Monthly Archives: January 2012

when it was warm out we had ice cream on the bench in front of tasti d-lite (on 193 bedford avenue and north 6th street) – 27 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)


-a kent avenue super gets around to it-

*by someone getting more assertive

with his building’s management company*

(frankie leone, just a man)


*things are changing, but everything is the same.

she still smiles with goofy sexiness. her eyes are still so breath-taking i can’t maintain eye-contact when we speak. her body, even when clothed in a dirty hoodie and loose sweat-pants, still helps me feel ashamed of my thoughts (when i lose consciousness of my staring).

i sit with her in her bedroom.

there’s three or four feet between us. she speaks for over an hour. i genuinely listen, not saying much- something unusual for a man like me. intermittently i interject relevant anecdotes from my life. she doesn’t seem concerned, shifting the conversation back to her friends, ideas, assessments, life.

i’m not offended. i listen and am present (kindof, sort of, maybe, i hope).

i know my favorite lie. it’s a pair of blinders blocking most things from sight. not now though. right now a crystalline probably-never looks like a sink with a blocked drain inside my ribs. it’s overflowing into my mind.

her appearance is at the front of my consciousness (sometimes it overpowers my ability to focus on her words) along with paranoia my eyes will leak the beautiful hopelessness i’m feeling into her bedroom. it already comes down the walls of apartments of everyone close to me in torrents.

i know if i flood this room she might pity me, and tell me she feels strongly about me too, as a friend. there’s little doubt this pulses quietly through her mind every once and a while, but if it comes off the tongue inside her face, a face that flashes lingering lightning through my thoughts, it’ll sound like rusty razors tornado-ing through my ears.

the streets near the north brooklyn waterfront aren’t accepting apologies from anyone this frozen january night. all the pretty ones, along with those turning shadowy eyes to sunless heavens for answers, are hidden indoors.

like four angels with touches of dirt on their faces, my neighbors move around a muraled loft needing more insulation. they speak, smile, and laugh without deliberateness, as the truly beautiful do.

i don’t have a view of a moonless ceiling of our cityscape at the moment. i move to the common space, listen, watch, and dance to songs of crossed over men with vibrant souls.

i leave the room for a moment and hear them from the bathroom.

“she treats men that fall in love with her terribly. he sleeps on the couch here waiting for her to fall in love with him. she tells him ‘i have a boyfriend’ and he keeps dying inside, pathetically hopeful.”

laughter echoes. i zip my pants, mouth ajar, skin colorless.

i take a long moment, put pieces of myself back in place, and reclaim a seat on the dingy greenish-gold velour cushions of an old couch i’ve come to love too. i start listening to her again. intermittently i interject relevant anecdotes from my life. she doesn’t seem concerned, shifting the conversation back to her friends, ideas, assessments, life. i’m not offended.

i sit listening and wrestle with my eyes. it’s an easier fight. they’ve become weaker than an old man’s.

the stopped-up sink in my ribs, slowly, begins to drain.*


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you took me as your plus one to an upscale event at the guggenheim museum (at 1071 5th avenue and 88th street) – 27 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)


-the world is yours-

*by someone who doesn’t need to take

what’s already his*

(frankie leone, just a man)


*the radio’s off

and old tires spin

with worn ease and comfort

as her and i glide east

on the brooklyn queens expressway

in a weathered mini-van

she’s shuttled me around in

since my childhood

a clear night sharpens my affection for her

and the city glistening across the east river

i’m watching through the passenger window

i look at her

while she massages the road with

her careful green eyes

and turn my own back to the skyline


i breathe slow and deep

before whispering

“it’s mine”


she doesn’t respond right away

or turn her gaze

from the lanes of the bqe

the wrinkled skin

on her still pretty face

shifts to grace me with a smile

before answering

“i know

that’s how everyone

who loves it should feel”


i think about this for a moment

and maintain our silence


moving my left hand

over her right


gripping the scratched steering wheel.*


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you kissed a guy for the first time at hotel chantelle (at 92-94 ludlow street and delancey) – 27 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)



*by a savage*

(frankie leone, just a man)


*she almost makes being a junky look good.

the skin on her face is ghostly and marble-esque. i love touching it. a girlish smile is usually set into it. looking into her sapphire eyes i see my own pain and know the expression is disingenuous.

this helps me like her more.

hair falling out of a loose beanie is greasy but compliments the drug addict chic permeating her aesthetic. looking at her i think calvin klein himself couldn’t create a better image.

i’m disgusted with myself for being so attracted to it.*


*we’ve made out a few times in crowded night clubs but that doesn’t mean much- she’s a lesbian, or tells me she is.

when someone claims they’re straight or gay i usually disregard it. after last call i’ve seen homecoming kings go home with class queens too many times. i’ve seen dread-locked liberal arts commandos get in cabs with pretty men wearing bridge and tunnel uniforms more than once too.

