments carry the social aspects of respect in decorum
The world is your nut, and you jizz all over the earth
Pour some beer on its grounds, score it as your virginal re-birth
Ride slow and loud, hindrance of temporal lobes befall on deaf ears
Bass bumping on streets, maturity not scaled in years,
Baby Momma's abundant, baby Daddies exalted
No use of quality time, checks straight to the IRS defaulted
Electric in a child's name, credit at its best
TV blasting Maury Povich, can a brotha get a blood test?
DNA in the streets, corner hustling by the shadows of night
Cell phone dialog exuberant as as speaker phone holds private details in bytes
Social media thugging and Internet knows its bully's finest
Itch on ankle tugs the black box of intermittent house arrest
as I tell you that your life does not make it rougher for me-
Your perspective is your excuse
living in hood mentality.

There is no excuse.

-b.r.rivera
15 of 30
#30in30

Ethereal

2011-04-14T22:17:00.000-04:00

Your body is my body.
There is no visible line shadowing a particular
orifice of where you begin and I end.
Attached. My body is your body
and there are no muted parts which gel in theory,
our intangible becoming tangible
adhesive becomes sweat in concealed
muscular space.
Your body is my body
There is no in and out,
Or out and in,
a precious orb dancing on the springs of
pillow top mattresses.
I could lay here forever,
within you
by you
as you
as your body becomes my body
and souls dissipate faster than lovers anticipate
where the mirage comes to its
cruel fate.
But at this moment,
Your body is my body.
My body is yours
and we shadow dance on walls
reserved for late night evenings
Ethereal.

-b.r.rivera-taylor
14 of 30
#30in30

BedLam

2011-04-14T21:19:00.000-04:00

I want to be your disruption.
Your inner breathing of how you challenged natural selection
The decision to hone in upon undefined chaos and internal stimuli.
I am your squiggly lines on acid free paper
Brainstorms in thunder and rain
Freezing cold hail dropped on a desert reserved for miraculous sustenance.
I want to be within you, as you.
I want to ripple your waves and have the this and that of you
stir up as a complicated recipe where grams are immeasurable and teaspoons
come to the lips as a sweet indulgence of a kiss.
I want to be your disruption.
I want to eject the stillness of your enraged spirit
cast fire on the doused flames and be your Phoenix rising. I want
to dwell within you. I like how the hands of you move from tingles
and electric buzz to raise goosebumps within a simplistic fuss.
I am your confusion. Your hues of shades discolored from the past
and penciled outside the lines with broad brush strokes. Have your
ink dwell within my pen and your lines of cursive touch the letters of another.
I dare to be your awakening. Your sweet aroma in a cup
tingling the caffeine-bated drip drop drip of creaminess
and silkiness binded by
a sip of everything that this
can be.
should be.
ought to be.
defined by me.
I am your disruption. I love the way you breathe in my ear
and capture an imaginary asthmatic attack, shallowed breathing
covering the air in night blankets,
reserved for the warmth that wraps on my bones.
Your impulse. Your sensory organs scream in delight
Fighting tranquilizing thoughts of endorphins, rushing over you
in galloping stampedes.
I am your pace,
your gait,
your stride,
your walk
The opiate designed chemically for an imbalance,
The brain's stimulus for nothing but us,
Your everything that negates you to be.
I want to be your disruption,
The panic that sets you
free.

-b.r.rivera-taylor
13 of 30
#30in30

If you'll let me...

Luv Letter to You.

2011-04-13T15:40:00.000-04:00

Do You Like Me?

Circle

YES or NO

and meet me by the slide. The one next to the
monkey bars, but not the one next to the swings.
You know,
the big one.
I have something to give you.
I know you don't like surprises,
so I'll just tell you. Its a dandelion.
My Pops said they're just a weed,
but I think this flower would look pretty in your hair.
I'll wait for you. Wait here for 10 minutes if I have to. I know
its a long time, but good things come to those that wait? Well, my
MomMom said that a watched pot never boils,
so I think she's talking
about me watching a clock but I don't know why a clock would be hot.
You know.
Not spicy. But from the heat.
It is warm out here today.
Listen, are you still reading this?
Why don't you just come and give me the answer already.
I'm going to miss the bus
and its a long walk home
When the answer
is
No.

-b.r.rivera-taylor
12 of 30
#30in30

Kiss Me Goodbye

2011-04-13T15:29:00.000-04:00

Sleep came easy
when the cold lover kissed me goodnight
wrapped my limbs in invisible blankets
a tourniquet for the purgatory moments
where flesh and blood meet no more.
I dance quickly in my dream.
My feet, a stolen quickening of rhythmic beats
reserved for historic events and
flirtatious movements in a solitary full length reflection.
I am his, and he is mine
and forever we shall be linked
to a scythe, a hooded figure
and a kiss
where sleep came easily.

-b.r.rivera-taylor
11 of 30
#30in30

2011-04-13T15:20:00.000-04:00

I love it that you're gone.

I love the long winded absence of silence
how two nothings became more than nothing but
a pretend speech that was never spoken.

I adore that you're gone.

I adore how the seat is unfulfilled in momentary memories
now a nightmarish calamity of how a relationship
was never meant to be.

I romanticize now that you're gone.

I romanticize in warm touches and human embraces
Fit for a body quenched in the desire of thirst
where kisses are indulgent upon this idealistic notion.

I am deliciously exuberant now that you're gone.

I'm happy because I'm happy. I'm happy that
A smile is upon my glamorous mouth and my teeth
are showing their pearly whites to someone else.

I'm glad that you're gone.
I'm glad that you're not here.
I'm glad that you're absent

But not out of my mind.

-b.r.rivera-taylor
10 of 30
#30in30

Rough Draft

2011-04-13T15:13:00.000-04:00

I wonder who will read this.

Who will get monumental cries dripped from the Heavens
To lay by the sulfured remains of Hell's waste side.
Who will read this.
Gaze upon pix-elated ink under the glare of a screen
Its dark humility a comfort in a
shadow dancer's insomniacs dream. Who will be amazed?
Who will challenge little bits of imagery.
Call this syntax a piece of prose
Break my onomatopoeias oomph with a frolicking woe.
Who shall it reach?
Does this poem expand the
thunderous seas and parched desert? Does this poem
include a cartographer's map and grid like
balance on A1 and below the equator
where tribes still dance by fire
and languages fall short of communication?
Who will love thee?
Who will want to adorn their heads with this prickly crown
Seek vengeance in words when it is not allowed
be the rebel when no one wants to be
speak to their demons face to face
and spit in the face of their doom like hilarity?
I wonder who will read this.
Who will get monumental cries dripped from the Heavens
To lay by the sulfured remains of Hell's waste side.
Who will it reach
Teach
Inspire
Desire
Entrance
Romance
Hypnotize
Deny
Who will this poem be
If no one
Takes her seriously?

-b.r.rivera-taylor
9 of 30
#30in30

Meet Me There

2011-04-08T14:33:00.002-04:00

Meet me, in an elusive reverie,
Dust over swollen eyes enchants the moon over me,
Taking your hand in a wisp of spiritual connections
My body is yours and I am perfect yet present in imperfections
As I wished to not be awakened from what I see.

Enter the dimension, a willingly detainee,
Touch this and that; a smile of approval, your guarantee
Skin glazed in sweat your affection
Meet me...

I dare not disrupt my unconsciousness, I am an escapee
Of oversimplified non-indulgence, I challenge reality
I am yours in this mutual sublime projection
You are mine in your chocolaty sweet confection
Engulfed in my arms kisses abundant and I am free---
Meet me...

-b.r.rivera-taylor
a Rondeau.

8 of 30

#30in30

Define:Love, Verb.

2011-04-08T13:59:00.000-04:00

I have an idea why
the title of love is used in vain
why its pain is simplistic in theory
why its suffering is individualistic in its weary
why its repetitive word is more than four letters
why its physiological effects can make you wetter
why its facial features change depending on the weather
why its emotional wounds cut the relationships it severs
why its idealistic principles captivates even the intelligent mind
why its stupidity reigns abundance and is re-lived time after time
why its moment is sweet, its length of stay welcome
why its lack of judgement is poor, its comparison to war is more than seldom
why its entitlement is to many, but few grab the chance
why its a difference between sex, and hardly not disguised as romance
why its songs are plentiful, its blues come easy
why its toasts to the lips carrying wishes of heavenly bliss make some queasy
why its Corinthians 1, Chapter 13 is the definitive notion
why some sprinkle eye of newt and feather of chicken for its elixir potion
why its tears are liquefied, its soul jellified, its heart purified
why its the embrace of one as shoulders are tissues as we cry
why its in different forms and holds a path to show you the way
why its a moment or a lifetime,
why it
can never
stay.
?

-b.r.rivera-taylor
7 of 30
#30in30

Uniquely Common

2011-04-08T13:45:00.000-04:00

I am a simple face
in a sea of the crowd
Its ocean deep
not necessarily still,
its ripples a disruption
to the ordinary me.

I am just me.

A little bit of this,
A little bit of that.
Sprinkle of some sugar
Spoonful of lemon juice
Glaze of two cakes.
and
I don't define what is commonality. In other words
Who can compare to me? My uniqueness
is just like any other's
which creates the strong sense
that we are all alike in the long run.
Average,
run of the mill,
desperate for attention
to separate us from the
ravenous pack of wolves, its teeth abundant in
oppression.

I am a simple face

a little mouth
a little eyes
a little nose

a little
bit of surprise
in an ocean that engulfs
all of us.

-b.r.rivera-taylor
6 of 30
#30in30

Estrellas

2011-04-06T23:16:00.000-04:00

It's nighttime.
The crisp, cool air beckons me
and all of a sudden I want to go for a little drive.
Bambino's up
and its past his bedtime.
No worries, its not a commonality
to take our child past a certain hour
where we can be judged by Dr. Spock comparison driven mothers.
So we open the door, and the slight breeze hits us.
Its absolutely beautiful.
I see a pregnant moon
Its off eggshell crater face
smiling at me.
No clouds in sight
to hinder a luminescent tidal wave
in another part of the world.
He points up
He jumps
He laughs.
Pushing his arm forward, he grabs an invisible force
His tiny fingers extracting a woosh of excitement
and says, "It's too far! I can't reach it!"
as his eyes hold the reflection
of stars.

-b.r.rivera
5of30
#30in30

Promises of an Empty Return

2011-04-06T22:48:00.000-04:00

(Points)

"This goes out to you...and you...and you..."

Hey you
yeah...you.
Please hush the fuck up.
Let me explain why
your mediocre monotonicity meanderings
prolifically flow throughout the entire region. How your
ratchedness has begun to systematically attack this
entire generation into writing backwards this and number 3's as "e"s and
how your mouth is a ticking time bomb which I sympathize with. Let me explain
how your Neanderthal comeuppance is nothing quicker than making it rain
how you met in a club and how you rolling on Dubs'
how your conversation is shorter than the stack of bills your holding
how the gap between your legs should be gently folding
Into the makings of a woman
That attracts the likeness of man
How he should respect thee by not addressing you as a female
How hard dick is not a quick sell
How sweet nothings without sour truths begets lies
How your worth is more than hips and thighs.

Let me explain.

Explain how there is such a phenomena as homonyms
how learning English is better than your new pair of Tim's
how a trending topic on Twitter shouldn't be a stereotype
How different children of multiple father's isn't a good sight.
Let me tell you
Let me...reach into your delusions of grandeur
Cut you with my tongue and tell you that less is more
Exposed skin is only leading to a drooling mouth
Intellect can't find a way in fellatio heading down south
Birds migrate and walk in flocks
Pigeons drop shit on concrete floors
There is no make over tests in the past where walls display clocks.

Let me tell you.

let me
Bottle up your worth, sell it to you in a hope and a dream
Let you flash a smile and be a photographer's nightmare
For the typical picture near the bathroom sink
Let me give you some change so you can dance a little strange
Have the glitter of the matter exposed in diamond rings
Absent on ring finger, mind gone of where
True gold paves the way where angels sing.
Let me tell you that
empty vessels make the most noise
that you scream ignorance
and whisper intellectual joys
that your experience is glorified in a hood mentality
that your wisdom is pacified in your all too familiar commonality.

Let me school you.

Let me put you on to something that's called nouns, adjectives, and verbs
Let me teach you that all these letters represent you in the form of words
that your tongue can cut, your words can heal
that your presence is known, even if you never near.
Let me explain.
Let me reach your deaf ears and diseased eyes
Life is more than a fuck, more than a sweet hello and a sad goodbye
That you live in the moment without thinking of the future
That your nonchalance puts a Band-Aid on what needs surgery and sutures.

Let me show you
Teach You
School You
Uplift You
Gratify You
Surprise You
Hypnotize You
Sympathize With You
all of this, that I know
To spare you the heartache
That lays in your ultimate sorrow.

Challenge only the nothingness within you,
Someday you have to learn-
You get only what you give to the universe

Promises of an empty return.

-b.r.rivera
4 of 30
#30in30

Half-Mast

2011-04-03T12:09:00.000-04:00

Glaring through windows
clear rain in the dew of face
cologne sniffed a reminder

Pleasant memories
death present in her lover
her soldier was once a man.

-b.r.rivera-taylor
3 of 30
#30in30

(A sedoka. This poetry form is an un-rhymed form of two katauta. Each katauta has 3 lines, with the respective 5/7/7 syllable count. The style is Japanese, with originality beginning as a musical poem, but broadened to other subject matter.)

"John Wayne"

2011-04-03T11:52:00.000-04:00

I must disrupt this.

Put a ripple to cast a thousand waves

shaken by a moment. A whirlpool if no other

gratified by the less reasonable gods, my nod

to the pickers of the hung backs and perhaps

plumbers ass from seeking seed from cherry.

This is my moment.

My epic John Wayne blacker than soul, blacker than hell, blacker than night

to create a internal struggle with my insomniac mind

teetering between dusk and when

babies suckle at their pacifiers, greeting

the infamous Sandman that alludes me.

I must disrupt this.

Cup of black rain and indulge

what my nerves do not necessitate. I dare

hesitate sniffing and grinning, my own

silent treatment of alone time that I

hoard over like the last piece of meat in a dog's bowl.

Do I even begin to be a little less cowgirl and more

Ice cream parlor patron, sprinkling unnecessary sweet

on the heavy cold world that tries to screw me over?

I won't even give a strong nod to the

reason why I must sugarcoat this orb separated by

atlases, and surely find a way to raise my glasses that peek

over page 117 of Angela's Ashes. Just this moment, cream free

and sugar willing-I sprinkle a dash.

Drink my coffee piping hot

Remembering tomorrow will soon be my past.

