Monthly Archives: February 2011

you gave me freight elevator eyes at the sycamore (on 118 cortelyou road between e 11th st and westminster road) – m4w – 26 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)


-our 37th birthday-

*by someone who usually despises singing*

(frankie leone, just a man)


*she invites me over around ten pm.

i start the trek to the church ave q stop near the border of flatbush, brooklyn. the subways can be ruthless with a person’s time. it takes an hour to get there.

soon after arriving i realize i’ve forgotten condoms. it’s her roommate’s birthday at twelve am this heartlessly cold night. she realizes she’s forgotten a gift.

rock, paper, scissor, shoot.

“enjoy your stroll baby,” my voice winks.

her middle finger extends close to my face before she walks into the night.*


*entenmanns’s cake- vanilla. chocolate frosting.

three pack of condoms- lubricated trojans. black box.

can of 4 loko- twelve percent alcohol by volume. twenty-three point five ounces.

birthday candles- twelve pack. blue and pink.

she comes back with it all in a plastic bag emblazoned with a smiley face. after a few moments of laughter she speaks. her words are saturated with embarrassed amusement.

“my sweet bodega man will never look at me the same again.”*


*while his candles burn she sings with sugary affection in short shorts. my lack of enthusiasm’s jerry-rigged out of sight. i sing in a wife-beater and boxer briefs. he wears an oversized queens college t-shirt. his voice trembles with ecstatic gratitude. i initially mistake it for panic.

the living room’s dark. he’s perched on their sofa bathed in the indifferent glow of a television.*


*he’s turned thirty-seven years old. his body’s pale, pink, and portly.

at twenty five he left the orthodox jewish community he’d spent his entire life in. he’s unsuccessful as a professional and with women. it’s clear he feels he doesn’t belong anywhere. i know that when i see it.

he articulates all this shortly after our introduction.

him and i converse longer than necessary. her expression urges me to move onto the night’s next activity. he rambles awkwardly and i hear a self-destructive obsession with cards lady luck’s forced into his grip.

he makes me uncomfortable. i ask myself why but can’t put my tattooed finger on it.

i don’t know it now but even though we’ve never met before we’ve known each other our whole lives. looking at him i see my mirror image.*


*she has multiple roommates and thin walls. this considered it could be said the volume of our morning sex is inconsiderate.

all good things must come to an end. it does.

audible foot steps walk away from the bedroom door moments after. i ask, “is it just me being paranoid or did he listen outside the door?”

she whispers, “i’d love to tell you, and myself, he didn’t. it’s pretty likely we just gave a birthday performance though.”

i muffle my laugh and sing happy birthday with genuine enthusiasm.*


(enjoy what you’ve read?

facebook, twitter, stumbleupon, etc shares appreciated.

share button below.)


Protected: at legion (on 790 metropolitan between graham ave and humboldt st) you didn’t understand why i wasn’t thrilled to be an artist – m4w – 26 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

i only heard the words i wanted to sitting across from you at papacito’s (on 999 manhattan ave between green st and huron st) – m4w – 26 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)


-an idea, until she wasn’t-

*by someone showing a wry smile

to a fair truth*

(frankie leone, just a man)


*she’s fucked up*


*like rapaccini’s daughter

the frankenstein monster


or a sweet young thing hustling a hustler


smiling hearts disfigured

and winking souls into hospice


while those

garnet lips and robin’s egg eyes

are worshipped


they hallow pride

and molotov dignity

namely mine

while i ask for every orgasmic twist

of her beautiful switchblade


she’s yelling truth


and i’m choosing

to hear whispers

of my favorite lies*


*i’m fucked up.*


you turned me into captain ahab at nyc bikes (on 149 havemeyer st between s 1st st and s 2nd st) – m4w – 26 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)



-(lost at sea on a) brooklyn bike ride-

*by someone that’ll ride until

(or into) the grave*

(frankie leone, just a man)



*a ship moves without logical course

fragrant hopefulness filling its sails


murky hopelessness slit at it’s bow

an exquisite likeness of her suspended above it


guiding the directionless ship forward (?)


the expression on it’s face appearing




and content with very little


qualities possessed only

by the truly beautiful


but this likeness appears incomplete

the eyes are missing from its face*



*other sailors swear he’s insane

but the one man crew of this vessel


sees them clearly

permanently fixed in the horizon


the missing eyes


trimmed with blue irises

that won’t be forgotten




the sun smiles

a squall twists the sky’s features

or the night stares blankly


they gaze


he tries to meet them

with green eyes full of scars


usually failing


still doing his best

to keep his back straight


standing at the helm

on an empty wooden deck


stained with unrequited love

and tears shed behind mirrored shades


he’s surrendered to forgetting

his original destination


sailing towards eyes

he knows will never be reached


unconcerned with trivial things

like facts and an overflowing hold

of smashed hour-glasses


while the needle of a compass spins wildly and

he spins the helm’s wheel with cracked hands


he’s unable to recall if she’s

a fantasy

a reality

or something in between




a half-smile never leaves

a rough-skinned face

around blood-shot spheres


knowing this fate was his choice

grateful knowing no matter how much

he yearns to


he can’t blame her*



the food at peaches (on 393 the corner of lewis ave and macdonough st) was rad after you booted me out – m4w – 26 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)



*by someone who needs to get p.c.*

(frankie leone, just a man)


*”you’ve never been an escort?”

the blade of her words glistens with flattering surprise. the question doesn’t offend me. it probably should.

i parry, “no. why would you ask?”

