Dear John It's not me It's You. Good bye sweet city of angeles.

PREFACE:

The Cynical Romantic:

  None who has felt the pangs of love and lost, has not felt the grudge of  a cynic. Just as no Cynic is barren from the pangs of love. In this respect every Cynic a romanic is, and every Romantic a cynic Makes.

   And What is love? Is it a noun, a verb, an action or ideal? Is it more than bitter sweet letters? A four letter word, too often rolled off the tongue in passing fancy.  More than an endless pursuit of dreams, wants,  blissful  wishes and tear seared pillows. It is at the heart of all of things, all art, every song, fairytale, pose and expression of man. If found for only a moment; in a dim lit  hotel room, a week long fling or life time romance.      It rests at the core of human existence as certain as death, as inevitable as the last sizzle of my lingering cigarette. This is a story about love. This is a story of the endless pursuit thereof.  Not of true love and happily ever afters, but of the blinding chaos and wild turmoil that comes with with chase, the moment, the  rush and impending heart ache which cascades the lovers heart. An omage to the dreamer who picks up the booze soaked pieces of of dirty shirts and carries on with the hope that THEY are still out there somewhere, waiting to picked like the only ripened fruit left upon a rotting tree. 

   Love that is found in the dredge of bars, and night clubs wrapped in leather, latex, perversions and bondage. Love shared in bathroom stalls and Hollywood mansion parties.  Love that is found through cold computer screens or in sterile text messages in the age of selfies where heart felt letter has been replaced by picture likes and a flirtatious comment. Finally the love that holds on, finding sincerity if only to gasp for for breath long enough before drowning in bullshit and social climbing. 

    This is story with out a happy ending, because this is a story with out an end. Written my way. Raw and flowing with callous disrespect for grammar and form. Emotional and flowing and knowing no laws but passion. No regard for consequence of actions only the desire to do. It  is written as love acts, burning all bridges in its wake and leaving nothing but a city of cinders and missed opportunities. And as the cold moon shimmers upon the cold water of this West Hollywood swimming pool like the chill winds of the mid western town I will soon be in again. I bid fair well once more to the city of angels and write the narrative that I know realize has been playing in my head from the start. Writing what I should have been all along.