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Los Angeles, California
I am 47 and thriving in Southern California. One day at a time.
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Wednesday, November 16, 2011

and then there were 10

i am lapping my mac, floundering for words.

sizzling inside like a telephone wire that has fallen and lies snaked across the ground.


he sits with his skull cap low, a la the edge, hoodie adorned and garnished in tats, it is the end of the line now, a year of rehab or silver slats. fourteen years of treading black tar, he sits quietly slumped, but when he opens wide and far, my heart goes a bump. the grinch ain't got nothing on me...

he is s.

she is jet black barbie, ballooned in front and shelved in the back, vegas princess of clubs and dj-ing, owned her house by twenty-one, snap. bottled her feelings with tablet bottles, after reading the blueprint her parents left, she is cute, coy and cautious, closed as a bottom dwelling clam. and when she's kind, she gleams like a pearl...

she is q.

he is the big, white straight guy, his myriad of baseball caps eclipse his tattooed stems, electrician by trade, but dabbled deeply in fraud. owner of a lonely heart, struggles much to look for the key, reach under to wipe his brow, it hangs down in defeat. we feel the glaze of his effort, it jolts me straight to my feet...

he is m.

he is our big, black, texan teddy bear, his childhood one upps "stranger than fiction",...molestation, abandonment, racism, gay bashing, psychotic friction. he lost direction complete in insidious lure, a chemical euphoria, a monster, meth by needle doth kill. kills homes, money, family, devastation complete, but his soul is intact, utterly kind-hearted, pure sweet.

he is b.

she is a down home sweet mama, makes us biscuits and grits, went through katrina while divorcing, starting using with her kid. her commitment to recovery inspires me, she embraces everything as gift, if she keeps it all together, she'll be rocketing through this shit...

she is a.

she's a therapist, dancer, clothes horse, does caffeine by drip, her natural beauty shocking, but rivals not the things she's shit. the bottle is her weakness, her body image comes 2nd close, she's 12 stepped so many times, she's officially a pro. but her heart, her heart of enormous enveloped this small wreckage from day one.

she is t.

his beauty is distracting, as most of west hollywood can attest, he's a focused, whip smart trainer, unless otherwise preoccupied with meth. couldn't speak when he got here, now what he says makes me think...

he is b.

your friendly neighborhood pharmacist, (note to self. oh. right.), instead likes to drink. his preoccupation with possessions entraps him, his preoccupation with himself succinct. thinks hubby's a hottie, but doesn't see his own shine, i love him already, the good son, see your own fine.

he is s.

androgynous and fine, he's eighteen and so young, for some reason he adores me, thinks i'm beautiful and fun. in suburbian flatlines he became a slave to the junk, but his spark is infectious, unique, pure funk. twirl away from your mother, who deletes evidence of your calls, the rot stepdad yearning "that" phone call, dance away from it all...

he is r.

we've caught roommate syndrome, our cycles are synced, today we donned the same track pants, target's finest, our hit. she's reliable, thoughtful, buys lemons for "the kid"'s drink, until the beast takes her downwards, tummy upwards, legs splayed wide, sloshed with her drink. we laugh over escapades, then cry under them fierce, she's showed me many pathways, towards a new life, a new lease...

she is k.

we are not letters of the alphabet.
not summaries on a blog or paper or tongue
we are not evil or damaged or broken
we are not yet balanced; as one.

misfits, motley crue, we all struggle as one
understanding each other
no age boundaries, cultural differences
no none

tonight i am feeling connected
like a telephone wire
to the buzzing of souls reaching
forward, onward, on fire

we are 11, but we are one.

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