-b.r.rivera-taylor

2 of 30

#30in30

Take(Me)

2011-04-01T18:15:00.000-04:00

Erogenous in
velvety soft pillows encased
beyond cotton fiberfill, goose down and satiny smoothness
We have become
moist temperatures and visual regions adjusting
the wind of breath and invisible molecules
fresh skin tones exhaled over human dew.

re-

touch with my finger. a photograph snapped in a secret place
its development underlining elements of exposure
wiping excess sweat of indulgence that bent
broken backs and contortionist moves
hushed voices in closed spaces
silence approved.

I am within you.

The
sight
touch
smell
taste
feeling
the sixth sense mirror a of
shadowboxing on the wall. Moving tastefully
and gracefully by a dim lit candle. we are the producers of this scene
act one/ line three
Quiet on the set

take
(me)

on this event which now clouds my regional movements
zones defined and hidden
you the cartographer drawing mountains and dimples of shapes
with the brush stroke of your tongue over and over
Territories marked and proclaimed by others that no longer
hold the conquest. May I scream my Creator's name
Or nickname you Magellan

again

i am your muse. you are mine.
we struggle finding nouns, adjectives, and verbs
descriptions of
syntax in rhyme. Nerve endings and body shapes
The grey area of anatomy that dismiss black and white theories
Symptoms of unpronounced love. You denounce thee
Douse me
a fireman's siren to a ember that caught a spark.

Your eyes reach me
as we
shadow dance
in the dark.

-b.r.rivera-taylor
#30in30
1 of 30

In You, As You

2011-03-24T21:58:00.000-04:00

The Dalai Lama thinks that I should shut the fuck up.
Well, if he could use efficient curse words
and trill off that phonetic juiciness required from years of dreams
slipping through fingers and many nights a woman
that was within me was scorned.
Peace.
The kind of silence that is a requirement
ever so a lone and a part of the
uniquely unencroachable undivided attention
that can only manifest in still waters.
For we know, that they run deep. An
over thought cliche that gets to the nitty gritty of specific
environments and how a ripple in the water
cast by a stone creates a wave
which is oddly specific
and symbolical
of how a tsunami in my throat wants to utter
vowels, consonants and verbs of nothing
but curse words.
Stillness.
forget the nuances that accompany daily living
held by the grind of worker's sweat and
sticky peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, snot rubbed off of
a toddlers nose and a fresh Koo-laid stain on cream carpet.
Dammit.
If I could just say these words, hypothesize my inner thoughts
and emotions and have them eloquently wrapped in a sentence
full of gargantuan syntax that even a professor would be envious of,
I would say something prolific. Perhaps quotable. But what I need, right now,
is to be still.
Even the stimuli has a stimuli
The bees buzzing outside becomes electrified and I swear I hear an electric
heartbeat from that fuzzy little bastard that annoys me
his little sting a bigger match than my mighty swatter.
There is too much noise.
Too much pollution in the airwaves, too much loud yelling
and bass talking, loud thumping and speak frolicking. My ears,
subdued to the keenness of listening, cannot block the thoughts
within my head and now I am trembling
reaching in the auditory path of what I am trying to be
and I sit here in falsetto
humming a woo-sah in what I have become to be.
Inner peace, huh?
The kind that grows on trees,
the kind that is abundant and rich, and its right before our eyes
only we need to get around some false tom foolery and just adjust the pace
of how often we are acquainted with it.
Look under a rock,
He's there. No need to find an edifice or be a flock in millions
only adorned with carpeted floors, cool air conditioning and a pulpit of
the same saints that are sinners.
I can just sit here, and gain peace. Talk. But, in silence. I can just
wrap my mind around controlling my cerebellum
and choose my thoughts, my patterns, my experiences
just as I change my underwear
folded neatly in a drawer. I can undress myself
just as a lover undresses his mate,
primal and instinctive-with purpose, and with intent.
I choose.
I choose to be...silent.
Now.
If only if I can get the other voices in my head
to do the same.

-b.r.rivera-taylor

(a nod to my adventure in meditation. let's just say that its extremely hard to sit still and just "be" without thinking of anything. meditation is absolutely beautiful when perfected-closer to God, closer to you. God lives through you, as you. - E.Gilbert)

Dream, Declined.

2011-03-22T21:54:00.000-04:00

I would liken it to
a sudden dance of a cliche romantic book
where two lovers dance.
She, wearing a silken dress
of no less than the finest threads
is seduced by him and he
lands his hands in the small of her back
barely missing the roundness of what she does not lack
His fingers glide smooth
over the suppleness of the silk
gripping a small taste
like a kitten to the last drop of milk
and she giggles, flaunts a bit
has one last twhirl before she has to sit
he, intrigued, grabs that piece of fabric-
and it glides through hands like lotion
on a hard dick.
Just like that, poof! The reverie begins to awake
and suddenly what he grabbed on to, begins to shake
he can't keep the rhythm, stumbling to keep her flow
she two steps and dances in circles around, no time to slow
feeling satisfied, she hits the signature move by the last stance
and he sits there, still remembering that slip in in his fingers of that
last dance.

Dream, Declined.

-b.r.rivera-taylor

Accentuation

2011-03-22T21:35:00.000-04:00

I heard you say my name.

last night

a pregnant moon hidden from shaded blinds

eyes frozen from auditory hallucinations

and it was you. I recollect

tiny sparkles sprinkling in my ear

a luminary shadow from the peeked

tides gravitating toward you

and I could feel your breath

a past memory from cold windows

and warm perspiration

huffed on a glass, shadowed by a finger and

swirled into two opposing curves

that create a heart figure.

because two become one, if I stand corrected

or the absolute truth defines circular thinking

let him go, set him free

if he is truly in love,

he will come back to thee.

Simplistic notions.

Simply not an ocean

we are divided across time and space

a continuum that supersedes time zones and

past lives sudden truths and hidden lies.

i would recollect another memory

but I'm sure that it was not meant to be.

You keep coming.

Invading.

Creating

space within me. I shove back a dream

swirl it into a nightmare, paint pretty little demonic

tails on sugar coated reveries.

I can still hear you.

Tone, desperate.

Inflection, emphasis.

you were here.

Goose pimples touched this and that

of me

an electrifying soul gravitation

of how two souls dissipate and recreate the space which separates

another dimension of subconscious.

you hold me there.

command my name.

say it softly,

say it again,

reach it tight,

reach it low

hear me soft,

hear me moan and I am

unequivocally unimaginably undetermined to be

captivated by you.

This will only happen once in a lifetime,

this event-

under this full moon.

I once wished upon a shooting star.

Irrelevant of the desire to have a heart

for a moment's content. I held on tight, never letting go of

the swift breeze and honeydew swirling off the blades of grass

when I thought of the future you. And you came back.

to me

Reentered what

was dominion free.

if only i could close my eyes again,

i would see that this is just

dream.

I heard you say my name.

-b.r.rivera-taylor

Nip Tuck

2011-02-22T13:09:00.000-05:00

people look in the mirror all the time.

pluck this little hair,
smooth that little wrinkle with a finger
curse the mole on their shoulder
bless the plumpness of lips.

imperfections.

Tiny little lines formed from laughing
or crying
larger than life pores bursting
from sweat embedded from the brow
after a long days work.
little nuances that prove that we are alive
yet die with the cells that provide us.
and we're human.

human like

a life grown in the womb,
wet and wrinkly encased in globs of
fat around bone to protect life
amniotic fluid and stem cells
fluidity as the river of unions
gave birth to what a child should be. and somehow,
some way
between that beautiful birth
and our end of cellular growth
we are inept.
ugly.
imperfect.

we look in a mirror.
we gaze at little things
that become lots of things
which focus on larger issues
of why beauty is not a cliche skin deep
but a humongous and perpetual diminished fight
against the youthfulness of skin. and skin to skin we
clench on to this fountain,
only to be reminded
that nothing can stop the cruel joke
that the mirror will eventually play
on us.
we are ugly.
purely unattractive.
purely full of gluttonous folds called our muffin top
and hips that poke out further than intended.
we are not cute.
we sway false hair to cover the thinning of our own
because the fixture of stress costs too much hours
in a psychological visit to the office.
we are not beautiful.
we have yellowed teeth stained from coffee overdoses
promising us more hours in a day
to get things accomplished in a repetitive circle.

imperfections.

a crack here,
a dimple of cellulite there,
and just like that-
we are not beautiful.

-b.r.rivera-taylor

Prose

2011-02-15T18:37:00.000-05:00

Just as simple as it goes
so complex as it stays
it forms an en-capsuled breath
and like the wind, i'm taken away.

-b.r.rivera-taylor

"Dependency of We"

2011-02-04T11:04:00.001-05:00

A slow syringe dances in my vein

Euphoric contents unmeasurable in CC's and

needle pushing administration held in disdain.

You are my addiction.

My glazed eyes and pupils bright

Dilated and fixated on skin taught, which I must fight.

Remove

the sweet temptation I dare to kiss the nape of your neck

The ridges of muscular pathways to the happy trail and I lick

to make wet. Who can justify the slavery in which you

captivate me

Addiction knows knows my name

And I respond with undesirable boundaries

as you are my dependency-and

You are the definition

Of what love means

Paradise in my eyes

You make me forget about the others before you

You’re a state of honesty

While I was living in a city of lies

We exist in a bubble

Every time we’re together

Nothing bigger than this moment we share

As the world is crashing down

I am not worried I have you…honored to breathe in the same air

The oxygen in my nostrils flowing to my brain

Cells to the blood pumping, addiction calls me by my governmental my name

Clinging on to the mere capability of you

Knowing that even your possibilities hold an end, but my mind does not share

this clue. For hopelessly entangled in a web full of lies

I hold the psychological dependence on pleasure and enjoyment on my high

Scoring hallucinogenic kisses and inhalant embraces

Fixating on the compulsive desires of broken sleep and cold bedsheets

and I, stuck with numbness around me

No warmth in solitary high thread count covers

I call my name to an imaginary lover-

And I still crave you.

As I make broad strokes with my paint brush

Upon your canvas

Climaxes

Come in rapid successions

Hours turn into seconds

Undying

Long lasting

Two loving souls

Clashing

But not in a violent sense

Here we are

You and I

Past

Present

And future tense

While this slow syringe dances in my veins

Clearly the definition of me

Continuous cataclysmic craving of my addiction to you

Glazed eyes heavily

Wishing for one more hit

of us momentarily unified as one

momentously.

to simply be dependence free psychologically

and forever be released of

we.

-b.r.rivera-taylor

-Steve Logan

Shout out and much love to Steve, aka Poetic_ID on Twitter. This is a collaboration poem, stanza for stanza to add show the dimensions of addiction of love, from a woman's (me) and man's (Steve's) view. I strongly believe that love can be addictive, but in the view of gender, the perspective of addiction can be quite different or even very similar in subject matter. Thank you for your insight, words and wisdom, Steve. To read more of Poetic_ID 's poetry, visit and follow his blogger at Will Write For Food.

Purgatory's Nightmare

2011-01-31T21:49:00.000-05:00

I am in my own little cocoon.

A perfect little shell
hardened by time watched and spilled over-
MomMom always told me that a watched pot never boils.
Somewhere, there is a distance laughter. Heart filled and hearty
Like comforting food warming the soul on a wintry night. Perhaps
a slow cooked soup.
He wants me to come back. Begs me on ashy knees, sore from a back bending disposition.
I, reluctantly pop my head out.
It is too soon.
I hibernate here. It feels good. So I stay a little longer.
Redecorate the closed in walls and paint a window with the available brushes. At least, I packed the brushes.
Would love to open a window. Sure would be nice to smell fresh air. But its stagnant.
Filled with stinky, thickened exhalations and darkened chambers. I cannot breathe.
I sweat and my perspiration mix with my inhalations and suddenly I choke. I am alone.
In this perfect little shell
and I cannot come up for air. The opening that was once the
rabbit hole leading like a Alice in Wonderland dream
soon turns into a nightmare, complete with
the devil's playground and his minions poking me with that fucking pitchfork. I begin to numb
find comfort in not having any comfort, hopelessly waiting for my mind to go insane
so I may not breathe the sulfur and ash that fills the concave and agitated ground.
Rock bottom.
They say look up. They say, if you hit this place, this wonderful and joyful place (a future sight for revelations and Sunday confessions) that you have nowhere to go but up. No place to turn right
Go left and find the geological crosses of latitude and longitude. I am no cartographer. I have no clue
of where to turn.
I still hear the distant voice.
A familiar voice.
A wrinkle of time captured in my once sane mind. Is this a trick
A dream
A false reality?
Can I really just look up? I raise my head. The tone is louder.
I open my eyes. The inflections grab me.
I roll my neck upward. The syllables reach my lobes. Stun my ears. They ring, assimilating a tug of war
in the brain drain that oppressed me. I...start to feel everything. I look up.
The light blinds me. My hands grab forward, but I do not touch anything. The raging air
Finally finds a break and my skin stops burning like a piece of aloe touched my epidermis,
cooling one layer to the next. and I run to it. This invisible
yet light changing, gravity defying, hope giving, loves alliance-
and I am back in my room.
I peek up. Pop my head out.
The seasons have changed.
Never mind all that.
I am saved,
Once again.

-b.r.rivera-taylor

-Climb out of the abyss, give the middle finger to depression and give life a French Kiss...

"Dispensary"

2011-01-28T21:18:00.000-05:00

Life
is not
trivial
waiting upon
someone to take it
we are expendable
to those whose life is not yet
blessed within the soul giver and
the life presenter who weeps at the
mere thought that someone would take it away.

-b.r.rivera-taylor

An etheree poem. The first concrete form I played with and loved upon sight. In order to become a better poet, we must read, study and write both free forms and concrete forms of poetry. Enjoy.

Morpho Menelaus Metamorphasis

2011-01-27T20:31:00.001-05:00

I stepped on a butterfly
broke its wings
shattered its luminescent arms transcended
solely made for air distance
to ride in the wind.
Veins, exposed
blood freely now broken
pixelated dots of red crimson delight
shattered on a blade of glass next to my heel.
I was not thoughtful.
purely clumsy and self absorbed
as I made my way into my path
and buried a creature into another.
innocent lost.
could not have picked its wings
voluntarily
knowing that each was put there
lovingly
by time caressed in a cocoons nest.
danced with time, laden with metamorphosis
and fruitful bliss bearing an entangled chrysalis
engulfed out of the need
to grow. birth. reborn.

in a next lifetime.

i stepped on a butterfly.

killed its lighthearted dance from a low hanging branch
suckling the nectar off a fallen flower. how...
appropriate. nearly serendipitous if a love was to blow a kiss
and i was to miss it based on a fallen flower and Poincare
with its Chaos Theory held in time, ever revolutionary.
How this simple act
shaped its wind off the back of my heels, created movement in the
blanket of invisible air,
made a tornado, ravenous and unyielding without a care
gathering its strength moving from one continent to the next
seen as an entire global complex
All tiny and precarious actions, once secondary and of free will
now have the everlasting impression of a tattooed spirit
inked of scaled wings and a cheap thrill
and I question the chronological error to even mention if the eyes had ever seen
the brown skin, mahogany
lips full, heavily
did he ever came back
to
me?

because I stepped on a Monarch's wings.

