I Can Only Love Them when They're Broken

I was looking thru an old notebook and came across one of my favorite poems I've ever written. I hope you enjoy.

My Perfect Woman

She’s my perfect woman

But she wont let me in

I’ve already proved I love her, time and time again

Maybe she’s afraid I’ll only hurt her

Or just maybe I was never right for her

It’ll never really matter if she won’t let me in

I can remember our first night, at first sight

I had to have her

Talked in bed until we fell asleep

I thought that we would live happily ever after

Until I hit that brick wall, she won’t let me in

I’ve written poems and stories, odes of love to my morning glory but she’ll never change our story because she won’t let me in

She erected walls around her island in the middle of the sea

I break them down she builds more

By now we’ve lost track of the score

She might still be closer to the win

Cause she still won’t let me in

20, no we played 140 questions, I thought that we had found our connection, convinced her finally, that we are perfection

But yet and still she won’t let me in

Maybe it would have worked better if I had checked in

Instead of writing lines and studio time, maybe it would have worked better then…

Nah, she still wouldn’t have let me in

Fuck, I don’t think I’ll ever figure her out,

We’ve been doing this dance for and year and half

Trust me I’ve done the math

547 days and half of her keeping me away

But I think she’s starting to sway

We never stray always staying the same

Because she won’t let me in

She says she reminds me of me because she sees me in the same way I feel her

Because she won’t let me in?

No it’s because I wouldn’t let her in

For 18 months I wouldn’t let her under my skin

I’ve been nonchalant, noncommittal, and non-relationship

Every time I wanted to start I tied to late

And when she tried I told her to wait

When she refused to say yes

I refused to try my best

She and I are both our sole causes of stress

So I’ve ventured out on my own

Because she won’t let me in

Because I won’t let her in

How do we ever win?

The secret is we know we wont

Yet we love our little game,

We put on our poker faces while trading places our social graces filling spaces

She keeps running, I keep chasing, she never stumbles, its so amazing!

And, I can’t stop because I love her

Every waking second I’m dreaming of her

And just of loved shared under covers

But of all the teeth we’ve pulled to discover

That we don’t know the people we think we did

We only know who we think we are

And in that we realize that in reality it's us who won’t let ourselves in…

Seraph Short

When I watch her walk, it's as if I'm watching an angel glide across the floor. With each step closer I cant help but notice how she gracefully places one foot in front of another in such a way that I have never seen a woman do. My friends all think that I am crazy because they don't happen to see the way that my angel unfurls her wings when she walks into a room. They can’t see it in the way that I see it. It’s as if the mouths of heaven and hell opened and created the perfect being. Every ounce of her is perfect, even in her imperfections I have found perfect asymmetry. Every moment with her is a moment spent not worrying about life. When she is in my room I feel as if all of the world could burn to the ground and I wouldn’t care to notice. The oceans could overflow, I would swim until I found her and in her arms I could allow myself to let go. She is my Alpha and Omega.

When I think about her my mind's eye is blinded by the very thought of her smile. A halo wrapped around her head glowing as if she had enough power to light up the sun and still glow in a way only she could do. When she leaves I listen to the Coltrane album she bought me. No words can be thought of to describe my loneliness, simply a melody and a saxophone. As she leaves my small single, one foot in front of the other – gliding, I feel the pressure of the world once again placed on my shoulder as if, by somehow some way her walking thru my doorway somehow transforms me into Atlas. All I can do is listen and wait. Painting pictures in my mind of stories that have either happened or are yet to occur. And these stories are painted in shades of blues because she is gone. I could play it a million times over but each time it feels as if it is the first time I've realized, he's right.

But, when she returns I am as light as a cloud. All the burdens of life lifted from my shoulders and we are trapped in a time warp, because no matter how long she's around me I never feel as if we spend enough time together. Sands of time fall just a bit too quickly and I find myself struggling to remember that I have to let go, trying, at times (a bit too hard) to retain her for just a second longer so I may gaze into her eyes one last time.

End.

