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Los Angeles, California
I am 47 and thriving in Southern California. One day at a time.
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Saturday, August 4, 2012

beverly hills [black tar babies]

they gently prance up and down the one way lanes, leggy in leather, buttery soft; not a leatherette chap in sight. their thick manes sway, thoroughbred blonde, not desperately dyed. they strut by me, strident, their back draft a harsh whiff of f’eau entitlement as i hike my discount jeans over my distended belly; baby. designer blinders adjusted to the blistering glare of the sun-bleached bubble in which they form and reside.

dodging bmws and bentleys, i flew out of cedars last week, solo, sliding my frequent flier card back into my pocket, poetically fingering the hobo-esque holes, musing on the rapidly expanding "bazooka" bubble in my chest.

creatinine spike from 1.0 to 1.2.

more immunosuppressives. more side effects.

weaning me off my miracle migraine drug, because of mental, physical apathy and hair loss.

oh, and getting the titties squeezed in a routine mammogram.

wind wires of self-pity into the explosives shackled to my chest, where they implode like an animation sketch upon the desert floor, ripping a hole of such fervent loathing it ejaculates through to the other side, singeing; dripping hot, black drops of tar.


so now i limp down rodeo, sticky and beat, covered in tar. and sad.

yeah. i felt sad. leaving cedars, alone; dishonorable discharge, for the drillioneth time.

[it’s a word.]

so, i pulled out my phone, and held it like a baby's bottle, like a bottle of pills, like ah frosty goblet, and willed it to love me.

ring. please ring.

[drip. drip. drip.]

and i looked at my raised hand, dripping the tarry black that killed my father; could kill me and began to...

stuff my big, fat face with useless calories...

flap my trap and wag my throbbing index from armchair therapy... 

inject my face into warped distortion...

puff the magic drag throughout all logic and life...

slather my children with the spoils of their youth...

keep the jones' in my rear view mirror and ignore the Apple dump in my backyard...

starve myself into skinny oblivion...

pump up my ego with facebook friend collecting and fallacy...

slip slide away plastic until callouses form over my fingers...

fuck my brain into a black out like the faces i don't see...

pump up my bloodstream with the thickest of jams...

ride the clothes horse into bankruptcy...

cross my chest with silent contempt and extend a tarry, middle finger towards the sky...

as i pulled into the parking lot, he leaned through my open window. a little man with gray hair. no taller than a jockey. a sparkling lot attendant giving this whipped, beaten filly the once over.

["whoa, henny!"]

"do you know this parking lot charges $2.00 every 15 minutes?"

beat. beat. beat. my heart dropped.

i glanced at the car's clock, digitally morphing onwards. the thought of turning around and heading back out into beverly hills' nonsensical maze of materialism was almost enough to make me publicly dig through my empty pockets.


and then he twinkled.

"if you turn around, make a right, and then right again into another lot you will get one hour of free parking."

random acts of kind eyes.

that can whip you back into shape without a single touch.

[how did he know? how did he know i am still a girl? a girl on the verge of a woman.]

i don't know a lot about s.

i know he had almost 2 and a half months of sobriety when i landed in rehab. i know he'd been in and out of rehab as many times as his years. 28. and i know i've been rooting for him since the day i heard him speak.

"i love my parents. i would kill for my parents. i would kill myself for my parents. but i can't stay clean for them."

and with that, i was in.

the bulletin points? heroin. 3 weeks icu. 8 years in jail or rehab.

[everybody's got a story.]

but today, s. has one year.

for the last 2 months, i've seen him twice a week in op therapy. and i've watched a desperate, black tar baby, drool and slurp into becoming a man.

my heart pinwheels for s., for the dog, the car, the girl, for the light in his eyes that shines surprising triumph; sparkling pride.

and with a sexy, low-slung mumble, he popped the burgeoning, candied bubble in my chest. the cauldron bubbling over with fear, that separates me; us from the truth.

"...self-esteem through esteemable acts".

s. gets it.

the parking lot attendant gets it.

and when he speaks. when he gives rides. when he listens to my shares, i feel understood.

[we are a team of horses, battered, but unbroken.]

and slowly, my tar drips back onto the streets.

[of beverly hills.]

where it belongs.


  1. Sigh. The parking lot attendant.
    Thank you for sharing that with us.
    I had a moment last week with a cop who pulled me over...who seemed to be in my life for a reason other than to cite me for talking on my cell phone and for straddling lanes. I didn't get a ticket. And he let me go after telling me that I "need to pick a lane." Like your parking lot attendant, that moment was metaphorically beautiful.

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