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 dee

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 kno

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

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

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

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 decrie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 fo

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

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

(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

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.)

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, a

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 o