-b.r.rivera-taylor
(To all the loves out there waiting in purgatory: to enter the past, you must be willing to know that this might bring future mistakes with love. If its love, set it free. If it flies back-it was meant to be. You cannot change the past and recreate the magic that once was; you can only live in the present, and hope for the future. Blessings.)

The Butterfly Effect.

images by commons wikimedia org.

"Told by God"

2010-08-05T21:20:00.000-04:00

For every grain within the sand
that has turned with the flick of the wrist
there is a story to be told.
of the beautiful goodness that en-captures the minds of the
grieving ones left behind unfold
that will miss
all of you.
as God narrated simplistic sayings passed from generation to
generation touching you to thee;
surely I have gained knowledge from reading your life
as you have impacted me. And you were loved.
We could borrow time on the clock and arrange the hands
to go back and do it all again
to receive a smile and hear your voice
is to understand and comprehend the meaning of rejoice-
because you showed it. You boasted love proud in your chest,
filled with understanding and forgiveness,
grace and the epitome of being blessed.
God knows you were superhuman
surpassing the lines of ordinary and you were extraordinary
for compassion and
open arms encircling salty tears and
keen advice on not wasting God given years with
fragrant smells filled with food for growling tummies in the kitchen and
warm embraces for the hearts that needs fixing.
I was once told that a human life is a God-filled story;
memories shared, an hourglass emptied.
A beautiful life forever remembered-
as she enters into Heaven's Glory.

-b.r.rivera
RIP Aunt Marg'-you gave so much to so many; we never know the full impact and full love of someone until its absence. May we always remember you, just the way that you are-open to love, open to share, open to care. You will be missed. <3

"Redemption"

2010-07-03T14:41:00.002-04:00

I have abandoned you.

Turned my shirtless back towards you
and you have viewed my naked skin
graced upon sun-kissed residue
Effortlessly encased within bundled veins and exhaled breaths
which you no longer form nonetheless
with me, you have died.

I mourn you.

I wipe tears with lotion filled tissues
Face adorned with wrinkled skin and puffed eyes
Insomnia induced I walk the night
Sluggish bones piled upon creaking joints
Drip. Drop. Blurred vision now my sight.

I put religion on you.
Lyrical Hail Mary's, quiet prayers and
Slow moving meditations of Buddhism. Challenged my
Spirituality to become my vocal ultimate reality
Dimensions formed as I wait for facets to challenge
the fractals of my inner prism.

In death, I shall guarantee your resurrection.

No more shameless black clothed to disguise pain
Adoring rain drops to mirror life not lived in vain
Velvet roses on a mahogany empty casket
Kicked dirt on stiletto hills observed next to memorial baskets.
Erase the lost moments, the sands of time
Hide the dominion of regrets and withered flowers
Sun cast to petals, regenerating life gone in an hour
I will bring life back to you and share
the scent of my perfume on your pages
Silken writing tips on calligraphy scripts

Awaken from slumber, my long last lover---with a kiss.

-b.r.rivera
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://poetsunite.socialgo.com
http://twitter.com/poetachica
http://facebook.com/poetachica

Ode to my fallen poetry and bullsh*t writers block. Hope you enjoyed.

"La Flor"

2010-04-19T20:40:00.001-04:00

Si yo fuera una mujer feliz,
Yo exigiría que el mundo sea lleno de margaritas de Gerber.
Luminoso y brillantere
partiendo alegría en los rostros
deencontrado a nadie que los pétalos.
Para tener esta felicidad,
Voy a disfrutar de la sencillez de los medios de los pétalos
Arranca una
Él me ama.
Y otro, Él no me ama.
Cuando lleguen al final del tallo de la flor
Yo pediría más pétalos.
Aterricé en la pequeña fraseque no me quiero repetir.
él no me ama.
Y tristemente, esta mujer feliz en el exteriorllena la flor de lágrimas mojados,
Visible pétalos de rosa y morado.
Este pequeño rocío un recuerdo
Que más del Cojolo peor másse pone.
Pero
yo adoro a poner esa flor en el pelo
Pero esto es una flor media y la iraen mis pechos.
Tener este espectáculo pétalo el marrón glaseadosobre mi piel.
Los colores suaves y tonospastan en las líneas secreto de mi cuerpo humano.
Él me ama.
Él no me ama.
Lamentablemente, esta flor se ha quedado sin pétalos

Y me han acabado las excusas dedonde
podría lucir bella.
Así lo tiro sobre la tierra húmeda
Deje que el suelo de tragar su contenido
Y esperar a que un nuevo brote a crecer
Para poner en mi pelo,
de nuevo.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
#15of30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com

"As Seen on TV"

2010-04-19T05:03:00.000-04:00

No, I do not want your Snuggie.
Or perhaps I do. Either way,
I prefer if you just leave the screen
as its the morning, around 2. Nor do I want
your ass-spray, your tiddy on, the little bear
that sits by your breasts to release the stress
when you have your seatbelt on. Nor do I desire
the Shamwow soaking up a natural mess or the
Burger Slider radiating temperatures as my next
food quest. I don't want no nasty ass shavings of
the PedEgg near or around my human being
And I don't appreciate seeing advertisements of ashiness
Clear across my screen. And eff you, Bendaroos
What kind of material are you made of anyway?
Suppose I get a BumpIt from my hair that
even Snookie from Jersey Shore will adore for a
windy bad hair day. And what the deuce is a
Yoshiblade, and why would I need that anyway?
Suppose my beach body will be sweeter-as
it is my dream to marry my Mr.Jeter-
but is it so necessary to have a slider, glider, rocket and glider
for abs that won't shrink due to a metabolic wasteland
from having a child that instantly turned my hips wider?
No, Billy Mayes (rest in peace) I endured your
20 minute fast talking speech, but please, oh please...

Insomnia-let me get some sleep.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
#14in30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com

"Blood-Thirsty Leech"

2010-04-19T04:46:00.000-04:00

I really, really dislike you right now.
You are the kind of annoying insect
that has the whole world at its disposal
yet seeks the company
Resting noticeably upon my earlobe
buzzing by frequently enough where i want to swat you
just for the hell of it. Good for you, you fly by so quick-

I really, really dislike you right now.
upon comparison, you are the metaphor of a walking
hemorrhoid, piles and piles of nothingness and blood vessels of mass
hidden under denim jeans and shitty underwear-you know,
a pain in the ass. I mean...I really, really dislike you right now.
Upon careful reflection, you are comparable to a big heaping serving
of hot liver. You smell when I cook you up even in my finest China
and make my tastebuds activate in a way that does not satiate.

As a matter of fact, you are an insect-a leech. Blood thirsty and hungry
sucking the very life of me, stealing the form of any other parasitic
exoskeleton, where your inner definitions are proudly displayed. Because
just as a wolf has glaring teeth and wear sheep's clothing, that cuddly
bullshit lasts as long as your inner loathing.
How presumptuous to believe
that your specific company loves misery. The kind where Stephen King is put
to shame, you have no one except self to blame, and in the end you define yourself
as a lame. Not the lame which cannot find a date on a Saturday evening or work
on a Labor Day-but the kind of person which paralyzes himself in every imaginable way.

I really, really do not like you right now. Do you not know that you are your
worst enemy? You fight others as if this war is dependent upon yourself
as the idiotic General-yet you cannot even win a small victory.
Even as you leave the treadmarks on back and you believe that I am not foolish to react-
please do not make and ass out of u and me. Because you assume wrong, my love-
and I enjoy not having your company.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
#13of30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com

"Lights On"

2010-04-19T04:28:00.000-04:00

i want to own you.

the dust collected upon time
swinging from crystal inflected prisms
swaying to the to and fro
of unorganized drafts from my home.

have your light burst

into a thousand reflections
giving naturalness to cheeks and brows
gathered under holiday dinners and special
get-togethers. i want to dismantle you
piece by piece
have your inner workings cleaned by
professional staff trained in
care and tenderness of golden arches and
mahogany woods, marble tile and
smooth floors. to have you would mark
my reign. the dictators success of
tireless nights forged with forgotten memories
unclaimed by eighty hour work weeks and
missed moments that were pivotal in my life. to have you,
i would give this up.

forget about the reverberating silence within
the home and acoustic walls filled with Bach
only to keep the pristine dog company. to have you
would mark my climb to the ladder; the descent too far
to see as the lonely ants below scatter to work for me. Those poor, poor
worker ants. troubled by the to and fro of productivity
what is selected as correct and acceptable only for me
to reject their quality as inevitable. because my taste is impeccable.
and i desire you. i want you. to hang
swinging from the wood bearing walls of my home
turning decrepit in time, cobwebs seeking
a hung environment to catch their fleeting prey.
metaphorically, my life. shambled chandelier hung
the trophy to which i start my day.

yet, i own you.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
#12of30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com

"Cherry"

2010-04-19T04:18:00.000-04:00

it started with a kiss.

the magnetic brush of skin
eclectic and euphoric magnetic
folds of lips encompassed in
shallow tongue swirling in
the this and that of
what annunciation and mispronounced vowels
stuttered from the aftershock of what just
occurred. it started innocent. fresh and virgin white
clinging to dewy rain and barefoot sensations of
raw earth and untouched centers. what became more
than the silken cherry burst with intricate feelings
reserved for magical lovers and the anonymity of
superiority of what shared becomes re-lived in
past memories re-told. it began sweet. the dulce
of the leche goodness frothed over from bubbling
temperatures rising to the core beads of sweat tickling
the inner folds and untouched regions upon the nape of
the neck crawling to the curvature of the spine enlongating
the time where your finger caresses the newness of what
what supposed to be clueless after-glowing of what i
told him he gave me. but he did not. this freshness/newness/effervescence
created within you. this began with the kiss. the touching of lips
the slight of eye that i adore the cologne filled scent that
skipped my beat from apprehension of opening that wooden door
to find you there before you even knocked, feel your presence and
touched lips begin
within that kiss
i let
you
in.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
#11of30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com

"I Adore Rain."

2010-04-17T00:51:00.000-04:00

i adore rain.

somehow, it suits my soul when
the acoustic goodness splish and splashes
to this and that near my toes
and i excitably coerce my feelings
with the wet goodness from the window. perhaps
its the way that it feels. moist and new,
a metaphor for washing out all that negativity
that fills my soul and cleanses the dirt away
to allow the brightness shine through. how hypocritical for
those to say that they hate the rain. how shallow. how idiotic
is it not to fall in love with the weather for making love
when sheets are just as dewy as the condensation outside
and thunder synchronizes to hip moving rhythms. i adore rain.
love the ins and outs of its movements. how each drop is
reminiscent of a tear, puddled within mud caked upon grass
and fertilizing new growth where death just occurred. how sad and
intrinsic to not love the weather that brings life. just as sun alone
can endure rays filled with heat seeking missiles swimming beads
of sweat across one's brow and no one seeks relief-but pray for a
day of rain. i love life. love how the metaphorical wisdom shows its
cocoon in April showers and gives birth to butterflies in May flowers.
to see things bloom again, healthy...this is just me. so this rain. this sad,
sad, rain. this unusually bad rap that it receives-like a stigma of a disease,
i am writing you this love letter. letting you know that i love you and adore you.
that i love to make love with you hitting my window. that i love when you
grow things and wash things away. that i love when you match my feelings
on a bad day and then disappear and return right on time. to let you know
that i love how you feed me, how you run fluid in my veins and allow me
to drink you, mouth open swirling around on the concrete as a child
and how you made the woman of me. because without you, precious rain-
the sunny days will be filled with gloom.

i adore rain.

#30in30
10of30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

"Lighter Load, Stronger Back"

2010-04-17T00:39:00.000-04:00

What is a prayer not genuinely concealed
in blackened knees and salty tears
Aching backs and quivered voices
Hushed secrets and cheeks moistened.
What is a prayer not genuinely spoken
in shaken hymns and battle scare wounds
A thousand hail mary's and jesus-loves-me off tune
Seeking light when no one has a candle in sight
Finding comfort in dark, hushed corners become fetal positions
weakened from a fight.
What is prayer not genuinely given
in bible proverbs that memories have forgotten
new thoughts racing while old history has begotten
the sheer will and new testaments made
because surely growth endures what life has saved
and Jesus take this cross from me cause it
seems that it is mighty heavy and I would like a break for a moment
a rest in your hand-
surely there is nothing like a good old fashioned prayer
where you see only one set of footprints
in the sand.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
9of30

http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com

"Muse"

2010-04-17T00:21:00.000-04:00

Upon lying with the King of Gods
I declared my gift of night
Nine single goddesses to share unique intelligences
While I revered in his magnificence with all my might
Should my refrain be an ode to Mnemosyne
Who shared the lover upon me
Or is the birth of a poetic stanza
The gift from creation that lies within me.
Surely, I shall not detail
The shape of the moon or the wink in his eye
As history tells it so eloquently
The more I share, the silence increases and I die
Will my epitaph be filled with soft memories
Perhaps a detailed note of Calliope
Will my sex be hidden in dance of Terpsichore
Or the lyric of sound to sing verse which I adore
Perhaps it is free verse in Thaleia
Astronomy in Urania
Iambic pentameter in Euterpe
Skilled onomatopoeia in Polyhymnia.
Epic tragedy in Melpomene
The syntax in composed literary history
Clio clinging to dates that compel mystery
Perhaps I will not know
Why Zeus made love to me
Born creation of muse detailed lovers
Although I go by the name Aphrodite.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
#80f30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

"Cocoon's Dance: Nonet"

2010-04-10T23:28:00.000-04:00

sweet smell of dewy rain bouncing the
mahogany wood to enlarge
its fixture and I slowly
examine what I see
in the jarred door frame
catepiller
inching out
to her
freedom.

-b.r.rivera
#30of30
#7of30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

My first Nonet :)

"My Name Is..."

2010-04-10T23:17:00.000-04:00

Hello, Stranger.

you. the incoming and unrecognizable mass of human flesh
that has reincarnated to undesirable egos and unfitting compassionless
wonderment of a man. hey, you. I adore how the fascade
creeps past my skin to steal a kiss on the cheek. How that soft graze
feels like a stinging blade within secretes that you want to excrete. I want to
introduce myself to you. Tell you that I would like to know your name, at least
find out the syllables to how I would greet you, how a thief in the night you remind
me of as you sleep next me in the sheets which enclose us two.

