A new encounter with a first impression...

I started to wonder. Like seriously question, who he melted into. I've asked myself this a century of times, but he clearly became diabolically altered. His eternal mask changed for the slums so I thought, and his actions finally monopolized his once baby-bottom character. To add to this moral downfall, a new arm constricted his shoulder like a loving, killing anaconda. As for the chick, she was one of those perfectly sculpted blonde's, nothing you couldn't find in a porno. And don't get him started on her either. Shit, she was this "Godly" creature, kindly dawning her presence on us like The Beatles.



She came over one night, carrying Leo behind like just another faceless man in the crowd, but I just didn't get it, I really didn't. I mean the guy had more money than a machine could print, but still lagged behind some girl identical to every other Pamela Anderson look-a-like that attenuated the streets. Now tell me if that makes sense.


I was especially depressed that night too- listening to Fleetwood Mac and The Police. I love the oldies, and the way they somehow carry me to an age that only a time-machine would permit.

So they walk in, and all she does is ramble about her aunt, uncle, some family member shit I don't know, and how he's this "Big Time Movie Producer." The chick did not catch that I lied in favor of the written word, and simply just didn't give a Fuck; my bitter hints of disgust flew high above as you can see.

I just sat really, observing the two. I would, could, and did just walk out on my balcony in all of the sudden botheration, and listened to the birds intertwined with the poetry of the frustrated honking horns, hoping with my mindful adventure their presence would somehow vanish. I turned around, and yep, there they were. Still cuddling under one another like Siamese twins, but in reality were New York and California.

Something hit me-hit me hard. I turned away from my rocky, and confused moment of meditation and saw it. What I saw proved me wrong, so, so wrong. Her eyes, similar to the prostitute on the corner leaked a certain tangy smell of passion, and understanding for the world that many just don't see. I'm sure, nearly positive that you sit there questioning my ability to characterize someone by their implanted spectacles, but so be it, I can easily add you to my list of cell-lacking bulls that wish to rule the elegant swans. I would bet, bet a lot actually that your not seeing through my telescope right now. I'm not surprised really, you have no feeling when it comes to viewing the multiple faces of people, and differentiating those colorful covers with that of their solid core.

Why did I take her immediate actions as an absolute in dubbing who she was, Sara that is? Why did I?


I guess, as much as I don't want to say it,I stooped down to their level in my state of depression and withdrawal from my healthy pills, but I awoke; the real man was re-born and my mind began to function once again without my little sweet tarts, believe it or not. What I'm trying to say is, and I don't know if I've made this clear, but adjudicating by the cover can lead to a life time of misunderstanding.

For instance, I saw this girl walking a promiscuous yet sentimental walk, and naturally fell for her, but for reasons my weak mind can't put together. Upon our first conversation I judged her, judged based on a materialistic vibe she electrocuted into me, I guess thinking she would impress, but I'm not really sure. We were still young and everyone was like that, but I was a little more advanced, and my conclusions led to years of belittling fighting like Civil Rights Activist. I was never given my shot, my rightfully deserved shot at love with her, but it was all my fault, my fucking fault-I am crazy. I liked the girl, but my actions were mismatched with my feelings, for some reason...

Don't judge. Don't you dare fucking judge someone by your first, one-sided impression. In doing so, you are counterfeit money of a person, a title you only felt they held. Follow your heart for meaning, not a rocky boat of a mind.

Why did she, why do we, why does the world always do it, upon meeting a new face. Most likely this idea of first impressions has been truthfully injected into our minds, but note, why does it matter. Your will to impress holds no purpose, no meaning.

So, what?

You act like a fake buffoon, and get new fiends. I more commend you on being a complete blockhead. They are not friends mate, if you can't shed your real soul around them without being viewed as Leo at his first lunch-in.

And then you'll change, change so fast you won't even notice. You will get lost in excuses, and convince yourself you are doing the right thing. Priorities my friend, what the are your major priorities when defining who you really are.

Please, I advise you do not make the same mistakes I have, the same mistakes that leave me a man that can't leave his house, fearing their influence will kill him. Be bold, be an ox, believe in any sort of God, person, or element that will allow you to walk your walk in any situation, and amongst any group of American idol judges.

And am I smart, strong, thick boned?...Whatever you want to call it.

My friend, I can't leave my house.... I don't know who I am.

What about me?

It got bad. Really, really bad. See, this prostitution ring merged with one of the severest drug showdowns of the year. Leo was the head, but his leaking blood did not share DNA with the stereotype suspect of the job. He wore mild-blue eyes,brown locks, and an unprecedented tan that all together gave him the appeal of an inoperative, fashion hypnotized Brazilian model.

How he got involved, Leo that is, still beats me. I'm guessing that he was in the wrong place at the right time, inevitably sparking his on-going Derick Todd Lee charisma, but I can't be sure.

