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 :-)

Random thoughts at 12:30AM

I just got off the phone with a friend of mine and I'm not sure what to think or really what to write about. My original intention was to type a "Scrubs-esque" monologue about taking shortcuts, but due to my conversation, I just wasn't in the mood. I don't really know how to feel or what to write. I mean at this point I'm not even sure I should publish this. To be candid I feel quite confused about the way my night has seemed to progress. Well fuck it... Here is what was supposed to be "A Scrubs Moment of Clarity". It's probably not that great but hey, even Babe Ruth struck out more often than he hit home runs. Enjoy...

A Moment of Clarity

At the end of the day a lot of us take the easy way out. Be it, taking a short cut home from work or cutting corners while at work. We all find ways of making our lives that much more simple. Its what makes humans the force that we are; we couldn't run at the pace of our prey, we invented spears and arrows. We couldn't travel far distances fast enough, we domesticated horses and later invented boats and cars and airplanes. We as a race are known for our ingenuity it is an innate ability for us to create tools and use them to aid us in our daily tasks.

But what happens when the corners you cut, the "tools" you use don't seem to make life any easier? Sometimes easier isn't really the best way to go about it... To lie is easier in the short term while telling the truth makes it easier to live with yourself. Then again there have been times when I have told the truth to no avail, and the girl to whom I was speaking the truth still decided to want nothing further to do with me. Life is just a funny fucking thing. You do what you think is right and in all reality you have a 50-50 chance of it working out. It's truly an anomaly that I don't think anyone will ever figure out.

Why are we here? Well I think the answer to that question is simple. If we weren't here where else would we be.

So Since I'm Lazy....

I haven't really felt like writing anything substantial for this blog in recent days... It seems as if time can really slip away from you in this town. I mean there is always something going on so with that in mind I've decided to post a throw away chapter from a novel I'm working on.. I hope whoever reads this blog (which I'm pretty sure at the moment is no one) enjoys it...

I used to think that I was depressed.

Every day was spent lamenting some “catastrophic” event as if my world was coming to an end. I contemplated suicide on a daily basis, so much so that I actually wound up with a razor blade in hand wondering exactly which way I should open them. Should I slice along the vein ensuring my eminent death? Maybe I should slice across the vein, you know, give myself some chance of savior, maybe my roommate would find me, maybe Mrs. Katz from across the hall would knock on the door to borrow a cup of sugar and upon hearing no response she would kick in the door to find me on the floor and call 911 or maybe I would come to my senses and rush myself to a hospital. Should I run bathwater, cold or hot? Do I leave a note? What should I say? Do I blame people? Do I take the moral high ground and not blame anyone? Imagine yourself going through this process. It’s really not as terrifying as you think. A sense of calm encompassed me, a sort of disconnect from reality – as if in the long run you don’t really matter. Indulge me for a moment, there are close to seven billion people in the world. Look at this number 7,000,000,000; you are one person in this group. You are not a snow flake, there is someone out there in the world who acts like you, sounds like you, looks like you, fucks like you, and on the right day at the right moment could be confused for you. If you really think about it, and I mean take a moment here and contemplate it 1 in 7,000,000,000 – that should be enough to make any maniacal egotist feel insignificant.

Death is at the doorstep, knocking… two flicks and the door would magically open she would stroll in and escort me with her to where ever it is that you go when you die. She awaits me at every corner. She rides shotgun next to me every time I drive; she chuckles at those bumper stickers that read “Jesus is my co-pilot.” She wishes everyone realized that its not some hippie riding next to them, it is that slight chance that something could go wrong - that someone else can cause you to become a statistic. Every night when I lay down I can feel her breath on my neck, urging me to turn on the heat. I don’t have any problems sleeping, I simply acknowledge her the way I would a girlfriend.

Have a good night kiddo; maybe tomorrow you’ll catch me.