Hello, Stranger.

i prefer a label. you know, the weird sticky adhesive to put on the chest of your cotton
shirt which smells vaguely familiar of a cologne which I inhaled. I would rather see
the spark of magic in a marker that spells out a name because the person whom I know
and the person that stand in front of me are two and not the same. I do not know you.
"hello, my name is:" fill in the blank. You are that blank, distant, unknown persona
that I will have to be terribly obliged just to converse to you naturally
do not know if I should write on your chest and spell out a salutation
but to touch a stranger, I find a mere hesitation
and I want to say how familiar you look, but then again
my mind plays tricks on me, so

Hello, Stranger

how odd
that you have greeted me.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
#6of30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

Sweet Haze

2010-04-10T23:07:00.000-04:00

Oh sweet haze
How I adore you in a way

That makes me want to just sway
And elongate your stay

To pour you in my veins
Have you ebb and flow to convey

The way which I want you to play
The ground rules that you scathingly sneak away

Because I don't want you to leave
But I promise you will return
And in this wish I will find
Another high like this for my eyes to burn

To another haze in another day
And wish the longevity of her will not go away.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
#5in30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

I See Stupid People.

2010-04-10T23:00:00.000-04:00

I strongly believe
that incompetence is in your genes.
Strongly irritated and highly agitated,
I must gather my strength past
monosyllabic words and increase my swearing
to about 1/3 of my verbal language as the idiocy
entails my environment and drives me over the edge.
i see stupid people.
moronic plethora's of ignorance
stacked with congratulations of reading
to the innocent and condemning me for using
"big words" while you continue to think that the
a simple thing as a tree is a verb.
hmm...must be a trend. A highly disguised passage of rites
as one conceals their synapses out of spite
and is it wrong of me to demand once in a while
that conversation is swayed more than sex, because substance is my style
drawn to not education but intelligence because even a dummy will know
that you can be street wise with wit and
come across with a swagger of intellect
and as empty vessels make the most noise (as MomMom used to say)
I have now taken upon her personality from what I understood in a way
oh, I hate stupid people. you morons, imbeciles, thickheaded obtuse
in the box thinking, witless, asinine goof
how can one boast their pride
about things which they do not know
and find it so hard to realize
if you don't know, fucking Google it is the way to go
Oh the common sense that is so uncommon
a rarity to see
I strongly believe
that incompetence is within your genes.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
#4of30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

"Sign says: Out of Order"

2010-04-04T23:44:00.000-04:00

its broken.

kinda like the sweet sparrow
dropping hard from its nest
its wing flapping hard against the dust of the earth
eyes wild and unforgiving, trying hard not
to feel sorry for itself and establishes within its mind

that it has a broken wing.

its discarded.

merely a decomposed state of composition
hidden with maggots and live insects
swarming to infect and circumspect the small pieces of flesh
exposed from hard calcified bone and marrow. it lays there,
a piece blowing in the wind no longer recyclable to be sorted
in large aqua blue tubs to be reinvented into plastic cups
that once again,
someone will throw away.

its shattered.

a small piece of glass giving way of
a thousand shards electrified by the morning glory of the sun
reflected in bursts of prisms that personified what used to be
a whole but is not even a half of a half of a half any longer. and it cuts.
deep, dark, slashing waves into the
epidermis causing tickled shock waves to scream to the lungs
burst into bright red fury as blood seeps back from the wound
and the glass is no longer a worry-

because its numb.

Novocaine and earth bound hallucinogenics have
nothing on the none-ness of what's not felt as skin becomes
nothing more but a sagging wasteland of unfelt wrinkles
untouched goosebumps and ignored curves. because numbness is desired,
wans to be felt, wants to be the oxymora the unfolds to thee
because nothing felt is better than pain applied

to

me. and i wonder. and remember. when this broken, discarded, shattered numb
tomb became the corazon which i have once loved and shared memories with.
but i am numb.
shattered
discarded and broken. no one lines up to save me from me.
and i carry these wounds
outward
exposing the world to

see.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
#3of30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

"That Other Side"

2010-04-03T01:51:00.001-04:00

blades of green moisture
hit the dew
simultaneously enduring the tracked goodness
of un-heeled shoes. i venture. taking each step more
carefully than the next. the beaten path lays to the left,
but i chose the right. this right. this right that has
perfect patches of flowers moistened by last nights rain
and suspended dragonflies dance in the secret shade
of weeping willows.

i am here.

treading this new path.
of unequaled beauty compared to me. i am so intrigued
by the path that lies ahead of me i do not pay attention
to what lies before me. i stumble. somehow the green pastures
become murky waters and my feet are covered with not
sweet earth but dirty soil and i am irritated by my dirty
feet. but i continue. i continue to trek through what seems like
quicksand, evaporating moisture to what could have been
but does not become. because i am stuck. stuck between
cobwebs and frivolous vines that block my path.
i look in my pocket and find no compass, for i am lost.
this is not my environment, not my comfort zone,
not my envision of beauty.

perhaps, in another life i would've enjoyed
the slithering snakes, the poisonous spider dancing from its silken
thread, but i carry no anti-venom. purely susceptible to the
elements, i have no clothes to comfort me, no match to light the
wood for an SOS, no smoke signal to warn others
behind me. and no body is there. nobody is there.
and i am on my own

to the grass
that was greener on the other side.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
#2of30
http://writerswrite.ning.com
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com

“Husband Hungry”

2010-04-01T20:11:00.001-04:00

Tick-tock.

By the look of your wrist,

I can tell you can't hear my biological clock.

See, I'm hungry. Got this pure satiation for the mere implication

to walk down that aisle and give off a smirk to those un-wed bitches

to the pimps that drove them wild. shit, as I can recall-nothing is for free.

you lubed my udders and now you want to milk by caressing me?

tick-tock.

talk is cheap. I need you to do that Beyonce remix

put a ring on it and let me see that last name entitlement which I crave so

hungrily.

Shit. You move too slow. Molasses In your ass and

got the wit of Elmer Fudd & Mr. Magoo thinking that I give up the

vah-jay-jay for free and then want to chill on my couch and pucker up

running up my damn electricity. Don't you know that I got hoes

in different area codes, niggas that want to have just a whiff of this

just to smell the pure delicateness of the booming inner thighs that

have those childbearing hips and once again, I come to my

biological clock that you don't watch as it goes tick….

tock. you gotta love that clock. I looked up and years have passed. What my

grandmother calls wasted years and wasted tears that don't really say what was so

unclear as to why you are scared of holy matrimony, petrified of any words that start with "m"

and declare that you'd rather just be lonely. You must don't know…I'm husband hungry.

I need that white dress. Be that Godzilla with a relationship always on the test

because no foundation lied unless you refer to bricks that my man puts down

because baby, he throws the pipe. You must don't know. I already got my reception picked out

location, time and theme-and damn sure gonna demand ever single present on my

Macy's registry. You must don't know. I don't care about a relationship,

I want that 10 year deal; the kind where I can get massive benefits and then kick

your ass to the curb with the quickness. You must don't understand-

I'm husband hungry. See…all of my girls' bragging with their 2 carats raised in the air

I want to be part of that club-preferably with a near millionaire

and if he tries to pull out that pre-nuptial shit make sure that I whip out

deep throated sexual thickness that I know will lay down that pen to fix it.

I am the one. The husband hungry one. My desire lies in two weeks of dating

One night of fucking and one day followed by morning breakfast. You better get with it.

You move to slow. I just want to walk down the aisle in all white…

Hmmm….If I'm married, I can't be that hoe.

-b.r.rivera

#30in30

1of30

http://writerswrite.ning.com

http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com

“Respiration”

2010-03-04T12:41:00.002-05:00

just one last breath.


allow me to breathe life into you

be the whisper of dust collected in shallow grains

excavated from the earth and mineralized into a thousand pieces


of you.


let your chest rise and fall into

rhythmic beats reserved for soul deep conversations and

intellectual being reservations. to have you speak, just

one more time, one more moment, one more second.


just one last breath.


allow me to manually stimulate your aorta and ventricles

pulsate the veins filled with cellular blood and genetic DNA

that surpasses the scientific human being that walks the earth

normalized in crowds and stands apart with your specific individualism.

to have you, just one more time. one more minute. one more moment.

because I remember. I remember the

smile that used to spread eagle across your face,

your teeth glaring at the sun, polished to radiate the raging inferno

that feeds off the energy of that which is you.


just one more breath.


one more inhalation to extend your exhalation

one more chest to rise and fall as I glare upon

the nape of your neck and seize the smooth roundness

of your diaphragm,

rise and fall

beat and beat

breathe and breathe. I have missed you.

subconsciously your mind elsewhere,

riddled with enigmatic and complex dilemmas of the everyday

living, depressed with the recess which you have allowed yourself

to drown in the pool of life only reserved for swimming. You have sunk to

the bottomless pit of the end of the ocean,

and it is I, whom must reserve the life jacket

and dive in head first to ebb and flow through the currents

which try to hold us down.

but I cannot swim.


Reluctance is a luxury I cannot afford. So with my breath,

I inhale, hold and dive in head first

to save you.

just one more breath.


come back to me. I can resuscitate the monotony and

normalcy which abhors the soul connection

the day to day nuances that destroy the

inner reflection of the mirrored beings of how

two became one and now I share with you

how even an old life has been saved, just begun.

breathe.


I demand you to awake. demand you to open your eyes

and make your lids flutter. demand that you flex your muscles and give me

the sign that you are alive. demand that your chest rises and falls in orchestrated

movements. demand that I am your Omega, your Alpha and I shall not lose this…


this breath. this precious breath. you cannot go back to the land of the dead

I will not celebrate el dia de los muertos or shadow dance

near your tombstone, sing quiet "Amazing Grace" and reform a hundred

hail mary's. I will not bury you beneath the same soil which

God created you to bring me, I will not bury you one rib less

as I borrowed from thee. I will not dress in black and mourn

what we used to have and cherish precious memories;

I will create new ones with the

breath that I pass unto your lips

as you open your eyes for seeing.

just one more breath.

one more breath. I can be your ventilator, your machine that

pumps life into your body. I can be the lifeline on your EKG

that only you and I can see. I can be your chair if you need to be wheeled a

thousand steps and more. I can be your pillow as you rest your

head resting peacefully

for the one I adore. Because I love you. And I am in love with you.

And I am designed to be part of you, designed to bring that life into you.

So if you just have that pure desire, the pure wish to stay just one moment

one more second, all the time in the world and nothing less-


just give me


one. more. breath.

-b.r.rivera

©

"Mental Orgasm"

2010-01-22T22:25:00.000-05:00

have you burst into me
pure velvet smoothness of words that
not only rapture but en capture
the quivering of my thighs
the hope in my eyes
the pure delicacy in which i dismiss
unsettling rhymes and irrational couplets.

you make me want you.

come unto me
pure knowledge and slow meditative thoughts
i acknowledge that the strength in you had to say
what others were mute upon empirical evidence to sway
debates and arguments placed upon a balanced scale
as the lady of justitia covers her eyes, weeps and wails

you make me want you.

to have you finger
my placement upon crisp pages
and hard bindings
where philosophy meets idiosyncrasies and
thoughtful minds flow into black ink
and i would have you all unto myself
quiet as it kept, my obsession surpasses the desires
of any wealth. i want you. i want build up
and elevate. go deeper, deeper until
my soul pronounceable of
verbal languages, known and undefined
captured by history reeking the scent of time,
oh how i adore you.

and

i want you.

i need you. my body cannot take the
fatigue of withdrawal if i cannot wait
just ten more seconds
ten more minutes
ten more hours
without coming into you
i need to have the necessity
to lay next down to you-
to have you whisper sweet nothings
wrapped in poetry
moan enumerable breaths
reserved for artistry
stroke this big muscle
sculpted in carpentry
release this mental orgasm
in pure chemistry
release endorphins have me scream and holler
wishing that i could just grab you by the collar
and shake free the imprisoned mind
which falls short of what i need-

because stimulation of the mind
as my mental orgasm
i want you
begin
by
kissing
(me).

-b.r.rivera
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

I'd Rather Have Jesus

2010-01-07T23:38:00.000-05:00

I'd rather have Jesus.

seems to me that
others fall short when he stands tall
people run out of words where his silence is comfort
and he brings light upon the shadiest of days,
I'd rather have Jesus to save my day.
Instead of "S" on a chest,
I prefer the J
surely, if he can walk on water
he can fly in and scoop me up when I fail in the worst way
And pain is immenent, and baby we all sing the blues
But its nothing like seeking the comfort of someone that is always there
and truly knows you.
I'd rather have Jesus.
I'd rather say "thanks but no thanks" to inefficiency, interruptions, indecent
and pure lack of logical reason to accept that
no one in the pure events that occured recent-
have picked up their phones at 2 am
wiped my tears at 2:15
and rocked me to sleep at 2:30 with urgency
to get to the root of the problem and lay it in their hands
so surely, I'd have Jesus
than just a regular ol' man.
I'd rather have him. And if you compare (which there is no comparison)
the J on the chest to common folk with mortaility,
I would choose Heaven as my reality
because Hell closes in every day on Earth
and surely my sins have followed me since birth.
Religion is not my forte, I would rather choose my spirituality
and I have no necessity for an edifice
where my Jesus is all around you, me and all of us-
I would be a fool not to bow my head, make way for the King,

I'd rather have Jesus
than any
thing.

-b.r.rivera

16 of 30
#30in30
http://writerswrite.ning.com
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com

"Sanitation"

2010-01-07T23:24:00.001-05:00

its hard to imagine thyself
as a piece of rubble. a mere stagnated
glass shard drowned empty of its contents
relinquished and enjoyed at one time,
thrown by the wayside to rot into a slushpile
of garbage. its hard to imagine thyself
used and abused, desired and consummated,
not recycled or even polished to its true and original
beautification. its hard to imagine thyself
stacked upon flying dust and wet newspapers,
feces defecated, a rising stench upon
piles of soggy utilized plastic and twisted metal.
not new, not fresh-just simply tossed and abandoned
like a infant waiting a new home in a basket upon the
steps of a foster home. its hard to imagine a place
where even souls got dirty. where thumbprints are
sticky and fingernails are traced with soiled dirt and
caked soot from years of neglect. its hard to imagine
thyself used and abused
hurt and dismissed
tossed in the trash
and dismayed with pure negligence.
sanitation comes and picks up at noon-
but where he finds his location is up to you.

