Sleepovers

BrockaMusic, Poems, Relationships, Short StoriesLeave a Comment

Her house is the house. Anyone can show up; anyone can stay. And that’s the draw. But more have shown up this time than ever before and it’s a bit overwhelming. Elbow to elbow, full of body heat. Loud. So loud. Between the energy of the crowd and the bouncing music, the house can appear as if it’s pulsing. She runs through the rooms making sure people are keeping their shit contained. How the hell does she always wake up to a clean house after these parties? They respect! They are not allowed if they don’t. She scolds with the quick. The house is small and she runs a tight ship. She cracks the whip, ‘Empty your ashtrays! Throw your beer cans … Read More

BrockaSleepovers

Hiding From Sleep

BrockaHistory, Mood RoomLeave a Comment

Time ceases to exist here. It is after-hours and before hours. There was no planning to arrive; one simply shows up. No one has a name, but everyone is recognizable. You sense a familiarity, but that does not afford you the right to strike up conversation. And don’t take a seat with anyone outside of your circle. This place is both seedy and safe. You have entered a shared private place that is still trying to maintain secrecy.   The night is over, and you are wide awake. There is only one place to go. Your drive is navigable by a few streetlights. You take a long, mindless avenue towards downtown. Neighborhoods flash on either side until you have reached a dark … Read More

BrockaHiding From Sleep

Starched and Proper

BrockaFashion, TravelsLeave a Comment

There is the hiss of the steam and the smell of fresh laundry; the mist of the starch before it stiffens. Her movements are methodical. She lifts and turns the shirt just so, pressing the point of the iron into any nooks and crannies. She smokes a cigarette while she irons. The glass ashtray sits on the edge of the board. Her cigarette spends more time dangling from one corner of her mouth than being smoked. She only waves it over the ashtray seconds before the accumulated weight of ashes fall. Her husband sits in his black slacks and white wife beater at the Formica kitchen table. He is waiting, reading the newspaper too close to his face. ~When I am given this … Read More

BrockaStarched and Proper

California Cool

BrockaHealth & Wellness, Relationships, Short Stories, TravelsLeave a Comment

The airport is small and local. She exits into a sunny side of life, inhaling smells of lilac and lemon trees. The clean pavement reflects gold rays back to her as she makes her way to one of the few waiting taxis. There would only be a few. It’s about a twenty-minute drive to the house, and after exiting the freeway, the neighborhoods lining the coast all seem private, secluded. The houses are individually wrapped by bundles of trees and beds of flowers. Something ideal. The driver turns off one of the winding roads onto a small gravel patch. The crunch under the tires announcing her arrival. A gathering of trees line either side of an iron gate. She gets out … Read More

BrockaCalifornia Cool

Memory is a Muse

BrockaArt, MusicLeave a Comment

Memories sit inside like coals that never lose heat. They live in every cell of our being. We carry them along and into our future. We try to separate our thoughts from their recall, ignoring the pull towards the experience; the person; the smell. We put them in frames, and stand outside of them as if they’re art. To see them as they truly were is to freeze time and prevent ourselves from moving on; to admit something about ourselves; to never survive. This is the trauma; the shame; the heartbreak; the loss; the tragedy. How we frame them is how we adapt and how we continue to carry on.   The greatest thing about memories, though, is they can serve as a muse. Muse is the … Read More

BrockaMemory is a Muse