There is nothing really beautiful about the fall. The glorification is all about the triumph. The victor. The applause that one gets from the thunderous crowd, at last. Perhaps it's all a matter of perspectives, but the tanglement of hair, the bloodied scrapes from asphalt, the collected dirt from fingernails, has its own beauty. We are expected to be beautiful in times from the fall from grace. Keep it together. Lipstick on. Shirts pressed. Muster on from tar pits unscathed, painted face on like nothing happened. There is no need to rely simply on the truths of reality for we even believe the lie ourself: I'm okay. We tell others. Text them. Email. Tweet. Post. Go, share to the world with our painted on glorified face that we are okay. We are not. And it's okay. Where have I convinced myself that the fall cannot be just as beautiful as the eventual walking tall?  Somewhere in my muddied face, I am still me. My soul, my strength, my inner peace. Somewhere in the blood, the ...

its broken. kinda like the sweet sparrow dropping hard from its nest its wing flapping hard against the dust of the earth eyes wild and unforgiving, trying hard not to feel sorry for itself and establishes within its mind that it has a broken wing. i wonder if I can fix it. be the invisible cast crimson in creation where miracles happen beyond the skies in pleasurable and comfortable existence. its discarded. merely a decomposed state of composition hidden with maggots and live insects swarming to infect and circumspect the small pieces of flesh exposed from hard calcified bone and marrow. it lays there, a piece blowing in the wind no longer recyclable to be sorted in large aqua blue tubs to be reinvented into plastic cups that once again, someone will throw away. and I wonder. wonder if I can fix it.  be the mending stitch that sways smooth firmness on  supple skin, avoiding infection and  regaining cellular regeneratio...

All hail the Easter Bunny. There are promises of eggs. Little small gifts enclosed in plastic oval shapes, smelling of new chemicals freshly pressed from large manufacturing companies. My gift to the weather. A small token of spring. Perhaps the swiftness and cool eyed crispness deserves better awakenings than Folgers in your cup and effervescence scalding hot in aging fingers. It's all daisies, ribbons, and freshly starched outfits pressed for the deadline on velvety pews, gotta make it on time in the rush of traffic where runways are composed of yellow dashed lines and patent leather shoes pressed to the metal of gas ignitions. Who needs a Bible? We all have our outfits and hopefully unstained chocolate pressed against our lips honoring the risen from a sealed tomb after three days after the cry of vinegar quenched lips and warm blood dusty from a crown of thorns. Let me celebrate once. Once in my life, go to an edifice filled with familiar tunes and paper ...

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.

Who's got me When I need to unplug the electric idiosyncratic bullshit of the world above down low Who's got me in deep valleys and shadowed paths when growls and snares smell blood, fresh which they entrap Who's got me if a net is cast for safety and not a soul to hold it laced fabric, a web a 50 star flag on a coffin bugle calls/fold it El fin, the end. Who's got me? Who's got me? Who has me? -b.r.rivera #22 of 30 #30in30

I was told a soul weighs an ounce. technically, 1/3000 of an ounce by East German researching teams trying to identify and solidify the measure of terminally ill by  scientific means. if I lived a measured life and fulfilled that dash in between my obituary surely the valuation of evil versus good breathed life from my capillaries dispensed in beating chest and blood filled veins and air upon oxygen in which I cannot breathe again. I was told a soul weighs an ounce. the type of treasure that shakes the body upon departure and blind light seeks a new home travelling into unknown dimensions would Peter open the gates to me staring blind eyed at my name clipboard in hand/Excel charted progress of the life I gave and gained would the power of the mere beauty be somewhat unimaginable to me could angels really fly and have wings snipped upon choice will horns blast and heavens part as a sign of entering with rejoice can I bear witness to seraphim and golden str...