-b.r.rivera
15 of 30
#30of30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

Completion

2010-01-07T23:10:00.000-05:00

you made me whole.
that piece where you integrated slowly
in a mass of tendons, bones and veins
captured breath when depleted oxygen ensued,
you made me breathe again.
you made me whole.
the intricate enveloped muscle
that exposed capillaries, ventricles and the circulatory system
regained the composure to pump and beat again
you mended the heart through wisdom.
you made me whole.
made me speak where i stuttered under clanking teeth
visibly nervous at how love can love so deep underneath
pained physical mental intrusions and battle scar wounds
you fought to save me
so the bud within me can bloom.
made me whole.

-b.r.rivera
14 of 30
#30in30

"Empty Frame"

2010-01-07T22:58:00.000-05:00

I don't know if I'll be one of those Poet Laureates.

still black and white picture immortalized
in a pixelized frame, begging to be touched.
have the audacity of Bukowski,
soul deepness of Giovanni
lyrical jazz of Hughes
romanticism of delicate Teasdale to
sing my blues.
who will "discover" me? will
the ancient scribes of paper stand the litmus test of time,
acid free paper aged like the bouquet of red wine
can I be translated in eighty languages
spoken in academic environments
recited in meter, rhyme and prose
comparable with the genius of Edgar Allen Poe.
my tell tale heart.
do my words change and move
sway and dance
lift and elevate
inspire and exasperate
-me-
or will you all forget
the non-poet laureate
if her words are not printed
in ink?

-b.r.rivera
13 of 30
#30in30

"Justitia"

2010-01-07T22:48:00.000-05:00

i am not free.

can I blame
the lips that have never been kissed like this
unknowing of pure transcending
within passion burning, desired within a blown candle a wish
that you to finally understand, encapsulate and re-define
what love is?

can I blame
the chest that has never seen rest, beating heart
thumping, nonetheless
incapable of arched back, nape of neck freedom rest
seizing the night to form new dawns as sun rises
to sleep filled nights-are you the blank state
at which i peek to day to form a horizon
naked with dew, moisture beads forming puddles skin to his
to finally understand, reflect and re-design
what love is?

can i blame you?
point fingers and have three shoving at me
so I can rectify this situation and show you that the consensus agrees
that two wrongs can't make a right and your arithmetic doesn't quite add
fine lines and wrinkles, wasted years and wasted tears
upon which eyes moisturize, fragrance of salt tinkles
and i am what you thought i was all that i am and say to be?

to love you. how can i blame you if you don't fully understand
and you show the enigma placed within the emptiness between our hands
distance coming forth and shadowed by the reverberation and acoustic whispers of
one filled laughter sounds within the walls, now we hold silence in hushed environments
like we have said everything we needed to say-
we have said it all?

you will never understand. understand that blame cannot be put on me,
put on you-that you should be clothed in orange issued federal prison hues
for the crime you committed to break a heart, kick ass and take names
yet, without love to be known in the first place,
can you take the blame?

you knew not what love was.
what it is.
what it can be.
the pure mediocrity of what you envision a heart beats
and slaves its owner to the rhythm in which you see
blinded by ghosts of the girlfriends past
and haunted by past hurt and pain,
surely, my love...
i cannot place my blame.

while justice rears its ugly head, balanced scales
upon the Roman Goddess Justitia blinds herself with cloths tattered
un-yielding and unbiased, she seeks karma to
my heart shattered and it seems that while the gavel placed
upon mahogany wood shows we played our relationship
in jest, a checkmate of the Queen within this game,

upon you, i cannot place
the blame.

-b.r.rivera

12 of 30
#30in30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

"Puppet Master"

2010-01-07T22:28:00.001-05:00

-desire you, still.

i am the arm to which
you drug the intra-venous and
simultaneous chain reaction to the
original high climbs untamed
and godly free. i mean
how I shadow dance in the
attraction of your glance shows the
pure dominance which you have over me.
i cannot move. you hold the strings
and puppet dance methodically,
playing fingers ebbed and flowed
in mere mediocrity knuckles
en flamed from years of toying
the enrapture which you
captured my being.

-a slow dripped drug flowed within my
veins/ quivering from the weaning which
i still latch on to you.
hold on to you.
desire you, still.

-b.r.rivera

11 of 30
#30in30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

"What Goes Around..."

2009-12-27T21:34:00.000-05:00

karma, you're a bitch.
i'm sure i'm not the first to tell you.
here i am, minding my business
(years later) and i get the biggest
bite on my ass that led me to
a lesson on life,
a good
"how to."
look, i know i ain't the best person in the world
and i got a lot coming to me.
sure, i did my part to heart break and i paid the price
to fight the demons which plague me so i see
that is no definite need
to come back vengeful, in a form of haste, spitting hate
upon wounds that are not so new.
blame it entirely on the universe,
but karma ain't got no explaining to do.
i suspect i had this coming to me
as well as the thief in the night.
i am damn well gonna die and pay taxes
and take a couple of them losses within a fight.
i been banged up and mishandled
so i dished it where i took it
afraid of not seeing the next day, dawn awakens with colorful hues-
knocked down on my ass again/pull up by the bootstraps
cause clouds awaken the storm on the day that was considered new.
they think a spanking is bad
a verbal tongue can cut you
a improper love can manhandle one,
and surely this is all so true-
yet please consider that karma is one bad bitch
and she damn sure
is coming after
you.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
10 of 30

http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

"Full Circle"

2009-12-27T21:22:00.000-05:00

i do not know where you begin
or where i end
we complete this circle with me
under you and i ring so true of
passion is what it needs to be
ought to be
should be
and right now
i cannot see where you begin
and where i end.
completion. i mean, you complete me
wholely. satisfyingly. surprisingly
i
try to seek what is within flesh heating upon flesh
melting caramel skin of me with
the beautiful shade of black skin with you and
i am so fighting this way that i feel about
going on the suspended merry go round
i feel fright within flight and seek to find balance
as i teeter and totter off of what i find within you
and i cannot see where you begin or the
line of which i end because
we are fused together again.
and again. again, i
keep on moving and struggling to breathe
trying to find a respiration upon your inhalation as
you are the lung to which i find air that i seethe
out of my lips curled from my tongue
rasping, holding on to the inner workings of you-
i cannot see the end of me
nor the beginning of you.
a submerged adhesion.
a bandaid to cleanse the
wounds that did not heal
the scar that did not get kissed
the inner workings of a broken-ness which
you replace with the rhythm of my hips
climbming me higher and higher to reach
twin towered peaks of mountains
which we summit to the top of which i need no rescue-
(inhalation/respiration/exhalation)
i cannot see the beginning of me or the
end of you.
i am
the spiritual glue of which
you seek your wealth of feelings and inner workings of
genius perspectives secret wishes and hypnotic
eclectic visions. i am she. the one whom
clings to your inner workings and physical body
fastened by muscles and tendons
capillaries and veins
cells and life form siphoned
to be the person to become what is me
and what will become you-
i cannot see the beginning of me
nor the end of you.
and as we cohere to be
the circle of our being
the full entirety of what we
ought to be
should be
desire to be
and will be-i see myself
only enraptured by you
as flesh to flesh becomes one-
i cannot see the beginning of me
nor the end
of
you.

-b.r.rivera

http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

#30in30
9of30

"Je Ne Sais Quoi"

2009-12-27T21:00:00.000-05:00

what made him so different?

Was it the slant in his eyes
the bass of his voice
the disruption within my environment
that ceased to fulfill what what originally uncapable
for me to see
was it
the smoothness of his skin
the sharpness of his tongue
the vulgarity that turned me on
the inner freak that made me curl my toes to
the break of dawn?
was it
the muscular path
the happy trail to inner happiness
the blazing surefire way that he can
enrapture and encapture a still moment
upon the living that was dead upon
the sight for seeing?
was it
the way he moved and glided
the motherfucker could walk on air
swag to the side, broad back to envelop
strong neck to place kisses upon the nape
smooth chest to house the heart for mine
to take?
was it him
the pure
je nes sais quoi
that made me utter and stutter unknown languages
whisper in foretold dimensions and
speak in timeless changes
he moved me.
too much. too much from this spot,
this place, this origin. this definition of what I am.
he has me, and he knows it.
yet I am incapable of
defining what
"it" that this is.
what is it?

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
8 of 30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

"Prey"

2009-12-27T20:47:00.000-05:00

she is a sleeping giant.
awakened only by unfamiliar scents and environments
clinging to cancerous lies and stories unfolded
upon the moonlight.
a shift-taker.
a compromised representative of thyself
trying to hold onto what is new out of the old
what is golden yet does not hold the spark
that a candle can light to it.
she preys.
in secret, she bounces from hidden sex to hidden sex
stalking the naivete of any man willing to uncover
beyond the sheets
beyond her being in heat
beyond the bitch that she claims is her freak.
she pounces.
clearly attracted to champagne showers and cheap bottles of nuvo
a barter system where values exchange for monetary items
education is lost within the swirl of alcohol
upbringing is adhered to deprivation of spirit
and a soul cleanse super-ceded the anonymity of
how she wears it.
can she be called any other name?
she, like minion answers to many titles
fighting to em-battle the sin that is hands idle
skin flesh and beauty endless
passion fulfilled middle name in the air
single solitary seductive female
lioness within her mane
mouse within her claim to fame
big bad assness that one wants to be
because one shoots to be
the mediocrity of what woman is defined
if your goals ain't what they should be or ought to be-
yet, she is one in the same.
the same within one.
the same one.
within none.
a

no

one.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
7 of 30

http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

"Kid Again"

2009-12-22T10:36:00.000-05:00

to be a kid again.
to have dusty knees celebrated by mud pies
and overgrown grass graciously gliding
upon the white t-shirts that made
mothers angry when scrubbing our stains.
to have that look within the eyes
when lights are strategically placed to endure the
Christmas snow, blizzards within the northeast
which one has grown up to adore.
to fall with the leaves and dance with
golden corn built with bonfires and pumpkins
upon a rickety hayride
to wonder in a tulip and gaze upon morning dew
when flowers begin budding against the
frozen ground which was replaced by a new season.
to be a kid again.
to have no worries, no care
no idealizations of the first and fifteenth
the gas and electrical energies
the over plentiful but once barren pantries
and warm socks adorned with special trimming.
to be a kid again.
to wonder in amazement and find pleasure in double dutch
flying bubbles, bicycles, dolls and action figures,
playing grown up with play make up;
now a blur of what childhood has become of thee
to become a kid again-
a rush to find no happiness with the adult in me.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
poem 6 of 30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

"Google It."

2009-12-19T22:59:00.001-05:00

if i were a paranoid schizophrenic, i would say that they are controlling my mind.
blatantly disrespecting my environment with habitual line crossings
and entering a meditative and procreative zone only God designed
to seek inner truth, not binary codes within line.
keystrokes. tip. tap. tick. surely, the mere existence of
social networking taking the personalization of the instant message
of what used to be a embrace, what used to be a hug, what used to be
the sweet remembrance of what a kiss should taste
like...the wholeness of creativity
i mean, do i truly need
widgets and gadgets androids and complex robotics
exemplifying and exonerating my thoughts as they surpass
the circuitry of the nervous system inclined to be the mass
acceptance of what was laughed about 10 years prior
a reality to be that robots taking over the world can you see?
is my addiction fed with
daily emails, synchronized updates, online learning experiences
and detailed html flash player existences?
yep. its here to stay. the evolutionary and quite impressive
hail to the Google icon slash idolatry that
possess my every movement and is captured for the
whole world to see?
but it is connection. a plug.
a pronged inlet and outlet that makes my pseudonym
become a pseudonymph, the Trojan horse that displays
the blinking cursor of everlasting dreams
where my insomnia filled nights attract to its flame
and i nominate thyself the poetachica Queen.
technology. there, i said it.
no more metonymy and theorized metaphors
of how and why that it can exist
why that it can take over
why that it can play a part
of how one actually communicates and surely
one can show their heart. i mean, have you read the headlines lately-
and ironically, you can find it via the web
where one Facebooked and the other Tweeted their "I Do's"
as if their homage to each other under a sanctified edifice of God
did not enhance their street cred
Enough. perhaps this is the new answer to possibilities
the new query to tranquility
the new vibrancy to spell checked eloquencey.

perhaps addiction can come in many forms-
and this intranet became internet for my character
to truly be seen.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
Poem 5 of 30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com
http://twitter.com/poetachica

Shout out to my love, Evan Taylor-for being my muse and his substantial look upon how technology can actually mirror the soul.

"Astray"

2009-12-18T17:34:00.000-05:00

Every time I see him within my dreams,

he walks.

Once, with a limp. Another time

full stride, and damn near a run

waiting for legs to jump to life as he becomes

the person whom he used to be

not society's view of handicapped inadequacy.

and he does not use that word.

prefers to use wheel chair accessible

ramp included

or open doorways an ease of hospitality

I wish I could see him run.

Tease him and tell him to stop being so lazy

so stubborn as a mule; just get up and let's get it going

Surely, my naivete as a mobile fool.

he was the greatest.

greatest mover shaker with that east meets cali swag

lemonheads in hand, fresh sneak with kangol freshness

cologne spewing LL Cool J rocking rhyming house hip-hop"bad"

Bad-Assness. I remember looking out windows previously reserved

for Boo, observing his audaciously audible audio blasting from

a Jeep colored in blue

remember. I remember him walking in and out that truck,

taking me on a cool breeze on the back of that red almost

motorcycle scooter from around the block and me feeling so free

that i forgot about the instant it can be taken away from thee.

he was there. regardless of how stingy this El Barato can be

he thought shrewd sense of businessman-ship should include

giving me a dollar or two of candy a trade of earning honor roll so he can see

that poem I gave MomMom, that Arithmetic that I struggled in

that Science I devoured would not go to waste because I was simply in haste.

he was there. I even got a smack up side my head

which he later told me "my bad" for drinking up

that hella good crab sauce undeniable in its specific range of ingredients

from which my MomMom thought I had indulged in.

kept secret stashes. still does.

now& laters a token of sweet teeth and given to me sparingly

as a sweet ode to our connection of a cleft palate repaired to enjoy wholeheartedly.

and I still see him walk. Dreams so clear I thought I would call my Mami

to tell her that Uncle Kevin got out that chair that day---

reality shows me that miracles have a small chance of happening

when a silver bullet goes astray.

-b.r.rivera

#30in30

Shout out to my Uncle Kevin. I see your inner strength-and even if others have forgotten, I will never forget-even if you have lost hope, I have not. Now stop being lazy and get out that damn chair. I need you to walk me down the street to Yatz. Te Amo, Uncle Kevin.