“it’s not unusual for lonely and good-looking guys with some charisma to brush with it. you’d make good money.”

i don’t respond right away. the compliment sharpens the double-edged steel of my ego. this dysfunction irks me.

i suppress a smile. with wooden pride i feign sarcasm, “thanks for telling me i’d be a successful hooker baby.”

her bed’s smaller than i’m used to. it forces us closer to intimacy.

the whetting stone of her words continues, “sorry casanova. sensitive after we come aren’t we?”*


*”sin city” pushes pins and needles of romantic carnage into the night that follows.

her friend joins us. amiable and full-figured with guarded sharpness. seemingly latina.

my thoughts wander to an e.r. doctor i know. he’d told me the majority of injuries he sees are kitchen related, self-inflicted, and involve knives.

a samurai sword wielding prostitute cuts street justice across the screen of the old tv. the butcher knife of my voice slips, “asians freak me out.”

“why,” her friend asks. i don’t notice their winces at my carelessness.

stealthily, my speech gashes me. “i don’t know. unfamiliar features. generally cold cultures.”

“i’m half nepalese,” the friend informs me.

i panic. thoughtless torrents of speech flow. “damn. well, you don’t speak with an accent. doesn’t count. plus the clerks at the st marks grocery are nepalese. you look nothing like them.”

the wound i’ve made needs stitches. cheap band aids’ve only exacerbated the problem.

her small bed’s a sexless e.r. waiting room until dawn.*


*i’m just a man.

i try to make her horny enough to get some in the morning. she starts giving in but kicks me sheathless before the point of no return. before getting up to take a piss i scratch a dishonest smile over my blued expression.

her bathroom lights have red bulbs.*


*scabs form over my sexual frustration by the time i got back. across the room on the small bed she scrapes them off.

she’s naked on all fours. her blunt voice rakes, “fuck me.”

i’m just a man.*


*”can i write a few hour before work?”

“i’d rather you didn’t. i need more sleep before i leave. we don’t know each other that well and i really like my things,” she replies.

this answer’s brutally efficient- a guillotine blade. before getting my shit together i scratch another dishonest smile onto a decapitated head.

my headless body walks to the g train.*


you put artificial sweetener in my coffee and memory at the rabbit hole (on 352 bedford ave between s 3rd st and s 4th st) – m4w – 26 – (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)



-saccharin love-

*by someone

that’s never enjoyed coffee black*

(frankie leone, just a man)



*i took her in

with slow deep




inhaling her

through my nostrils


i could smell



and hope


it thrilled then filled

me with fear


the anxious kind

then came the guilt


she was pale, thin, and

for all intensive purposes




her eyes


they were innocently longing

later i’d learn this was incorrect


this girl had been robbed

of many things


including this innocence

i initially percieved


she’d played the game

for some time


but her soul was still white

and sweet like saccharin


when her vocal chords vibrated

truth would rarely escape her lips


but i’d listen and believe


because i wanted to

because i needed to

especially when she said


i love you


she’d call me baby

and i’d feel warm


it’s odd though


years later

i’d be with her pretending

to only want friendship


and i’d hear her call

other men baby


feeling rusty safety pins

with jammed fasteners

entering my heart


she’s lost now


and not only to me


to herself


but still i remember

the passion

the pain

the pleasure

the laughing

and the insanity


i loved her



she might’ve thought

she loved me


so as

i remember


i know ours is the beauty of a

once fantastic amusement park


gated shut

falling deeper into disrepair


and it will always be in my heart


sometimes as a rusty safety pin

sometimes as a crooked youthful smile.*




you were shocked by a trivial kindness and asked where i came from at the tea lounge (on 837 union st and 7th ave) – m4w – 26 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)




*by someone who busted out*

(frankie leone, just a man)



*lady luck took his ability

to separate fantasy from reality


he was an enormous man

capable of effective brutality

but devoid of the impulse


his heart 24 karat gold

and his skin burnt coffee

marked by many scars


he’d smile

revealing a mouth of false teeth

glowing with an ironic brotherly love


my space-heater

in times lost on tundra


he was my friend*



*i’d sit with him

hearing his stories


knowing they were figments

of his imagination


cigarettes were scarce

but i’d give what i could spare


light them

and listen


he gladly retold

the ever-changing stories

of the origins of his scars


maybe the one about

what was plainly a gun-shot wound

below his barrel of a rib cage


maybe the one about

the long slash running down his cheek

unmistakably made with an angry razor blade


i’d listen

i’d tell him he was my brother


he’d tell me about his adventures

with comic-book heroes

like the green lantern


i’d listen

i’d smile


he’d tell me his hands

were once made of metal

but he gave them to his cell-mate


a friend


years ago during a different bid

in r***** state penitentiary


to make that friend a superhero

so he could escape


i’d listen

i’d light up his cigarette


he’d light up his eyes*



*that place i found him

was dark on sunny days


but he was a flicker


i’ll be forever grateful

for his adventures

with the green-lantern


and the metal hands

he gave his cell-mate.*




%d bloggers like this: