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-...

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

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 demo...