"In Between My Legs: Senryu"

2009-12-17T16:45:00.000-05:00

fingers bouncing on
your scalp, smile satisfying
lust upon the air

bob and weave into
the nape of your neck, going
down to part your hair

rough curls dancing in
the shadows i feel
so close within you

sharing a moment
in between my legs, greasing
your scalp, in the mood.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com
http://writerswrite.ning.com

"Shelter"

2009-12-16T17:20:00.000-05:00

Chestnuts cannot roast
on a fire less chimney cause the house doesn't exist
surely Jack Frost nips at your nose
when homelessness is not bliss
sleigh bells do not ring
around a door knob that is not there
stockings cannot hang
near pine needles laced with ornamented care
Surely I can take a partridge, a pear and something
la la la la la to thee
cause an empty stomach is all I see
lights adorned on rooftops indulgence of the rich
Presents under the tree which one will miss
Trims cannot be made of holly; mistletoe not granted with a kiss
All I got is a dream and a wish
That someone finds compassion and does not tell me
That spending time in a shelter during holidays
is the place to be
Bah Humbug, Ebeneezer Scrooge and the green old Grinch
Fairy tales of wonderlands do not occur
In the cold of winter where the house does not exist.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
poem 2 of 30...

"One Ounce of Soul"

2009-12-15T14:54:00.000-05:00

I was told a soul weighs an ounce.

technically, 1/3000 of an ounce by East German researching teams

trying to identify and solidify the measure of terminally ill by

scientific means.

if I lived a measured life

and fulfilled that dash in between my obituary

surely the valuation of evil versus good breathed life from my capillaries

dispensed in beating chest and blood filled veins

and air upon oxygen in which I cannot breathe again.

I was told a soul weighs an ounce.

the type of treasure that shakes the body upon departure

and blind light seeks a new home

travelling into unknown dimensions

would Peter open the gates to me

staring blind eyed at my name

clipboard in hand/Excel charted progress

of the life I gave and gained

would the power of the mere beauty

be somewhat unimaginable to me

could angels really fly and have wings snipped upon choice

will horns blast and heavens part as a sign

of entering with rejoice

can I bear witness to seraphim and golden streets

repented sins and kinetic heartbeats.

can the soul be measured?

how can one seek an evaluation of the entry in Genesis 1: 20

dominion of limbus patrum

or hell being an immorality upon eternity

should I seek to balance numbers on scale

re-define what deems intangible

re-examine what is the meaning of spirit

re-seek what is merely accordable and accessible?

could I

simply be measured

a piece on a scale

a weight upon death

an ounce of a being?

perhaps, my soul upon existence weighs more than comparable

and when I leave

is not available for studying.

I prefer my soul not to be in a Petri dish

swirled unimaginably and disrespectfully in a glass flask

a flint lighted on a Bunsen Burner

periodic table to which the chain reacts

I prefer not to be a study

a test tube wonder

waiting for the world to slowly uncover

quintessential qualified quartiles

checked upon paper and later televised on the x-files

I would rather be, simply me-a soul in which the world to see

an ounce of soul

an ounce of being

an ounce of love

an ounce of weeping

an ounce of smiles

an ounce of tears

an ounce of bad-assness

an ounce of years

an ounce of class

an ounce of intelligence

an ounce of obedience

an ounce of allegiance

simply a soldier of God

armed with words that manifest being

and my soul, within an ounce

received, Matthew 19: 16

ensured for safe-keeping.

I was told a soul weighs an ounce.

-B.R.Rivera

#30in30

also on http://writerswrite.ning.com

"Shadow Box"

2009-12-09T20:13:00.003-05:00

a still picture.

i captured you in a moment,
in a once upon a time fragment
suspended by hands of time
freely ticking upon tocks
and halted for your time of release.
you are, to me,
a simple still picture
trying to be a part of conscious memories
where subconscious memories dance
upon shadows on walls
and laughter that was reverberated
off the acoustic ceilings.
i captured you in a moment.
a stillness that was both moving and vibrant
free and totally me
cherished and impoverished
of what that "l" word is supposed to be.
but you are not worthy.
not worthy to grace my thin inner plastic linings
of adhesive glue meets matte paper
indulgence of a photo frame
desire upon a memory book.
your pages did not last
i can not escape the mere thought of how
seven little images can capture a few months
a few weeks, a few seasons, a few years....
perhaps we did not like to snap the photo
did not like to capture what was supposed to be free
capture what was supposed to not be exposed
capture what was supposed to be smiles in secret.
yet, i wanted and desired to share you to the world
create my own private threshold of artistic murals
and blown up frames, complete with laced embroidery
and acid free paper among the best quality
for even the sorest eyes to see

yet, i do not capture you.
cannot capture a hidden smile in a shadowbox
a kiss upon the tangibility of lips
the embrace of cologne that one can not see.
limited to senses.
cannot
smell the musky sweetness of intermixed pheromones and indulgent attraction
cannot
taste the full lips complete with my lipstick that was mine for the painting.
cannot
feel the muscular path which guides my hand from the contours of your stomach
to the happy trail which lies beneath hidden sex.
yet i can see.

see that one moment,
that one capture,
that one exposed stillness of a photograph.

is that all you are to me now?

a photograph? an illuminated message of an thumbprint
your cordial nod to saying "I was here" yet I do not see you within my presence
were you just a time upon a season
a growth that I had to spurt through
a tear wasted and plentiful years that I cannot seek redemption?
yeah. you were so much more than a photograph
so much more than a silly little piece of paper
that highlights colors and shakes red eyes and creates film
that is reproduced from the moment that was stolen from us.
and i stile a lot of moments with you.
enjoyed the pure pleasure of every second, every minute, every moment.

and that moment is captured.

-b.r.rivera

"Thumb Print"

2009-11-03T14:40:00.000-05:00

an impression.

the gentle and subtle hint of where
your everlasting thumb print kissed the inner linings
of what i have missed. and i missed you.
grieved the tears of a faux funeral complete with
Hail Mary's/Amazing Grace/baby's breath and
coffin lined inner lace.
i mourned you.
mourned not the death of you going to the
infinite land of non-living because your
presence here shows that your breath was worth giving
and i see you before me not a mirage
hidden surprise you are, yet your body tells lies.
here. but not here.
i grieve.
Grieve because I am losing you
have lost you
will lose you.
the inevitable of Glady's Knights
"Neither one of Us" plays on repeat
i nod my head in comparison as I weep
trying to show my faith in what was but cannot be
you have left that lasting impression on me.

your thumb print.

I still
feel the heat upon my skin as you touched
the coldness of me we were naked skin
glossed by sweat in the moonlight and
fruitless enemies impregnated by raw emotion and
scared senseless of feelings given to the dawn of the light
ahead. ahead, i see the mere possibility
of what was not supposed to be
and merely i am the lasting impression
the cool collected evidence
the shaky remembrance and
exhibit A upon a juror's list-
i am your thumb print.

an impression.

the inky residue of forget me nots
scented with my perfume mingled with your cologne
dancing in the air as we tangoed into each others arms
the cursive letters swayed by slanted hands
and coffee filled nights where insomnia reached its limit
and calligraphy met her match to rose adorned stationery pages.
the marker filled pen that bled to the fingertips
of curved nails, scantily chipped after writing this poem
for you/ as an ink rememberance of residue
you are there. were there. was there.
if my recollection stands corrected
is it memories of what I am to feel
or loose interpretations of what the mirror
image has reflected?
i have lost time.
precious years and wasted tears
dates upon pages
go to month after month/meses after meses
and finally, i see
the love letters emblem "return to sender"
stamped upon the address to me.

an impression.

Your thumb print
has changed me/amazed me/
soul cleansed me and persuaded me
to do freaky shit that i won't disclose
and have me bend over backwards as I disrobe
arch my back moan real slow
be your freak at night housewife in the day
strap around the ankle touch the toes
type of secret ho'.
for you.
for you, i have greased your scalp as you sat in my lap
telling me tales of hopeful wishes and secret ambitions
as comb meets hair and fingers touch scalp.
for you.
for you, i have put up with familia fights and petty arguments
choosing sides and standing behind my fence
because walls sometimes make better neighbors
and what is family then if we have a child
and thirty hours poured my soul into a son which I labored?
for you.
for you, i have distinguished passionate flames burned
from the internal/external ex-factor
relinquished selfish thoughts of wedding dresses virgin white
and uplifted doves released into the air
rice thrown on asphalt curbs and removing the sexy right leg garters with care.

you have changed me.

thumb print. you have seen me.
the best and the worst of me
the ride or die and mega flirt of me
the soft the smooth the rough of me.
the nympho when i want to be of me
the simplistic and complicated
definitive and pluralistic of me.
the little the all. the give the take the
sin the blessing the curse the loving of me.

how dare you

leave that upon me.
leave that lasting thumb print. Leave that impression
when I had no desire to fall in love
be in love
have love
acquire love
then keep love?

love, always finds a way

yet your thumb print on me
cannot be
washed away.

-b.r.rivera

"Stance"

2009-10-16T18:37:00.002-04:00

i was told to stand in love.

effortlessly falling into an abyss, my middle name, love.
surname: his kiss.
longing to develop
the longevity which to be the epitome of happiness
the big house. 2 and 1/2 children (terrier included)
and the white picket fence
i adored love. love the way it tasted upon my tounge
within my eyes in my inner honey supple thighs
the way it rippled and waved
swayed and misaligned the silence that disrupted within me
could this be a sign
that i love love. that i want to say
i fucking hate the
inner workings of how soulmates dissapate
and future long loves never connect
yet always effect the
way i think about a Sade song
the way i turn and think about him when I smell a passerby
wearing his cologne
how i misstep to the Dells purposely
just so i wont think of him
intimately.

i was told to stand.

stand firm and hold onto those tendon filled muscles
in a stance when i'm weak. stand firm and collide with
tears in the dark and dampened pillows awakened to the day.
stand tall. neck elongated without hanging head
begging to be uplifted with a tender finger
reassurance in the constant soul linger
of inner freshness and new lover's forgiveness.

be new.

purposely anew. new like
500 thread cotton sheets bounced from
dryers spinning back and forth from heat. like the heat. love the heat.
the kind of heat where
sweatbeads form and glisten
lovemaking in entirety from stimulation of the mind just listen
i was a fool to fall into something so untrue
and now i am here, writing this poem to you.

to you.

beautiful.loving.you.
you demand the touch and motion required
to breathe, and when you asked for air, I gave you the
wind beneath your wings.
still love you.
always have.
but....i guess i fell in love.
fell in love with being in love.
fell in love with feeling love.
fell in love with capturing love.
encapsuled souls stimulating sinful intiuitions
of how just one kiss can be sweet decadence
and how i fell into your deep abyss.

but i was told to stand.

love is something that you do not fall in,
but with someone you stand with.

genius.
absolute truth.
first name love, last name stand
and now I stand

with you.

-b.r.rivera

Shout out to Mr. Desmond Nelson, my muse for this poem. He told me that love is not something that I fall in, but something I should stand in. It took me a minute to write this, probably because I wanted to deny the truth within it. However, after careful consideration, I know that I cannot fall into anything, because my soul will not allow it. I choose to stand in love-not be hopeless and have that characteristic feeling of unreciprocated passion and emotion. True love, as I now understand it-is something that you stand within. Thanks, Desmond.

"Time Stamp"

2009-09-28T13:09:00.004-04:00

here.

within this forbidden place

riddled with foliage and secret pathways

overgrown with moss and forest floor fungi

mud seeps. drainage endures

flash floods and

chaos filled rivers

stretched to estuaries reserved

for the ever binding relationships

mixed salt and freshwater beginnings.

here.

the place where stone compresses

under pressurized rocks

forming Tacori diamonds

laden with small velvet boxes

reserved for surprise engagements

bent knees the humbling

of past lives and hurts forgiven.

here.

the subconscious dimension

surpassed with waking hours

dawn forgiving light

and horizons meet the east

settled in the west

and dew comes a new morning.

the reverie induced dreams

where you and i meet

the voice familiar

the tone forgiving

the words fallacious

hidden in time and space continuum's

where you lie to me

breathe consonants, vowels and adjectives

saying that forever you will be

within me.

but you are not

here.

in my thoughts. in my dreams. you shape and relocate

the risen zombie figure of corazon and lovers born

with first kisses and candlelight wishes

gushy enveloped letters filled with your scent

effervescent. soul decadence.

a time stamp;

and i miss you.

because,

you're not supposed to be here.

you invade my space/my place

reserved for emptiness

unforgiving actions

unforgettable memories.

why do you

seek to appear

in soulful manifestations

filling the static air of radio

in a tune that embodies you?

why do you

animate and dissipate

in a matter of seconds

hours laid with head to pillow

vanished hung down my dreams

weeping willow

why do you

give me signs that only God can give thee

a figure, present

a insignia, gone

a scent, lessened. you were here.

you were there. you were present

everywhere

and you still continue

to be

what i ought to not love within me

and damn I hate how you invade my space

I'm supposed to not need

prioritize

lie

victimize

and be indulged by

being in dreams

recognized

as the glue that shapes me. The Michelangelo forced to be the

undeniable quest of hands meeting body

body meeting skin

skin meeting soul

soul to soul,

a kiss.

here.

you are not supposed to be here.

the awful stench of past lives re-birthed into

futuristic and optimistic visions. I am not supposed to love you

I am not supposed to care. I am not supposed to be the weak

in your strength the being of your human body the soul in your

divine expression.

you. are. not. supposed. to. be. here.

you,

the hidden riddle in which

my moth denies the utterance to speak.

you

the soft lips forming pillows

which i embrace and beckon to lie down upon.

you, the one

whom understands the thought process of

what of my life in a mess

you make sense

of the chaotic

and freshen the dead

which was in me.

i can't move. i am hypnotized and tranquilized

victimized and so i lie...here.

wanting. needing. to hear one last word.

just give me one last breath of you.

just give me

one single second

in which i can summon all the thoughts i learned. perhaps in that second

i can gather my thoughts and show you the essence of me

perhaps

in that single second of our meeting

i can just...i can just...i can just...

be silent.

be silent with you.

do you need to utter a word?

are we not soul connected

and so damn gifted in which

we lift our hands and become one

bare on cotton sheets, fuck the thread count

i want to be the name in which you shout

roll me under, arch in my back

damn.

you are the chain,

in which i react.

i can not love you.

you make me love you.

you make me be the best and worse in you.

you make me

just so damn-

free. i cannot fly if you invade my dreams

i cannot fly if you send universe signals to awaken me

i cannot fly if you clip

my wings.

here.

my thoughts. visions. fiend.

here.

future present

un-waking

dream.

