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

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

(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 co

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 thre