Day 38 in  #BookSpine365 . Visit a title a day from my bookshelf. Month Two. You ever read one or those type of books that impact you from the first paragraph, the first line or sentence? Enter Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin. My obviously wrinkled and battered trade paperback copy has stood the test of time in its 1976 copyright. The book is old. Very old. As in first edition, 1960 old. During this title's 66th printing at the time, over five million copies were already sold and counting. The book has already celebrated its 50th anniversary , and has sold many more. There's yellowing in the pages, and dogearred pages. Inscription unbeknownst to me from previous owner. Looks like..."Ginnie Herbert. Ya friend, L. B." in blue ink. I wrote my name at least seven times in it. I was young. I really wanted no one to have this book once I acquired it. Wait...where did I get it from? It's way too old for me to remember, and I would be giving away my age.  Speaki...

A letter can be a symbol of memories. A scent of cologne or perfume hinted on text from the writer to pass to the reader. In some cases, it's a piece of vital information that must be delivered as a means of communication. Enter the tale of John Boston, a slave in Maryland. The year was 1862. The month, January. The Civil War in full action with the beginning of the year authorizing President Lincoln to launch extensive and aggressive action towards the Confederacy. General McClellan later ignored this order, the President grew impatient and by April of the same year the battle of Shiloh was born. While the Civil War created a new type of modern weaponry (such as repeaters and submarines) the telegraph, war photographs, and most importantly letters were a means of communication-especially to slaves whom were often punished for knowing how to read or learning to read and didn't have access to modern technologies.  A letter alone could not be reliable, but could probably be in...

time In its most wicked state tastes of sour lemons, molded from uncare aware of its presence. life is frailty. love, it's burden. carried upon backs that once moved mountains the stones throw away, now too much effort  to give freely what shouldn't be yearned for. his smile, a memory. happiness trapped in a hourglass to the choices present. stranger, in same being joy you disallow time a ribbon of history unraveled if I known then, what I know now.  -b.r.rivera Recommended Reading

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-...

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...

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 he...

The only gift is a portion of thyself. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson To give. We all claim to do it, yet selfishly hold on to our last dollar at the bottom of our purse or wallet-hoping that it would grow. What is not being said with those actions is the faith required to understand that the karmic laws of pure humanness and the love of God himself will always allow us to recover. To not only live, but to thrive. Following this notion, I decided to give some of myself. The power starts with me, begins with me and does not have to end with me. I want to give. I want to give so purely and without thought, that giving will be a second thought, of human nature of my spirit. I never seen myself as a stingy person. Well...except with red velvet cake and a good fountain pen. Now those, I have to kinda get over. However, I found such a wonderful notion with giving. It can help myself, it can help others. With giving, I can share myself with others-hopefully offering inspiration, thought, physical ...

We often fall in love and get caught up in other's dreams. Their dreams become our reality. Our reality hence becomes a dream, faded away and left for dead, giving no breath in the wind. It amazes me how much one can give up for a relationship. How failures become daily strengths to overcome through ignored conversation, dwindled desire and nonchalance. What about the desire that was once felt? What about the quiet nights and long days of uninterrupted stories that were told because of curiosity. They are replaced. Replaced with short tones, irritated inflections of voice and looks of repulsion. We have fallen in love and got caught up in other dreams. We stopped living, and become a prisoner within our own home. We have stopped believing in ourselves, stopped believing in our own goals. The clean up process is much more hard. So hard that being focused becomes sleepless nights riddled with anxiety and longer days of being a walking zombie. But the goals are obtainable. The to do l...