I. Fucking. Hate. You.

2009-09-16T13:15:00.003-04:00

I. Fucking. Hate. You.

I hate

how you disrupt the silence in me.

how I crave to be the still waters

in chaos ripples within unfamiliar environments

soul quiver induced

need an intravenous medicine through

my vein mind reliance head game

type of love.

I hate You.

Hate how you

nibbled the rock formed within my heart

pebble by pebble

dust collected pressurized being

the coulda shoulda woulda luminescence eye catching diamond

in the rough upon sight for seeing.

I hate

the way your commandments come not from

stone tablets but hidden sex

shadowed by layers of jean material

move me in. out. in.

undertones of a serial killer

slashing beating hearts bled by red eyes

hours pass cease shadows of the day

and now,

morning paid its price.

you made me love you.

The quivering inner child not

loved by his father

in-compassionate to debate topics

scorned fury have no hell

summoned to thee/ calculated

movements in the web in which

you caught me.

snipped my wings.

I hate how movement and flight

ceased relaxed winds in your presence

dominating the deafening sound of silence

intermixed with full lips hold desire

cresting with moonlight. your love,

the forgiving cried tears water doused with

passionate fire.

yes.

I. Fucking. Hate. You.

you piece of shit Rubiks cube

full of enigmas sprinkled with dishonesty

life on a silver platter ignored

released the inner Riddler in me,

I mean-

how can I understand

what does not share?

how can I love

what does not care?

moving in/out/out/in

seeking approval master of desire

lies and conceit you made me

love from within.

you changed me.

damn you. you made me be this type of chick

that would take so much

disguised with rose petals but lingering

aromas of soft petals for forgiving-

it still smells like bullshit.

forget-me-nots'

don't smell so good

with begging and pillow talk whispers

and the uncovering of what lies beneath

of what could

I am the original heartbeat

heartache

heart's sake

heart weight

heart make

me quiver

and shiver

and stutter

and tremble

and feel and need and need to love cause love left me

utterly...

in love to be hated.

make me love to hate you.

contempt breathing resentment

mixed with pleaded cries to

inner self-assessments

who am I, the epitome of me

to deny the best of thee

to create the strength in you

support everlasting within

reciprocity ever-lacking.

I supported you. loved you.

held you in my arms when tears fall in the dark

when real men cry

when real men have emotions and feelings and love and seek being

meek when they are not strong

vulnerable when they are not seen

understanding when they are not believed

helpless when they are not are not in demand for need.

a necessity. a pure necessity. can't help who you love

but I. Fucking. Hate. You. you made me choose

and dammit, I love myself more.

I forgive you.

clipped wings,

Soar.

-b.r.rivera

(blunt and real talk; to hate someone that you love and forgive them is not to give forgiveness to the other person-but to have love for thyself.)

"Un-Truth"

2009-08-29T19:48:00.002-04:00

his lies
a corrupt venom
struck from the tongue
softened by smooth baritone
an echo of memories
hiccuped from the static
of the cellular phone.

his dishonesty
the metastatic cancer
growth in experience
shadowed by false embraces
cologne filled air
suffocating the denial
within candlelit places.

his falsity
a mirrored image
reflected on complex facial expressions
body language deciphered
veins and tendons
stretched in smooth smiles
disturbs the life within her.

his lies

venom.
cancer.
false imagery.

my truth

love.
passion.
honesty.

-b.r.rivera

"Death Row"

2009-08-29T19:33:00.002-04:00

you will be my death row meal.

an instant gratification of delectable
nouns adjectives verbs
sprinkled
with succulent stanza surprised
in aromatic annunciations chewed slowly.

time will be measured
in satiable alliterations wiped onto a
white cloth eating fork made of
thesaurus thick tragedies
birthed to allusion personifications.

pen to paper, the hourglass.
an immense pressure to immortalize
each sentence syntax. each word
the savory satisfaction solidified
as a millisecond in the sand.

you will be my death row meal.

the lingering ink an aromatic herb
sensualizing my nose, the crinkling
of paper a chewing of ancient scribes
tingling bittersweet aftertaste of
sonnets and love notes,
haiku and senryu.

yes. let. me. chew.

masticate while I procastinate and
flow misunderstood etymologies
tearful eyes while I apologize
to the inner bibliophile
I will rather diminish if I cannot
finish the utterance of Giovanni
sweetness of Teasdale
rhythm of Hughes.

you, my death row meal-
slowly, I shall chew.

swallow inner beauty danced
upon crisp sheets
form, figurative language, creativity
sparked as slowly
I weep.

my tears flow a river
ink blots upon the paper.
you, my death row meal
until the last bite,

i savor.

-b.r.rivera

"No Middle Name Maze"

2009-08-22T14:38:00.002-04:00

(from start to finish)

Met him on a sunny day
Don’t remember which
but the cold was outside. The season
for change/ change was he
Near winter months before
“You don’t know my name” was in heavy rotation
He was sweet temptation through slant eyes
and light flirtation
I wanted him then.
Complemented me on juicy lips
had a wondering eye for the swing of my
hips in my tight-ass jeans that I wear for
just the right occasion
Didn’t know he was who he was
But it was a sweet celebration
Didn’t know when or where passion would
lead us- wrote him a poem/ “bittersweet”
Does he still know where that is?
But back to the subject at hand
Or should I say the subject of connection
Sweet hellos/ he says he misses me (already)
and I am his dream girl of sweet affection
Yet he says this smooth… mellow
As he exhales his cigarette
Looks at me with deep gaze
Even in drunken state- that man is fine
damn fine/ puts comfort in lonely eyes
Shared dreams and inspiration
Tear drops on roof-tops and intellectual conversation

Could I be- is there a possibility
That I could just probably
Be
That missing rib on his side
He says I am that missing that he’s been
searching I am his repetitive thoughts
I am his notion-
Not just by night in quiet rooms and a rested shoulder
but by day he (say) “I could take the hurt from her”
He’s been my umbrella. My shield. My rough around the edges but still sweet
cooking buna with ramen noodles prince
on the white horse but sportin’ Nike
Kinda Love.
and I adore him.
Washed his back under warm shower water
Embraced him under cotton sheets
Conversations of future-past became
future-tense/ of moons and dominions and
skies endless
Talked he would gift my finger of
an engagement ring/ He my husband/He my King He would be strong for me/ strong willed for me that
he would die for me
But will he live for me?

I want him still.

b.r.rivera
(a throwback-but he's been heavy on my mind.)

"I Don't Like That Chick."

2009-08-17T19:18:00.003-04:00

I don't like that chick.

She the type
swing ass and hips
as a sign of melted caramel wishes
topped with ebony thickness.

its not the hate, the type of hell
where women do not wish each other well
and i am the type to uplift and appreciate
-listen up: this simply ain't about hate.

i simply...don't like that chick.

she the type
to giggle at your man's corny jokes
when shit ain't funny.
posing when cameras aren't flicking
and blows through others stack of money
never opinionated-loves to go with the flow
because opposition from a man
is the ultimate pet peeve, from this she knows
from a long lineage of women as single parents
she being the ultimate third generation
all she knows is lies and forbidden touches
and no honest penetration.
she moves with a pack
much uglier than she
because she wants to look good
for the betterment of a man to see.

see...

i don't like that chick.

she the type that takes any dick
to deep throat smack it up
welcomes penetration in three holes
for nails and hair done
she can sell her soul
and too.fucking.familiar
with the distance between two points
if you that close to smell my man's breath
then you that close to wearing nothing else
see, i don't like the type of woman
who's favorite song is X-Scape's "My Little Secret"
because even bad asses get caught
and that's the way karma keeps it
and forgive me if this is too blunt
but if it applies, then it cant fly
i need to speak real and game recognizes game
and the stunts that you pull-
baby? you doing the same thing
its the oldest profession on earth,
read a bible, take up theology
your name tag reading Jezebel
your lust in eyes i can see.
backstabber smile in your face
all the time she wanna take your place
irresponsible and downright unloyal
son of a bitch-

i simply...don't like that chick.

the type of woman who loves how to be a clean up type of gal
swinging her broom from side to side
waiting in the trenches hopping over your fences
pretending to be ya pal.
she the clean up woman.
the heart-breaker and prostitute
the little hot ass, the chick that is just too damn loose
the bitch, the hoe, the skank the trick
she wears many names,
but all I know is-

i don't like that chick.

i got my eye on her.
every time she moves.
she wears many faces
harder to recognize each time
but when she speaks
empty vessels tell the truth
from lies.

i'm one step ahead of her and
one step behind her.

i don't like that chick.

this chick must be dismissed
is it possible that it is just a fad
to fuck one another woman's man
and have the audacity to brag?
it is me or does respect go out the window
when she enters and sashays that skin glow
of uplifted breasts fresh from Victoria's Secret
and, its ok...you can be my little secret...
is she the temptation that men can't hide
their hidden sex exposed even under lies
is it the newness or claim of freshness
utter disturbance in the niceness which you were blessed with
is it the slant of the eyes, the freak in the bed
the one that don't cook no breakfast
leaves the door wide open instead?
is it the smell of fresh meat
that got you salivating at your lips
is it the way that gloss touches you from a kiss
is it the voice that is not mine
that purrs for simple sex
is it the unfamiliarity of new territory
is it the ideal of being caught the high of tests/
is it that she can never be me
is it that i can never be her
i simply don't take no shit
so now you simply want to be all up
in the newness?

the newness. the newness. this doesn't equate to clean
the freshness and effervescence in which the soul to my love
which i bring. i rubbed your back with snot coming down in tears
as you cried in the dark over all these years
i am your lover your homemaker
your freak your marriage-taker
your beauty, your queen
your soul, your being
i am your cook and your chef
your freak at night lady in day by dress
i am your mother of your child
womb filled by you
i am the original high
the one whom you come home to.

see...chick-

they don't ever leave, though you beg them to stay.
they don't trim the tree on special holidays.
they don't tend to illegitimate children
or put a ring on your finger
they don't stay long enough after the fuck
for even their cologne to linger.
and while you sit there and
become.too.fucking.familiar
let me tell you this-
i am watching you, trick
i am two steps before you
and one step behind you.
the wife gets respect
while the "other" gets everything less.
you are nothing, miss lick of the lips.

and even though my man don't cheat-
because i bring it too nice for you to follow with bullshit
i will be the one he seeks while you
be just another clit.
i am watching you-

i'm one step ahead of her and
one step behind her.

Ladies beware
to the kind of woman holding it down
the type of woman to love with care, you see
it's something about her
something about the way she is around a man's presence,
the swing of her hips-
too much familiarity

oh hell no.

i don't like that chick.

-b.r.rivera

"Painter"

2009-07-30T12:28:00.003-04:00

swirling prolific hues of green envy and
passionate reds
imprints of individualized
thumbprints echo the softness of her chest.
her stained clothes, a memorial of
shed blood and crusted tears.
methodically, each stroke
larger than the last. shaded memories
dusted with charcoal. empty delights
cross-etched in blended fingertips.
the room, empty. a hollowed portrait
fits in the solace in which the artist lives.

systematic soul surrender.

does she long to be the
hidden message in impressionism, the
genius of Rodin the talk of the Louvre,
the troubled artist in which tragedy ends
fulfilling afterlife in the thief of the night's kiss?

brush stroke.

pain supersedes heliotropes
vision a circumcised catalytic
imprison, raw theft of
stolen pieces and framed genius lay hung,
genius on a white wall.

tip. tap.

coarse fibers dance in shallow water
mixing royal purples and optimistic yellows.
her favorite color: black.
it begs to be painted upon.
desires to be another color, in another life-
jealous of its white counterparts
pixelated on firm canvas outstretched
in stapled wooden corners.

the water turns grey.

time for a change. fill the tin cup
with aqua white of clear water
dreamed in oceans of Tahiti
tropical waters left unseen.

shifting lazily, she turns in the empty room hastily.

her broken solace irritates her.
motivates her.
captivates her.

was Michelangelo too tired
to change his dipping water for paints
ensuring a masterpiece was
not molested in unforgiving colors
that did not want to be painted?

the room echoes.

a slow start of shuffling feet embrace the faucet,
cold fingers touch the white knob labeled "c",
chrome embellished turning dusty grey-
speckled droplets of paint.

go back.

re-visit. re-learn. re-vise.

interrupt and improvise the
cool tone of blue and promising
girl's laugh of the pink hidden in hues.
brush stroke. stroke the brush
create rhythmic beats of discouraged hair,
fussed over swollen eyes hypnotized,
insomniacs curse-
the easel, a congregation
the canvas, a church.

holy.

it is so holy. blessed with water from the Vatican
direct from the Pope. Holy like rushed
tongues confused. Holy like
fans held by hand, airing away
brow sweat under
God's edifice.

she moves. she creates. she loves. she hates.

painting words upon paper,
each stroke of the pen
a re-incarnation of Hughes, Frost, Merwin.
Within. This Paper. A well worn lover.
Like a long distance kiss
blown by the wind
captured on a cheek, held there promising
for another. and another. Mighty
and mightier-

I am a writer.

ancient scribes painted across words,
swirling each pen as a stroke
colors of experience intertwined with
portraits of genius-
each piece, a puzzle. each enigma, a lust.
Desire. Of words and sound
surely, no definition or mere pronoun
uses the synonym in which I hymn mere
treasures locked in a box
hidden surprise-lyrics lost and found:
vocals: an open mic. ear: a reading. music: a stanza.
I cannot be bound.

Free.

Poet. Creating arts with words.
Poet. Live and die heard.
Poet. A definition of me.
Poet.

Sight. Sound. See.

Poetry.

-b.r.rivera

Shout out to Robert Dodson-a fellow poet. I created this poem, "Painter" with him as my muse. I told him once that he paints words-a true quality of imagery, and writing. As writers, we all paint words-creating a genius upon our canvas within our souls. Much love to all my Poets. Live your craft. Love your Blessing till your last breath.

"Enigma"

2009-07-28T18:32:00.001-04:00

Love was like a long stemmed scented rose-
Until I found the thorns.

It was the taste of fine wine
Until the bitterness of the last sip was gone.

Being as soft as fresh fallen snow
Until the coldness reached upon me.

It gave me the sweet melodies in my ear
Until the one note made it unbearable to me.

Giving me a Cloud 9 feeling
Then I realized I had no wings

Seeing beautiful places it could take me-
Until I realized they were just scenes.

Love is like a mask,
Unveiled in a mystique
Then you realized all the lovely gifts it gave you

Were never,
For Keeps.

