Truth
Soveriegnty
Unconditional
Love
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Centurion Parade
Book 2
A visual memoir of psychosis, recovery, memory, and meaning.
The First Crack...
Centurion parade
book two
I am porous.
I absorb their ghosts,
their wars,
their unhealed burdens.
I become haunted,
a house with no locks,
a mind broken open,
spirits screaming through its halls.
I gave until I was empty—
the way my parents gave,
But my version distorted by martyrdom,
codependence.
The way a horse can be ridden to its death, serving, running, giving until nothing is left except a final breath.
I am We, so:
We left marriage with despair in our hands.
We left love with a head full of angry ghosts.
We keep running,
Now ready to face our ugly pasts.
Cops
You’re watching an episode of Cops. A crazy
lady loses her shit, makes a scene so loud the neighbors spill out to watch.
She screams and swears — Spanish, English, a tempest of expletives.
Beligerence hurls a flowerpot at one of the officers.
It misses, shattering against--nothing. Three
cops finally pin her down on her front porch, her face pressed against splintered wood.
It’s night.
Her curses keep pouring, a cascade
from her foul mouth. From the back seat of
the patrol car, she stares at you through the glass.
The cruiser pulls away, her eyes still locked
on yours. Then something shifts. Confusion
spreads across her face, her body sags.
It is, unexpectedly, more than a little sad.
helpless orbit
I captained a spaceship, my family aboard. One of my jobs was to ensure
safety — to guard the atmosphere, keep it breathable, livable.
But my sister-in-law made a fatal mistake. And it ended an infant’s life.
No matter how many times I reran the scenario, I couldn’t change it.
Every version ended the same: her mistake killed the sweet baby girl
named Pearl.
There was nothing I could do.
I felt helpless.
Devastated.
Furious.
Presidential Psychic
She read the future for the president from
her bathtub.
Small objects she dropped into the water revealed events to come, like tea leaves shifting across porcelain.
A vision rose: a waterfall, high and sheer.
A female figure diving into the water below.
It pulled her focus away from President
Obama’s questions for a moment.
He trusted her insights, trusted their accuracy, and insisted on speaking with her directly.
He wanted to know how a particular
political strategy would unfold.
Soap bubbles clung to her fingers as she
stirred the graying water. Only part of his
plan would work.
She hated telling him this.
He was always kind, always respectful. He
sounded disappointed, troubled — but
gracious.
He thanked her.
When she hung up, she thanked the universe
for her abilities, and wished she’d had
better news — for the president,
for the country,
for the world.
Breeze
It was a weird, twisted game.
I had to move the small, dark-green plastic mattress to a spot where I’d be out of the way.
Pieces of the room were taken away and I was left with almost nothing to work with. The maze changed.
The lights flickered.
I started again, trying to reach a place I could inhabit and rest.
Haggard and hollow from sleeplessness, I heard my mom’s voice through the large
steel door. The overhead lights stuttered.
he told me where to move the mattress
so I could lie down, and she said this was almost over. The room smelled like wet,
dirty laundry — locker-room kind of stink.
If I lay on the floor with my face pressed under the door, a cool breeze came in
carrying perfume. It was the only comfort in that weird room with the plastic mattress
and no sheets.
picture box
Seven.
A theatrical collage of people and places woven into a TV show. Seven incredible Latin women, each sent to different a environment, expected to use her skills to survive.
I related most to America Ferrera. Each of us was beautiful in her own way.
We had a relay competition. The seven of us danced, crawled, and maneuvered through obstacles. I waited for my cue, then made
my televised entrance.
Strutted in.
Did my thing.
A circus twist at the waist — like a 1960s dance, but stranger, more eccentric. Like an automated child’s figure at a Chuck E. Cheese.
Nailed it.
I was hot shit like Sofía Vergara.
perpetual sunset
A golden age.
Gold tones filled the atmosphere
like a perpetual sunset over a sparkling ocean that somehow kept its crystal-blue hue. Celebrations were constant.
The 78’s — a nickname for the members of a
large Puerto Rican family — spoke in a slang not easily understood by an American from the twenty-teens.
But this place, this time, was where she belonged.
Here, everything was beautiful and forgiving. Actions were released, grudges dissolved, the present moment cherished in its impermanence.
Company was celebrated. The deceased mingled freely with the living, as if they had never passed.
The clothing was light, airy, cool — like fashion-forward beachwear. Everyone wore white, which glowed ivory in the golden light.
She fell in love here.
In America, among other cultures, she was often misunderstood and kept at arm’s length.
Anger lived just beneath her skin — a deep well protecting a bottomless sadness. But here, accepted and cherished, she watched family stories unfold as if projected on a giant drive-in screen, her loved ones larger than life.
Her anger dissipated.
A pure smile stretched across her face, catching and spreading to her
family.
She was home with her 78’s.
Thank you
These are selected excerpts from Book Two of Centurion Parade. The full collection is planned for print release in late 2026 or early 2027. Stay connected as the journey continues.
Ways to Support
Let's speak kindly to each other—and behind each other's backs.
My mind, body, and soul have endured a great deal each time I travel. Whatever good continues through this work does so by the grace of the Christic and Magdalenic Benevolence I have come to know as the Spirit of Unconditional Love—the One Source, our SOUL, Mother and Father God, and Sophia, the Mother Creatrix of All Life.
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Centurion Parade is an invitation to witness both the beauty and the brokenness of a cracked mind. It is the story of remembering, of recovery, and of learning to practice kintsugi with my own life—gently piecing myself back together, again and again.
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Your generosity helps me continue creating, writing, and sharing these stories. My hope is that this work contributes to a more compassionate understanding of neurodivergence, altered states of consciousness, psychosis, recovery, and the many extraordinary ways human beings experience the world. So that next time we see someone on the streets not sharing our reality, we may think twice about what they are experiencing before we pass judgment.