A moment.
Just a moment when I am not a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a cousin, a friend, an employee.
A moment when I can just be me.
Warm bath drawn, candles burning, naked and blissfully alone.
The fray left in a messy pile on the bathroom floor.
Heaven.

Cause She's a Woman

Dyed jet black hair, long painted nails, dressed to the nines, make up like a covergirl from the 50’s, she was a throwback to a time of classic beauty. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully arranging her starry night colored coif and slowly dragging from her Winston cigarette. To me, she was the definition of strength and beauty. Though she was an older woman, it was difficult to allow her beauty to escape you. Skin the color of salted caramel, laugh lines deeply etched telling the story of her life and how she loved living it. Her eyes would’ve made Betty Davis jealous, large, dark, knowing orbs that showed sparks and flashes given her particular mood. My Tia Lupe was an anomaly, the exception to the rule, a stand out in a crowd kind of woman.

A widow, a single mom, a business woman, a seamstress, and a cook extraordinaire. In one day she would have welcomed new tenants into the apartment house she owned, gone to the bank, grocery shopped, washed clothes, prepared from scratch, tortillas, frijoles, carne guisada, salsa fresco, and enchiladas, all while sipping a tab and singing aloud her favorite boleros from years gone by. She was a force. She could blow as gentle as a light spring breeze that carries with it the smell of her many blooming roses or as fierce as a hurricane with electricity emanating directly from her. From her raspy smoker’s voice to her contagious laugh, to the strange little tongue clicking sounds she would make when deep in contemplation, her spirit infused yours, empowered it even. Empowers me still.

One Man's Trash

I didn’t know we were poor growing up. My mom was a teacher and my dad worked at a steel mill. We never went without, we just didn’t have extra luxuries. Rice was a staple food, and there was always plenty of it. Powdered milk was normal, and my dad’s Hawaiian fried pancakes were our special treat. We had a big house with a nice yard, and I didn’t think anything much of the bar on the corner or the fact that we lived in the barrio of Houston, Northside.

Saturday mornings were always special. My dad would wake us up at the crack of dawn with the smell of pancakes frying and bacon popping in the skillet. He wrap up some rice balls, put them in a bag and off we’d go. He’d take us walking into downtown, picking up aluminum cans the whole way. We’d explore abandoned buildings and old delapitated houses. We went rummaging through the miscellaneous array of trash, lifting up old floorboards, and scavenging for old bottles which my dad collected. This was fun, this was time with my dad spent exploring while we let my mom sleep in. This is one of the things I remember most fondly from my childhood.

Later, after crushing the cans and taking them to recycle, my dad would treat us to a candy or soda from the store and we’d head home. We would gently hand my dad our new found treasures. He would carefully wash and clean them, and once they were dry he would find a space for them amongst their kind, and there he would relate their story to us. Some were old medicine bottles, or spirits bottles, and still others were from up high off telephone poles. It was my favorite room in the house, my dad’s bottle room. In the morning when the first beams of sunlight shone through, stepping into that room was like stepping into a pastel rainbow of blue, green, and pink hues.

This was how our Saturdays were spent growing up. It was walking to downtown, or repelling off a cliff in the park near the bayou to dig out whatever was glinting in the sunshine. It was stories of far off adventures, and singing songs that my dad would sing to us. It was syrup covered pancakes, and mud caked shoes. It was picking chili peppers off the plants and squirreling away our allowance in our chewing tobacco tins. It was innocence. It was perfect.

What Nightmare May Come

The gridiron gets to you, wears on you until you are bare boned with soul exposed.

All the dank dirty of cynicism seeps in and slowly fills in the crevices and spaces, infusing you

Like a zombie in a movie, you are half rotted, breaking apart, and focused on your main goal

You will do anything, say anything, frame anything to fit it into what you need it to be

The people in your life start to become blinded to your twisted visage until they no longer see

Enable you in your delusions. Support you in the self deprecations you rain down on yourself

The mud baths of filth you indulge in affect all areas of your life and you're desperate for company

In unquantified need, you will attempt to drag any and all into your muddy pit of despair

You fill the ears of anyone with your, "Whoa is me. My life sucks." horribly flawed stories

Not all fall prey

There are those who walk in a lightness of being.

Those who clawed and climbed their way out of true darkness.

Struggled, fought, and survived. 

They see you, They try to help you. They scare you.

Chase them away.

Use false accusations and unfounded fear as your weak weapon

You must protect your delusion like golem his ring

They see you

I see you

I refuse and leave you to your rancor

Throw me to the Lions and I'll return leading the pride

I wear my battle scars proudly, like all the perfect imperfections that make a painter awe at his masterpiece.

Lioness fresh from battle, I lick my wounds, readying for the next foray, and strut with an unbendable, unbreakable confidence and spirit.

The kind of self assuredness that rises from survival and experience of suffering and pain, triumph, sorrow and joy.

Tests meant to awaken the senses and you to your true self. To all of what a woman can do with just the slightest bit of determination.

Throw your head back, arch your spine, spread your arms, and let it eminate from the deepest parts of you. ROAR!

Remember who you are. You are Joan of Arc leading a battalion. You are Etta James entrancing the world with your voice. You are Rosa Parks refusing to go to the back of the bus.You are Maya Angelou a phenomenal woman.

You are true strength. You are Woman!

The Hippy Hippy Shake

I can feel them. Everytime it gets cold they make themselves known. If I'm careless brushing my hair, their presence is felt. The plates and screws in my skull.

Like the feeling of getting up too fast, my conscious brain leaves me. I wake up to faces of panic. Confused and exhausted. Has someone just beat me up? Did I get hit by a train? No, just a seizure.

My body is racked with pain. I've peed myself again. I hear them talking, but it makes no sense to me. So very tired. My head is filled with white noise. I can taste the heaviness of blood.

Yes, I can hear and understand you. No, I don't want to get up, drink water, have a conversation, answer questions. Just let me be. Let me sleep. I've biten up my tongue and cheek. Ha ha.

How long did it last? Did I hurt anyone? Is everyone ok? Am I ok? Let me try to get up. The pain is unreal in my back. I am embarassed and humiliated by my own body. I need to change clothes.

This wasn't part of my life's plan. Brain tumor and brain surgery were never up for discussion. Seizures and a broken back were not on my bucket list of things to do before I die.

Ok. So this is me. Wonky brained, but oh what a personality. I wish I could've been left with some awesome new talent like telekenisis or something. Nope, just me, but with new subconscious dance moves.

Oh, and the damn plates and screws in my skull.

Nomoniker Was It's Name

There was an egg
it was a very pretty egg
all warm and comfy
the perfect place for it

It started out so tiny
undetectable if anything
it was nurtured
and it started to grow

This place was ideal
perfect supply of all it needed
hummed into life by a life
it was happy

The egg started growing
needing more space
it wriggled and pushed
and forced and demanded

Pulses and waves
movement and clutter
the sounds of impulses
breaking its home

It needed more
more of everything
as it grew stronger
it's home grew weaker

The pulses became tremors
their were times it felt starved
yet the little egg grew
wanting to be all encompassing

Then one day all went fuzzy
there were stirrings and knockings
there were strange voices
shiny sharp instruments

Soon the cutting started
ruining this perfect hideaway
no more nutients came
bright lights and eviction

Plopped into a acrid liquid
dissected into tiny pieces
smeared across glass
peered at through a microscope

Gone, but not forgotten
marks left behind
scars and plates and screws
the space left filling back in