-b.r.rivera

“Audio”

2009-07-25T13:46:00.001-04:00

(audio).

snaps fingers

and aligns rhythms to

the cool jazz which aligns the walls

in this room.

ivory keys glistening, begging to be touched

sheet-music dance to the notes

and beats, clefs and unheard baritone.

smooth octaves ranging into

unheard dimensions

goosebumps prickling the heated

skin of stage lights and

amps powered by electricity.

glow.

she sings. a moment filled with

Nina Simone and Billie Holiday

of Strange Fruit and

the Other Woman.

a hushed crowd awakened by

systematic beats and warm breath

kissing the microphone hips

synchronized in rhythm as dim lights

give birth to slow dancing.

hypnotic.

the effervescence of alcohol and tobacco

fill the room, signs of swayed physiques

and temples glistening with sweat.

but she moves. moves still/enraptured

and captured the moment of

toothpicks hanging from full lips

and pink blossom makeup blushed

intertwined with cherry red lips.

desire.

epitome of craving and wanting

the kind where empty stomachs are never filled

late night chicken wafts the air

and hot grease becomes insatiable mixed

with the feeding of warm liquor

in the veins. Insatiable.

Truly insatiable.

where one brush of the lips

become a kiss

the kiss gives definition to bliss

and bliss gives birth to a new day

spent skin to skin touched under cheap

cotton sheets.

it is a new day.

awakened by the golden rays

bounced off of Grandma's curtains

lace detailed and hand crafted,

the peek in the shadows produced

a new figure. he comes. half-full cup of

java brewing awaking the air with

a thick breeze of freshly ground beans

of Arabica nature.

a crease in the bed

he sits. mug in hand

a soft olive branch of extension

for the unforgiving look of messy hair pulled

and hot combs to re-make the up-do.

she smiles.

throws on Benny Goodman

and bops head. Rhythm.

from the stage to the room

to the dawn from the midnight glow-

this jazz thang Baby-

is all she knows.

(audio.)

-b.r.rivera

For Scott Joplin.

"Heavy Shit"

2009-07-22T19:33:00.005-04:00

I cracked an empty vase today.

Glass shards reflective in
millions of pieces strewn
over carpeted feet.
crimson red droplets formed
over angry tones and a now un-silenced room.

he should be here by now.

the clock ticks. tocks.
seconds of agonizing minutes turn
the large hand beckoning the small hand
to lie, I am begging to disagree
surely a sign of loneliness.

tick. tock.

petals.

fragrance now turned into an
uneasy smell of velvety red flowers
bloomed too easily-
a gentle reminder and sadistic pun
of my life. sweet and kind that
flowers are his apologies
as words never found consonants and
consonants never meet vowels and syllables
across his tongue.

he shouldve brought me forget-me-nots.

tick. tock.

great memory. gerber daisies are my first love,
not roses.

click.
I run my thumb in one swipe
against the hard case enveloped against the fluid
to ignite my flame, menthol tobacco
fills the air
unescaped by closed windows.

breathe in. inhalation.
breathe out. exhalation.
in.
forgiveness.
out.
forget this shit.

tick. tock.

clouds of billowed smoke
fill the room, a painful reminder
of stress as I
decompress, hands over chrome knobs
run water/ time to re-dress.
put slippers on. fuck it. won't vacuum at a time like this.

this is some heavy shit.

let his feet hit the glass and feel some pain
let his formed blood be the remembrance again
of past lives and future stories
tall tale lies and mystery girls whoring.

tick. tock.

forget the cracked vase
broken to pieces, an heirloom
of treasure now trash
to be collected on a cold sunless morning.
or is that Tuesday? what the hell
it will come soon.

forget the apologies and
unwelcome sincerity
increase in my mouth to expel vulgarities
as he creates another lie to me.

tick. tock.

forget the tea-lit candles
dancing on white walls
and fragrant petals replaced by
offensive cigarette air.

forget the hours on the clock
as you disrespect my time/stand me up
to lay with a woman with no care
geographically not here. but there.

call it a woman's intuition.

cause when you turn this door,
unlock the key-
crisp. cold. confused. sheets beckon for you to see
that the warmth you get tonight
ain't gonna come from me.

tick. tock.

-b.r.rivera

“Contagious”

2009-07-21T19:55:00.002-04:00

You are lethal to me.
A slow poison
Of contagious
But slowly anxious
Passionate lovin’
Is it a dream
Or reality I’m muttering…
You make me high
You make me low
You make me sing
You make me moan
I’m stuttering/staggering
Move in me closer
Deeper still
Nothing else/ I’m wanting
I desire you like ecstasy’s pill
I desire you like
My body needing a fix
The way you move
The way you sway
You make me wanna
Kiss your succulence
But I can’t
Your kiss is toxic
Your love no/ logic
And it saddens me to see
How I dropped the crown
off my head
And make a weaker me.
I can not love you.
Even though I went deeper.
Deeper than the ocean’s bliss
Still waters run/ enclose me
I can’t be your kiss
You are lethal to me.
Even though your touch is
-Heavenly-
Your voice
-Gravitates-
(me)
I can not force myself to be
Your original high
By the way you
Ascend me.
Even though your stiffness
Is the best upon my
Clitoris- I can’t let you
Get next to this
Because my love is genuine
And yours... just isn’t
I have a man who
Puts a crown back on my head
Kisses my hand
Recites vows out his lips
And I’m always said
To be-
His love, his life
His future ahead-
So I can not love you
Because your life in me
Is now dead.

-b.r.rivera

Epitaph to AT&T Wireless

2009-07-21T19:48:00.000-04:00

Here lies customer service
Tombsone engraved, "Not to Serve Us"
What is this charge on my bill, I say?
Death to overcharges day by day
Ghosts riddled with surplus
Now I find a way to clear my throat and cuss
As she sits dead on the other line
Popping gum to waste her time
Oh, AT&T-buried in wireless
Now my bill is a simple mess.

-b.r.rivera

"Rescue Me"

2009-07-20T19:57:00.002-04:00

“Rescue Me”

I don’t think death is a hard man to look at.
Not a scary scythe carrying grim reaper
wearing a dark robe reeking of fallen ashes and freshly dug dirt
right now, he will look like an angel
(to me)
bright and with a long gown ever flowing
whispering in my ear
sweet Beverly, it’s time to come home
and I will dive into his arms
like a child who has missed her father.
Because he is sweet welcoming to me
like potato salad and fried chicken
that my mom made especially for me
to welcome me home
after a long trip on the road.
Right now, he is sweet and kind
kissing me on my forehead
And relieving me of my last breath
Because I was too tired to do so. Too worn to even fill my lungs. Too weary to even think about the inhaling and exhaling the in and out
of peaks and valleys
He is my sweet dreams of what others called nightmares
of monstrous boogeyman’s and unhopeful futures.
Sweet song that I hear my last breath that I breathe
He says
sweet Beverly, it’s time to go home
and in one sweep, I am in his arms
Carried by effortless strength that so desired me to be his engagement for the night
A long list of welcoming that for other’s that will be endings
to me, a long time coming
and I am his, as he Is mine
the sweetness of the kiss of death
it has been a long fight.

Rescue me.

-b.r.rivera

"Goddess"

2009-07-14T11:46:00.003-04:00

In his eyes, I am pure Goddess.

Alcmene, the mother of Hercules
strength and beauty designed and
redefined to even at the end of life, I am
worshipped. Within this biological being
launching a thousand ships is
comparable to the sway of my hips
the verb of love.
beyond the hedonistic
pleasures of the flesh, I reign supreme-
The mighty Aphrodite, adorned with
white garments/crown of gold
personified by Homer, an ancient tale to be told.
I am Neith rage as a war goddess
yet a weaver of dreams and silk from the gift of sight

...and as day kisses the sky goodbye
As moon Goddess Artemis, I rule the night.
Giving birth to crickets humming at
summer's heat, dewy mornings and restful sleep-

In his eyes, I am pure Goddess.

Recognizing my name to be
synonymous in the eternal womaness
that even fellow Queen Maya
internalized to be,
"Phenomenal Woman"
I am she.

and in all fairness, I balance the scales of justice
as Astrea blind to false tales, aligned with
immortal lust. I am forever.

Forever more,
complex originality that transcends
and finds the four letter word
sustaining the test of time. I am Goddess. pure hotness.
methodical sexuality permeating
woman, beauty inexplicable within this. within me. yet, I am more.

more than the monotony as the average being
As a thunderous walk in the room,
men clamor as I, the sight for sore eyes being
am sweet magnolia scents and
perfumed skin of soul awakenedness and effervescence.
I ebb and flow into the mind of you
I am the riddle to which you have no clue
more than the caramel cleavage hypnotizing with
the sway of my hips
I am Goddess, the intelligence
in which you miss.

but he sees. he knows.

This goddess, in his eyes, continues to grow.
as Chloris, the dominion over flowers
break bread over me, Demeter-as I harvest the power
but keep peace, Ececheria soothe me with sleep, Epione
as am I, the Pepromene

-the Goddess of Destiny.

in his eyes, I am Goddess.
- Thunder. Passion. Creativity.

in my eyes, I am Woman.
-Love. And all the potential my inner Goddess will be.

-b.r.rivera
shout out to "Hollywood" for being my muse.
Embrace your inner goddess, Ladies. Wear that crown well.

"A Sight For Sore Eyes"

2009-07-01T22:55:00.004-04:00

my worth
measured in honey thick thighs
and swinging hips
movement and magnetization
within the males lick of the lips
my worth
calculated by Hershey kiss nipples
and cleavage exposed (bounce)
make ripples
of human flesh re-defined and
slow to climb
corporate ladders and executive suits
when brain matter and intelligence
is comparable to the next man
hidden sex whom calls my thinking "cute."
my worth
balanced in the tangible ankles adorned with jewelry
nape of neck perfumed with the secret of
Victoria, my waist accentuated surely
with g-strings and thongs
legs, high heels and ached feet
beneath the the sculpted legs long
my worth
counted and scrutinized
ass plentiful and mocha chocolate skin
hypnotized
rhythms of bass movement in
music videos hair dancing off of beats
as I am called a hoe.
bitch please
there has to be more than this to me
i am more than the calculation
definition measurable and comparison driven
societal degree in which they see me

i am woman.

no cliche of hear me roar
i whisper when i need be. soft and delicate
the grace of the wind that finesse the trees
the root of which the bark lays place
the foundation of which
seeds are sown into place.

my worth.

my worth. is my worth more than
worthy for i to be reigned as a Queen
stereotyped and believed to be the hype of
sexual objects and poor choice of verbal expressions
dictated by future generations and harmful
pasts of which women have risen.

my worth. is my worth more than
the spewed sperm upon one's face in
porn star reality turned TV disgrace from queendom
sexual positions turned back to 180 degree intuition
Kama sutra indulgence and wet secrets
enveloped with a warm middle
vagina not treated with proper labels
relationship tested and dreams un-able.
where the oldest profession to walk this earth
becomes the woman who walks the night
shadow dance car to car buck to buck
all night flirt turn tricks
ounce of a soul turned bold
good for one night fuck?

more.

we are more. so much more, Ladies.
see the proper term capitalized
as i re-define
the definition of woman
that lineage follows suit as we find
the capture of life
womb enabled child miracle blessing
one rib more than Adam
amazement to see that your crown has fallen
to dirt and ashes a sign to see
that Woman, dear Lady-
you are so much more.

more than a swing of the hips kiss of pure succulence
man devoured and woman soured
big breast thick boned and phat ass
shawty or wifey
give ring to thee-make em' wife to be
surely the Queen has got to see
that envisioned for the future
one has to define what is the past
and the past is what you have been
not what your potential to be

my worth. your worth. our worth

a sight for sore eyes to see.

-b.r.rivera
because Ladies-we define our character and self worth.

"Baby's Breath"

2009-06-26T12:53:00.004-04:00

had i lived

if i had not died

an impressionable thumbprint

to lay and co-exist

soul stamped and virtually

entranced upon memories

reserved for future smiles unexpected

and inappropriate laughs in silent spaces

within this small space

of the body cavity i have

left my eyes to see the envisioned

world which i created

to seek and inspire. love and devour

the drops and essential goodness

of life which i take a huge bite

satisfied in the juicy aftertaste of

experienced moments and inexplicable beauty

where do the skies end

and Heaven begin

climbing Jacob's ladder and surrounded

by angelic celestial matter

dense with beauty God's concentrated

hues which i see

and realize that i have lived for more than me.

i lived.

i was here. i am the re-incarnation

potential not wasted highest of the most High

Jesus walks as i touch the sky

being upon this planet

a Rubik's cube enigma

where you cannot fit the spot or imitate

the God given reality

of my blessed individuality

baptized in the worry free

anxieties of where my soul travels

at the end of the tunnel which i now see.

and i am biologically gone.

my pulse does not beat.

my body riddled with rose petals

and cheap carnations adorned

with accompanying baby's breath.

shiny coffin lacquered with spilled tears

and perfumed scents to the ones which

mourn me. but do not mourn the

sunset which ends of a bodily being

my morning is awakened and refreshed to the

new beginning of Seneca's

philosophized thought of the birthday of

my eternity.

death is not my ending. Air does not

escape me. The infamous grim reaper

as no hold unto thee

future angels love of God's sending

i encompassed a lasting impression

and learned the importance

of my fairy tale ending:

i was loved.

i...was loved.

-b.r.rivera

In Tribute and Memoriam to the original angel, Farrah Fawcett and the King whose music reigns supreme, Michael Jackson.

R.I.P. 6/26/09

"Oh heart, if one should say to you that the soul perishes like the body, answer that the flower withers, but the seed remains."

~Kahlil Gibran

"Enlacasa"

2009-06-18T18:30:00.003-04:00

home lies beyond an edifice
a structural building filled
with bricks and mortar
sidepaneling and dry wall.
home lies beyond a
four letter word
it encompasses eight letters
two syllables and one sound
: laughter.
re-defined is the complexity
yet intricacy of what an abode
means to me.
shall i be comforted from harsh winds
and cold nights
refuge to heated blankets
and seeped tea leaves
simmered upon a whistling stove.
you, are more than an orifice
a maintained place of carpeted
residence-you resonate
and advocate spiritual blessings
my Father, whom knocks at the door
naked feet and prayed blackened knees
nestled within tears and memories
etched upon silent reverberations
of soul stamps self addressed
to the walls which hold them-
home, send me my peace and being
the enclosure beyond weight bearing
columns, flower gardens adorn the
steps with no life inside
(this room). in here,
in home, be the place where
silent prayers are heard, bouncing off of
windowpanes as clouds form
drip. drop. rain.
no need for an umbrella
moistened by outside elements
raging against these walls.
for,
within this home
is simplicity yet intricacy
and it follows me
wherever, I go.

-b.r.rivera

home, my love. home, is where the heart is. and if there is no place to call home, enter your heart and dwell within. be blessed.