Perfect Sunday Morning

And she is...
Perfect Sunday morning,
eyes glisten as she smiles
-"Good morning, love."
A more amazing sound could never pass thru the lips of a mortal woman
with a gaze of ineffable beauty
I'm forced to scribe thoughts of mornings to come
so that all may know, even after I'm gone
I, have met a goddess

Searching for Cracks in Wonderland

Some Fires in the world just aren't meant to be contained.

Tan fingers lift a beer bottle to rouge lips,

Far from perfection, yet perfect for me.

Three dollar tacos and an Amstel set the scene to share laughs

She's never soft spoken, firm in her assessment of the world outside

Still she searches for cracks in Wonderland

Surely she can sense that something is missing.

A void, left behind by a rabbit vanished through a doorway

Perhaps she can feel how she can cause a universe to implode on itself

leaving nothing but a genie hiding in the bottom of a bottle,

One which I am determined to find.

She is beautiful even if she is unsure of herself,

lips part to set my heart racing

I hang on her every noun and verb as if I were a rock climber

she is Olympus

And in this moment, nothing else exists

God could call for starts to fall from the onyx above and I would be content to sit and finish our conversation.

Another round to fuzz my memory banks

together we sip until fuzz turns to buzz, buzz to darkness

another sip to cure my momentary misfortunes

she searches until she's found what she's looking for, the cracks in perfection

as tears stream down her face I find it hard to think she is anything other than divine

So I offer an ear and shoulder for my makeshift Alice

Forced to deal with the world spinning around her head

But in the morning she awakes, unscathed a clean slate.

And with that she's off to explore Wonderland.

Catching Fireflies.

I promised myself that I'd keep this as short as possible, in reality I was going to write about something interesting that happened to me the other night but then I forgot what exactly I was going to write. Then out of no where, an analogy dawned on me; writing is like catching fireflies with your bare hands. Sometimes you catch the story, put it in a jar and become enamored with the light that your stories radiate and at other times you try to hard and squash whatever life was in the story into oblivion by over or under writing. It's tough to get it right all the time, so instead of focusing on what went wrong, I like to step back and check out just how many of these fireflies I have buzzing around in my jar..

So why write about this?

I pretty sure that I've heard or read this type of analogy before but fuck it... There weren't any fireflies around for me to catch today other than this one.

Fuck You're Apology...

It has come to my attention that today on the anniversary of June-teenth (the day that slaves in Texas were told slavery has come to an end, some two years after the issuing of the Emancipation Proclamation.) That congress voted Unanimously to apologize for slavery, Jim Crow segregation. Well I have an apology to issue to congress.

I apologize for telling congress as a whole to go fuck themselves.

Believe me, I understand that some white people might feel the need to apologize for something so heinous so, atrocious as slavery, but newsflash: EVERYONE RESPONSIBLE FOR SLAVERY IS DEAD! I'm not sure how up on your US History you are but that shit ended in 1853... Am I to believe that an apology issued 156 years later is in any way honest or sincere? There have been so many historical moments in these last 156 years. From the end of segregation to women's suffrage. Why didn't the US apologize 100 years ago? Because they weren't sorry then and now it's too late to be sorry. I equate this apology to a guy telling a girl that he gave her the herps:

"Hey kiddo I'm really sorry that I gave you an incurable disease. On the plus side it's genital herps so at least you don't have to deal with embarrassing cold sores on your lips. I really hope that you learn to live with it and don't spread it around, lord knows I meant to tell you but at the time, you were naked... I was naked... It just seemed like bad timing to be all like... Hey I really want to bang you but first I should warn ya', I got the herps well anyway, At least it wasn't AIDS!"

Do you see my point at all? This apology couldn't be any more insincere. And Let me tell you I know what you're thinking: R. Malik Green, what about what the black leaders will say? They will say that this was a great victory in the civil rights movement. that Dr. King's dream is that much closer to being a reality! FUCK THEM TOO!!! What have Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton done for us? Dr. King's dream died with him... Barack isn't what Dr. King had in mind. Yes, he is the realization of a dream, but what Dr. King wanted was complete and thorough equality. We don't have that yet, we won't have it until we discontinue identifying ourselves by anything other than Americans. This is a totally different topic and should be addressed in a different blog but it's still the truth.

