The Crossroad

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I lived in a shabby room attached to an old house over by Ypsilanti high school.  I had a coke machine stocked with beer, my stereo was in the closet behind my third hand couch.  The rest of my possessions were stacked along one wall in wooden Canada dry and Pepsi crates.

I was cold all the time, my couch smelled, the bathtub gave me the creeps and I wouldn’t even think of walking around with bare feet.

 I worked the midnight shift at a convenience store where one night I was robbed at knife point.  The only people I saw all night were drunks, weirdoes and needle freaks.

 At first it seemed like I was visiting another planet. After a while it seemed like I was living there.

Every morning at seven a.m. I’d go home to my ‘’runt’’ house where I’d sit on the top step carving a chunk of hardened plaster of paris while listening to the Soulful Strings , Charles Earland or Brother Jack McDuff.

My life was that cubed piece of plaster and what I carved was boring and stupid.  Something had to give.  I was bending like a dry stick .  If things didn’t change soon,  I was going to break or stay bent forever.

Then one day I read … continued

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