This one particular man stands as prolific in my mind. Something about how the wild bird doesn't feel sorry for itself even in its frozen state. How secretly a broken wing challenges the raw Rocky-esque like stature the creature has. Screaming Adriiaaannnn!!!! with blackened eyes and sweat glistening from silken feathers. I don't know if I believe in such things. Here. Now. Sitting in chronic pain, barely able to move injured disks that stab burn stink in prolific meanderings. I mean, who can call their self an orange fiery flamed bird, beaten down by life and spit out in graves, turned to ash only to rise again? I am not that bird. That quiet, beaked, songstress. Attempting to flutter bloodied bashing's against a steel cage, minuscule perforations of seed scattered unto the recreated soil that can't fool earth. Self pity. Woe is me. The woe is me mentality framed in photographs where flight leaves the orbs of my eyes and ...

She's a shell, you know. Some sort of fat humpty dumpty look a like skin un-kissed by the warmth of the sun. She's never seen what its like to allow the dimples to careen into deep valleys whiten the glazed over eyes of youth in almost porcelain enamels challenge the hurried hours in a curl of a moist lip. who knows what enters the mind at the middle of the playground dust and dirt kicked up to the pressed starchiness and itchiness of stockings. A reminder of delicate legs and shapely hips, bursting out to enter adolescence but pulled back in ribbons and plaits worn in her time. they scream at her, you know. some kind of words learned from their environment where the mother is a bitch from handing the daddies their plates cold the father is a motherfucker from a stain of red on a collar the dog is a shitter from a pound where only mixed breeds die and the child still lays in the womb as audio obscenities blast auto-tune in its fetal po...

I did not choose to love you, I am told Cause you can't help who you love. We're all prisoners here, invisible shackles taking control I did not choose to love you, I am told. I despise fate. Hate to think I'm a conquest, a figurine, extolled Shapeless drones punctured in pain by an arrow fired from distant places I did not choose to love you, I am told. Cause you cant help...who you love. -b.r.rivera #30in30 A Triolet Poem 4 of 30, April 2012.

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

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