If you read through the apology you'll notice something; the way that it's worded purposely avoids reparations, because after all where do we start? How do go back and pay people for work they never did? Do we give "Chocolate" Americans (Thank you Larry Wilmore) money for work that they never did? And how much do we give them? What if your "Milk Chocolate" (Your are both black and white)? Do you only get half as much as a person whom is full black? This is a solution that died when Andrew Johnson was granted the presidency..

There is no reparation that can nor need be paid to us.. We have to move on and keep plugging away for more important issues like equality..

Or you could just give us the Super Dome.

Cuddling Hours

I am a firm believer that no arguing should be done before the closing period of "Cuddling Hours". Now depending upon your schedule, “Cuddling Hours” should be somewhere between 11pm and 11am... for example my cuddling hours go from 11p to 8a with a half hour rest/water/"I just need a minute to get rid of the pins and needles I have in my left arm from you resting your head on my arm" period. The only activities that should take place between these hours are drinking, fucking and spooning... But someone decided to disturb me during my cuddling period and now I can't sleep... So with that in mind here are some of the random thoughts going through my head:

Good women are like amazing music.

How can I make such a comparison? To be completely honest, I have no clue. But, what I do know is that music can change or amplify a person’s mood. Now while I realize that this is no epiphany, I think that it’s an important point to make for my argument. A woman you care about should be able to cause certain emotions to stir, not just butterflies and skipped heart beats, but real emotions. Happiness is all good and dandy but I would venture to say that you don’t know how much you care about someone until they hurt you. However easy it is to let them “ride off into the sunset” is a pretty good indicator of just how much you care. Love is getting pissed off and fighting until you feel as if you want nothing more to do with the person only to realize shortly after that you still long for their attention and support. I also realize that under certain circumstances this can become an unhealthy habit, but in the cases where drugs and/or abuse aren’t an issue I believe the desire to work through your problems is key to a healthy relationship. And in retrospect, I really shouldn’t have mentioned love because it is a pretty hefty topic that could go on for days but I hope you catch my point. It really doesn’t matter if you’ve been with someone for a day or a year, if you can let them walk away from you without so much as a fight you really don’t care about them as much as you think. All the feelings of wanting them back at a later date are usually influenced by your ego or desire to have sex. I can count on one hand the amount of women I wasn’t ready to let go of, and to be honest its only two. So how does this all relate to music? Well whenever I listen to Bill Withers I stop the record and experience a feeling of sadness. In a little over two minutes, he can make me miss a woman I’ve never met and yet I keep playing the song. I kind of let that get away from me but fuck it, it’s too early to worry about coherent thoughts and I tried to wrap it up in the end so who cares?

I feel as if I should claim a victory for wrapping that all up at the end there... so yay for me!!

More about "L.A." Girls

Being that I’ve spent most of my life in L.A. I always feel its imperative that I’m not really sure what a “good” girl is… I mean I live in the land of coke whores and sluts… I was watching a stand up special on HBO the other day and the comedian (Jim Jefferies) made a really good point…When a guy has sex with a bunch of girls he’s referred to as a stud. On the other hand when a chick has sex with a bunch of dudes she’s referred to as a slut.. What’s the difference? Well to me nothing, but he made the point that to be a “stud” you had to have a few things going for you: you have to be funny, witty, charming, drive a decent car and have a fake job. You have to have all of these things at once and use them in the right combinations if you’re too funny no one takes you seriously. If you’re too witty you come off as a dick. If you’re too charming you seem like a sleaze ball. To be a slut there is only one requirement: Be there… Things that make you go hmmmm…

Privacy

My friends always ask why I have a password on my phone… My reply is so that bitches (both female and male) stay out of my business. I mean I try to be as honest as possible and try to make a point of telling the truth whenever a question is asked. But FUCK!! Why go through my texts? If I make it a point to say all you have to do is ask then all you have to do is FUCKING ask… It’s not a difficult concept is it? Anyway, what’s done is done and its water under the bridge at this point.. I’m no longer mad but I am changing the password on my iPhone. And I’m not telling a soul the password; if I’m dying and you need to call my mom call her from your own damned phone!

Love,

Lost Halo :-)