Here in L.A.,
I would genuinely consider myself to be
and back in Ohio,
perhaps a seven…
maybe even a seven-point-eight.
I’m just not one of those people who can find
complete confidence in what God gave him
in the looks department.
Skin the shade of decayed roadkill, the moodiest and morbid of deep brown…
limbs liken to the most fragile of twigs, ready to break like my spirit after any given setback…
a smile neither braces nor Invisalign could ever tame, not quite the shade of mimosa, but oh so off-(off-off-)white…
all the traits that the most polite of family and friends say give you
So how is it my fate (or my foolishness)
that I descend into the City of Angels,
kneeling before the feet of
the most angelic faces,
the most heavenly bodies,
the most godly 10s I have ever seen in the flesh?
I picture myself
subconsciously making efforts now
to avoid as many of them as I can -.
not strolling through
West Hollywood or the Hills
as often as I would
Pico-Union or Harvard Heights,
distancing myself from
the gorgeous and glamorous by
the most secure souls for
my insecure mind.
The vendors, the bakers, the paleta makers…
the laundromat attendants and bar hooligans…
the citizens who live a working man’s life,
unbothered by angels carved from botox and knives.
And why would they express concern?
After all, they are the next-door neighbors who are chock-full of
inside and out.
Always acknowledging a more elusive, but full-bodied type of beauty.
I guess they could be considered the real 10s of La La Land…
Lord knows they would hit the top of the scale in Ohio.