here. within this forbidden place riddled with foliage and secret pathways overgrown with moss and forest floor fungi mud seeps. drainage endures flash floods and chaos filled rivers stretched to estuaries reserved for the ever binding relationships mixed salt and freshwater beginnings. here. the place where stone compresses under pressurized rocks forming Tacori diamonds laden with small velvet boxes reserved for surprise engagements bent knees the humbling of past lives and hurts forgiven. here. the subconscious dimension surpassed with waking hours dawn forgiving light and horizons meet the east settled in the west and dew comes a new morning. the reverie induced dreams where you and i meet the voice familiar the tone forgiving the words fallacious hidden in time and space continuum's where you lie to me breathe consonants, vowels and adjectives saying that forever you will be within me. but you are not here. in my thoughts. in my dreams. you shape and relocate the risen zombie ...

I. Fucking. Hate. You. I hate how you disrupt the silence in me. how I crave to be the still waters in chaos ripples within unfamiliar environments soul quiver induced need an intravenous medicine through my vein mind reliance head game type of love. I hate You. Hate how you nibbled the rock formed within my heart pebble by pebble dust collected pressurized being the coulda shoulda woulda luminescence eye catching diamond in the rough upon sight for seeing. I hate the way your commandments come not from stone tablets but hidden sex shadowed by layers of jean material move me in. out. in. undertones of a serial killer slashing beating hearts bled by red eyes hours pass cease shadows of the day and now, morning paid its price. you made me love you. The quivering inner child not loved by his father in-compassionate to debate topics scorned fury have no hell summoned to thee/ calculated movements in the web in which you caught me. snipped my wings. I hate how movement and flight ceased rel...

his lies a corrupt venom struck from the tongue softened by smooth baritone an echo of memories hiccuped from the static of the cellular phone. his dishonesty the metastatic cancer growth in experience shadowed by false embraces cologne filled air suffocating the denial within candlelit places. his falsity a mirrored image reflected on complex facial expressions body language deciphered veins and tendons stretched in smooth smiles disturbs the life within her. his lies venom. cancer. false imagery. my truth love. passion. honesty. -b.r.rivera

you will be my death row meal. an instant gratification of delectable nouns adjectives verbs sprinkled with succulent stanza surprised in aromatic annunciations chewed slowly. time will be measured in satiable alliterations wiped onto a white cloth eating fork made of thesaurus thick tragedies birthed to allusion personifications. pen to paper, the hourglass. an immense pressure to immortalize each sentence syntax. each word the savory satisfaction solidified as a millisecond in the sand. you will be my death row meal. the lingering ink an aromatic herb sensualizing my nose, the crinkling of paper a chewing of ancient scribes tingling bittersweet aftertaste of sonnets and love notes, haiku and senryu. yes. let. me. chew. masticate while I procastinate and flow misunderstood etymologies tearful eyes while I apologize to the inner bibliophile I will rather diminish if I cannot finish the utterance of Giovanni sweetness of Teasdale rhythm of Hughes. you, my death row meal- slowly, I shall...

(from start to finish) Met him on a sunny day Don’t remember which but the cold was outside. The season for change/ change was he Near winter months before “You don’t know my name” was in heavy rotation He was sweet temptation through slant eyes and light flirtation I wanted him then. Complemented me on juicy lips had a wondering eye for the swing of my hips in my tight-ass jeans that I wear for just the right occasion Didn’t know he was who he was But it was a sweet celebration Didn’t know when or where passion would lead us- wrote him a poem/ “bittersweet” Does he still know where that is? But back to the subject at hand Or should I say the subject of connection Sweet hellos/ he says he misses me (already) and I am his dream girl of sweet affection Yet he says this smooth… mellow As he exhales his cigarette Looks at me with deep gaze Even in drunken state- that man is fine damn fine/ puts comfort in lonely eyes Shared dreams and inspiration Tear drops on roof-tops and intellectual co...

I don't like that chick. She the type swing ass and hips as a sign of melted caramel wishes topped with ebony thickness. its not the hate, the type of hell where women do not wish each other well and i am the type to uplift and appreciate -listen up: this simply ain't about hate. i simply...don't like that chick. she the type to giggle at your man's corny jokes when shit ain't funny. posing when cameras aren't flicking and blows through others stack of money never opinionated-loves to go with the flow because opposition from a man is the ultimate pet peeve, from this she knows from a long lineage of women as single parents she being the ultimate third generation all she knows is lies and forbidden touches and no honest penetration. she moves with a pack much uglier than she because she wants to look good for the betterment of a man to see. see... i don't like that chick. she the type that takes any dick to deep throat smack it up welcomes penetration in thre...

swirling prolific hues of green envy and passionate reds imprints of individualized thumbprints echo the softness of her chest. her stained clothes, a memorial of shed blood and crusted tears. methodically, each stroke larger than the last. shaded memories dusted with charcoal. empty delights cross-etched in blended fingertips. the room, empty. a hollowed portrait fits in the solace in which the artist lives. systematic soul surrender. does she long to be the hidden message in impressionism, the genius of Rodin the talk of the Louvre, the troubled artist in which tragedy ends fulfilling afterlife in the thief of the night's kiss? brush stroke. pain supersedes heliotropes vision a circumcised catalytic imprison, raw theft of stolen pieces and framed genius lay hung, genius on a white wall. tip. tap. coarse fibers dance in shallow water mixing royal purples and optimistic yellows. her favorite color: black. it begs to be painted upon. desires to be another color, in another life- jea...