I watched TV, a lot of TV like a Disney-brainwashed five year old; so I knew of this so called "drug game." Killings, rapings, simply an avenue carrying moral decay. That was my glassy savvy, and I never discovered there to be a rhyme or reason, or any sort of ordinance involved in the prohibition-like game. My problem, my big problem was I observed the 'black' scene, all the loud talking, killings, and out-of-hand disrespect. That's how media depicts drugs, and blacks as an unwilling whole, but in truth, that is only one unacceptable pureness of their blinded form of life. This forever manifests why these sable people, these people who's ancestors fought like white-colonist for emancipation, are victim to such hefty derogatory titles.

The indented obstacle is the media, in their ill desired quest to differentiate these killing blacks, with the likes of black doctors, lawyers, and the all around Oprah-types. It must be hard to realize that in the black world of foggy confusion; present is more than one facet of the double lined community. Now I am a white guy, but the way media takes a knife; carves and torments the skin of the black citizens like the spreading of the bird flu is absurd, unconditionally accepted, and putrid to my eyes-

It was about 2 a.m. and lets just say I wriggled through the darker tunnel of L.A in my sandy cooper. I went from an island infested with nameless paparazzi to a land where men handle themselves like a baby hidden from its mothers breast.

On a corner, and there were many corners, but this one was the most appealing; a tar creature stood tall, and sternly above a black mouse. This woman most likely played the role of one of his many dealers/prostitutes, but we can't be sure. I saw him beat her, just aimlessly beating her as if she were a seersucker southern boy speaking spit to his mother.

Then he did it, he pulled the fucking trigger like she was a woman made up of Monopoly money peeking out of a window in Darfur. She was beautiful too. Black, but not that prostitute, big titty, ass hanging out her shorts kind of thing, she was a woman. She seemingly played the part of a sex/drug worker, but she was immensely sensitive. My conclusion was painted after a twenty minute observation, and the way she searched for some sort of appreciation and justice with her eyes, proved me to be correct.

He left, ran actually, as if one of the white cops were chasing him with a, "no like blacks" German Shepherd. Thing is, I don't know why he ran, why he even cared. She was just another black perch dead in a ocean of white sharks, no one would notice, no one would fucking care.

I thought for sure she was creative, 'real' music on the radio, but her pulse held on like the faded yellow of a school bus. I needed to save her, I had to improve my state as an undefined person. It was sick, so fucking sick. She was injured, almost entering a never-ending sleep, but I was the one deserving of an Gatsby-like funeral.

In all honesty, I did not care if she survived, she was just another black girl in a third world country, blocks away from the Ivy. But I wanted to be in the paper, I wanted to be honored and praised like I rightfully and innately deserved: "The man who saved a woman doomed for a new awakening." My designed intentions were not to help, which made me an executor of a sentimental feat, but a man with a scratched heart. Sometimes I try, I won't lie, to convince myself I saved her out of fluffed sympathy. But I don't know, I have not a clue what malfunctions lie in my tangled brain.

Did she make it? Well, that's for you to decide, but yes, she was able to ride-out her wounds, and live to dream another day . She was not free, as much as the world and I want to believe she changed-She did not. People, they rarely change, and why should they. See, they don't know any better, that's what I took away from this experience: Change for the better, and do not go back to what previously left you an injured character.


The shots were fired regarding my dreaming. I visioned migrating away like a bird before a storm, but problem was, my storm had already hit. I became sick, really sick see, and took on a broken wing. I caught Pneumonia, or some sort of ailment that keeps the powerful enfeebled down. For weeks nearly making up a month I lied there, just contemplating a more-advanced form of life. Dreaming of a land where I am not afraid to depart from my own home in fear of enjoying a death of no substance. Today, healthy as a new born baby, I still can't leave. I don't know why, but I just can't pack my bags up and go, I wish a "run away dad" could implement into me his villainy ways. The doctors labeled me "unable to function" during my pneumonia stage, but I am a Jew accepting Christ as the savior in regards to their cleaver, PHD assumtion. Healthy, I am sick, a sick fucking human being.

I know this was supposed to be about Leo, this character that you idolize and get all worked up about like a teenage girl backstage a Hannah Montana concert, but c'mon. What about me, that guy who gives you all this fair and balanced information. Could you for once give me some God damn credit. Could you honor me, someone please. I'm sorry for ranting and rambling about myself, and we will return to his subject, but for now.....

Help me, Help me please....I have no core, no title.

Leo Lilo...What makes him a sinner?

Work, life, family, it all became a mute subject. Sure it spoke, but Leo's ears were inflated with wax regarding what it slipped out. His family kept in touch, trying to keep him morally balanced, but on the other side of the balance been was a bucket of righteous sin. To make a long story short, Leo never walked the parks; as a matter of fact he transformed into a man of rotten dirt. He vacationed with his co-workers through a new extreme in life, and got caught. Caught in a trap of obsession, and materialism like the rest of the Donald Trump Want-To-Be's that he once despised.