…

It took me a very long time to realize that I wasn’t depressed; I simply felt as if there was no forward progress in my life. I was my own stumbling block. I refused to progress. I showed up late to the same job every day, I did the same inventory count, I ate the same breakfast, and I went through the same routine. I wasn’t depressed, I was fucking bored. Life is about challenges

I arrived at work on time today; this is a very rare occurrence for me its not that I intend to show up to work late it’s just that this morning traffic seemed to be lighter than usual. Most people hate their jobs; most people go back to school just to prepare themselves for another job they’ll eventually grow to hate. Me, I love my job well at least in theory. I bartend and by definition providing people with alcohol and entertaining their qualms with society is fun. I hate where I work, stupid fucking fluffy mascots, cunty hostesses, and shitty servers. I hate the fact that I have to show up to this place in a uniform that gay federal prisoner would be proud to dawn before they walk onto the yard. Everyone here is an aspiring fuck-head.

“I am going to be the next Merrill Streep.” Say’s a waitress from fuck-off Oklahoma.

Little does she know, no one cares about Merrill Streep. No one cares about her tiny little delusion. No one really cares if she lives or dies. She is a server at a restaurant that requires her and me to wear suspenders and buttons. She is a server that moonlights as an actress. Just like I am a bartender that moonlights as one of the many things I moonlight as when I attempt to pick up chicks. We’re not going anywhere. We are right where we’ll be next year. I am doing exactly what I’ll be doing when I am 30. I might be in a different place but I will be in the same position. I have a job, not a career. I work a job because I never took time to invest time into anything. I simply allowed life to wash over me.

Mel will never ever change, she might change jobs (pray to the gods that she does) but she’ll continue to walk into work and vent to me, or Caleb or the ketchup bottle on 67 about how this new guy won’t return any of her calls. It’s always the exact same formula I like to call in a “Mel formula”

A: Mel meets cute guy

+

B: Mel fucks cute guy

+

C: Mel shows cute guy that she is a psycho by calling him 12 times after he fails to pick up the phone because he is busy writing a goddamned essay that will earn him $300 from a college student. Leaving him eight messages: three requesting his whereabouts, three using language I hadn’t heard since the night before, one apologizing for acting so weird, and another one condemning me to the deepest darkest pits of hell for not answering her.

=

D: Most sane men, including myself, never wanting talk to her again.

Yes, I got myself into this situation a year ago but I think that I was totally blind sided. I was always told never to dip my pen in the company ink (wait for it, I have a very witty pun coming up) but no one ever told me not to dip my cock into the restaurants house sauce. Bill Murray and I really should get together and work on some scripts…

She really just goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on.

“Simon is such a great guy...”

Simon is on the shortlist of men that can actually stomach her psycho-babble. She decided to marry him after three months and now she is cheating on him. Poor bastard is too caught up in his career to realize that his waitress of a wife is banging one of her regulars in parking lot on her fifteen minute breaks. He seems to simply gloss over the fact that at night Mel chooses not to have sex with him instead opting to fall asleep. I’m sure he can sense things are going wrong he just either doesn’t know what to do about it or he has come to the conclusion that Mel is crazy and is reviewing his legal options.

I can understand his predicament: Simon isn’t the most attractive of men in fact he is quite the opposite. He is a portly barrel-chested fellow with a penchant for ribs. I find him to be quite the slob. Mel on the other hand, (save her mental short-comings) is an extremely attractive girl. Please allow me to be honest, she’s damn near ascetically perfect. She is 5’7, weighs about a buck ten, works out like a professional athlete brown, has her hair cropped in one of those cute “Posh” bobs, she has these emerald eyes that are to die for. She has the build of a swimmer broad muscular shoulders and a tiny waist, with almost no fat to speak of on her body. I could never really understand why she would want to be with a guy like Simon until I she invited him to our weekly bar night. He treated her like a Goddess. Really, it made me want to vomit. He truly wanted her to feel the same as he did. It was an odd experience to see a man treat a woman, whom I had discarded as quickly as I had bedded her, in such a way. After my feelings of nausea wore off I started actually crushing on her again.

“ are you even listening to me? God you should be the one that has an answer for my predicament.”