He had a wife, but soon after he committed to the new job, she wore the name-tag "ex". A sweet woman, but not so understanding of Leo's brainless state. She would sit alone, molded into her love seat, watching old episodes of Friends while talking to her beloved companions who advised her to part from the male version of an MTV polluted teenage girl.


In all due respect to the man, he was a humdinger of his job- whatever it was. I never fully understood what it entitled, but from what I heard he was promoted after just one week of hardy work. Slightly unorthodox for a Fortune 500 company, but I went with it.


The rumors exchanged from information seeker to information seeker were probably inaccurate, but what flew around was that he landed at the bank about 40,000 a week. It was clear, quite clear actually what he was doing with the money. All you had to do was look into his dark, blood shot eyes to see what sucked the life out of him like an overbearing stage mom. Away from the drugs, his once mild, soothing temperament and charisma joined Atlantis in lost world at sea.

A prick, he turned into a complete prick.


Next came Prostitution, as problems began to peek their heads out of the water. He had sex-workers in numbers similar to troops in Iraq. The spoken word was that these encounters got dirty, Africa dirty- you know, that land where women wear their bare skin as shirts and get raped like an ordinary walk in an American park. It got so bad once, he told me that he had to pay one chick about 5 grand to keep her bleeding, lifeless mouth shut.


I asked him, "What happened to you man. Where did you go?"


He plowed through my heavy green eyes and said, "I've gone no where, I'm still here."



Then he looked perversely at a large breasted woman as his hands conquered his testicles. I thought to myself, yea sure, you haven't changed.


See, to the old Leo, sinning was a big deal. A BIG DEAL.He would avoid any non-christian actions similar to a young black man entering a gated community, or an American taking on a new language.


I asked if he felt bad about who he had become, but surprisingly he shrugged at my questions and faced me with a devil-like, nonchalant smile. He did not care; he was obviously not the same guy. According to his old book, he was a sinner just like married men who masturbated, but that book was interred into the ground by a razor sharp shovel, leaving Leo with no moral guidelines.

Being fair is my thing, and I do not live my life by some bible. Some fucking book that was written by a group of 'Godly' men who thought it was a great idea to direct my lifestyle. That's just equivalent to giving government the right to rule on abortion.


Being open-minded, I understood this misinterpreted idea of sinning. Sure, in Americas book Leo was Osama, but the man who judges on his sinful, or pure actions is Leo. If he felt no pain, no remorse, no guilt, no utter disgust in his actions- Well then I say in his book, the only book that matters, he plays the role of an invincible man with morals made up of fresh water.


What is sinning?... Is Leo Lilo wrong? Sick? Who is to judge?

Help me... The Double Faced, Multiple Soul Leo Lilo

Who am I?... Who are we?... Who are, you?

Well, We are people of many faces like the politicians we despise. If actions define who we are then I am a color chart of a person. My actions and my soul are rarely synonymous, and if they were I would be the man with blood horns who's main goal is to torture the tortured.

Leo Lilo, yes, that's his name. But who is he, this guy, this idea, of Leo Lilo?

Leo was once a man who happily walked on the springing grass feeding the gun-less, chirping birds, but his revolutionary idea to give work another shot left him affected like a boy unknowing of his cancerous tumor. On his mindless, eager adventure to over-pay the rent, he meets these money seeking, spineless, popular culture brainwashed co-workers of his and nervously wonders, "will I ever be like them?" Mr. Lilo alone was intelligent in whatever form of intelligence you believe in. He had the ability to reason; differentiate with what was "right" and "wrong". Alone-a man of pope-like virtues. Interacting with his new 'friends'-injured like a teenage boy timidly inhaling his first joint.

He has not a clue of this type of jungle, and when he tip toed into the office his cleansed ideals were viewed as barbaric. He sat at one lunch-in, sort of expressing how money was of no importance, and well these invertebrate co-workers laughed at him as if he had an enlarged pimple growing from his eye balls, asking, "Why are you even here?"

It took only weeks before Leo Lilo fizzled into a heartless Bob Tweed of the world. Manipulating any system or person to receive money. I guess he loved the idea of being pure-away from his office, but his ocean colored views dissipated with his interactions. He tried to convince himself he was different, during the nights where the only heard voice was that of his cousins in the sky; sitting in the shower making up his own words to Bob Dylan songs, " I am different, but my actions are the same. I am different, but what makes us the same?" I guess if he were so different, he would not sit in a steaming bathroom questioning his own doings.

Did he turn into one of those office hawks, those damn near devil worshiping demons? One of those broken winged creatures who viewed life from a materialistic stand point? Where is the man...the man who walked in the park and fed the innocent ducks? His actions MUST not define his eternal soul.

Who is Leo Lilo?...
Where did he go?...