The problem was she hadn’t supplied me with a question, or at the very least I wasn’t paying any attention to her when she posed her problem in the form of a question. See this is the problem with people after I have sex with them; I no longer have the desire to be around them. I simply feel as if they’re the teacher from peanuts I hear nothing but a trumpet.

...

A Lazy Sunday/Monday to Reflect...

Every once in a blue moon I take off Sundays to relax. By relax, of course, I mean I pretty much sit around and do absolutely nothing. So, seeing as my night (last night), for all intents and purposes, was pretty boring I thought I'd jot down some of my musings from this past week.

Here are a few things that come to mind.

1) Really Ricky Hatton? I feel that fighting (be it MMA or Boxing) is the last of the true sports. It man versus man bleeding out their soul in order to achieve victory. So far be it for me to judge these warriors that put their lives on the line in order to keeps guys like me entertained. I mean I don't think you could pay me enough to go two rounds with either Pacquiao or Hatton but REALLY??? Two rounds? That’s all I get? I mean here I am working the bar and within the first two minutes Hatton's on his back. As a bartender you want every fight to go until the final bell, the longer the fight, the more people drink, the more they drink, the more scrilla I make. . I'm not mad that he lost I'm just mad that he went down so quickly...

2) Wolverine.... I... I don’t really know what to say. I liked the beginning thought the middle was kind of cool and then they (the screenwriters) decided to kill the movie. What happened to Deadpool, the world may never know... P.S. The economic downturn must have really hit home @ Fox because those claws were... how should I put this gently? Wolverine’s claws looked as if a Santa Monica Junior College student designed them. I mean I was HIGH and they looked like shit, so you can only imagine what they look like if you’re sober. UGHHHH!!! It is 10:50 on Tuesday night and I’m still pissed about the movie. If Star Trek sucks I’m done!!

3) Co-Workers: I think we all have a co-worker at work that is just a little… "off", you know that guy (or girl) that just doesn't seem to pick up on social cue’s; they walk over to you with the intention of say something then shy away from it or when you are extremely busy they feel its their chance to take a stand and they boldly push the envelope in an attempt to gain your respect. My co-worker is totally socially inept; he can’t seem to grasp the basic social norms. For example: He recently took trip to Compton. Why? Because, he was curious and wanted to see what Compton was like. Now you make think to yourself, “hmmm… I’ve always heard that Compton was a dangerous place” because it is. No one in their right mind would ever venture to Compton just to check it out! The people in Compton hate Compton!

4) Women. I have to ask myself is it possible to tell multiple women the same truth? Can you truly feel butterflies in your stomach around more than one woman? I’d like to think Hank Moody got it right when he announced "…I'm a fan of women; I have all their albums." [Just a side note, watch Californication. It is possibly one of the greatest shows ever written] Whenever I start to think about love and how so many conventional sources lead us to believe that you can only be in love with one person at a time, I’m forced to ask, how is it possible to feel a certain way about only one woman? Maybe I’m just jaded; after all I live in the land of 30 women. For every girl I meet there are 30 out there that are (for the most part) exactly like her, yet every once in a while I meet one or two that seem to be different. In the land of the lost souls variations seem to be far and few in between. Is true love still a viable option in this city? Or do we just simply think ourselves into loving someone? Personally, I have no clue if I did I’d be writing a book about it…

I live in the craziest town in the world! Where else can you lay out by the pool on a Monday and find other people laying out with you? I've always appreciated LA for it's awkwardness but I must say, that for all it's shortcomings (and there are plenty), there are always charming weekdays spent by pools on 70 degree day. I don't think you could ask for much more. Just enjoy the sun...

Lost Halo is Back??

So I've decided to take this "blogging" thing a little more seriously... I don't think anyone follows me yet but frankly, fuck it! I'm a pretty interesting guy and I do some pretty interesting things. My mind moves in really odd way and that gives me a pretty interesting view on life. So from now on this is going to be a fun place; life is going to get a lot better and I am going to start getting my shit together by doing what I should have done all along... Write about how shitty my life can really be.