someone’s sexuality always stays a question mark to me, but something i know for sure is i want her- wrong or right.*


*she’s kicking and knows i know what it’s like.

i’m just a man, but am aware if i stay with my norm of giving into animalistic urges she’ll never forgive me a few stops down the line. that’s just the surface of the glacier- i’ll never forgive myself either, and there’s no ignoring my psyche’s text messages.

i’ve been invited to watch “law and order” at her place this cold saturday night. my thought process is far from pure while i get dressed. i try to bleach my intentions for the occasion.*


*the wind sinks its teeth into me as i ride my bike to her place in bushwick.*


*255 mckibbin street, my destination.

the mckibbin lofts- hipster mecca, bed bug haven, and a good place for a sleepless night listening to college students vomit in the hallway. i’ve always thrived off chaos.

i feel right at home.*


*her hug makes me feel like a soldier coming home from war- disarmed. i don’t miss the arsenal of defense mechanisms i brandish in the street. the default smile shines from pretty features. she’s tall too. i don’t have to bend to get my arms around her.

she’s in her third day of withdrawal from a not-so-heavy heroin habit. she’s wrapped in a few blankets inside the already warm loft, but seems fine otherwise.

we watch “law and order svu” for an hour. detective stabler twists himself into knots serving justice to our city’s sexual predators. oh the irony.

the sheen white curtains covering the wall of windows behind the tv remind me of wedding veils.*


*we’re bored and i feel tension. i storm my brain for a solution.

i throw out, “want to go to a strip club?”

“i’m not going to manhattan to spend twenty bucks on a cover and another on a two drink minimum. especially while i’m dope sick.”

“there’s one a few blocks from here.”

she laughs.

“you want to take me to a ghetto strip club in bushwick?”

“yes,” i answer.

still grinning she picks up her iphone.

“i’m not walking in this shit. we’re splitting a car.”*


*the bouncer at pumps on the corner of metropolitan and grand frisks me for weapons and searches her bag. we sit at the bar. i buy us redbulls and take out my electronic cigarette.

“you can’t smoke in here,” a cocktail waitress tells me in an aggressive tone.

i show her the e smoke and reply, “it’s just water vapor and nicotine.”

“bet you think you’re pretty fucking cool,” she answers.

i don’t respond and put fifteen singles on the bar. it seems like an appropriate budget.*


*we watch the girls move up and down the poles.

turns out we have similar taste in women. riley is our favorite- a tattooed girl with small breasts. doesn’t have the best game dancing but is endearing with words.

the working girl asks, “either of you sexy kids want a dance?”

i can’t afford to be here but that didn’t stop me from coming. explaining this isn’t appealing.

“baby, i’m sorry. i’m gay,” i explain into hustling eyes.

“awww sugar, it’s ok. so am i,” riley smiles turning to her, “how about you pretty lady? you gay too?”

i watch a hand creep onto a thigh.

she diverts from riley’s question to ask me, “should i tell her?”

“sure,” i reply, “considering our environment i’m sure it won’t shock.”

“i’m kicking dope. that kind of fun is the last thing on my mind.”

riley understands, offers kind words, and moves on to a desperate looking guy a few bar stools down.*


*after we leave no cab will stop for us. we walk the fifteen blocks back to her place.*


*i ask if i should crash on the couch or in her room.

“you can come up with me if you want.”

i’m losing control. i try to steady my hand to ease the throttle of my hedonism back.*


*the bedroom of her ceiling isn’t high enough for either of us to stand straight up. clothes hang on a pipe running through the center of the room. there’s not much here besides them, a bed, nightstand, and some guitars.

she strips down to her underwear and gets under the covers. i stay fully dressed and join her. we stare at the ceiling talking about our trials and tribulations. something else is on my mind.

fuck it.

i get on top of her and kiss her neck. then her lips. she’s into it. having a conscience is inconvenient in moments like this. i say aloud, “i’m taking advantage of you.”

her smile hasn’t faded a shade. she whispers, “yeah. you couldn’t find someone in a weaker place.”

i climb off and apologize. we resume our conversation.

minutes pass and i ask what’s the most uncomfortable part of her withdrawal.

“the muscles in my back.”

“want a massage?”

“please,” she replies.

after twenty minutes she thanks me.

“i think i’ll sleep tonight now. you’re damn good with your hands.”

i’m grateful i wasn’t weak enough to show her how good.

we hold hands and drift towards unconsciousness.*


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you could move at the house of yes (on 342 maujer street between morgan and watersby) – 27 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)



*by someone terrible at calculations*

(frankie leone, just a man)


*i like people with technical jobs.

engineers, architects, programmers, designers. they know how to get out of their heads, or were never there to begin with. they can focus on things other than themselves.

they have different eyes than me and those like me.

intensity is an addiction of mine. gripping someone fiercely. forgetting myself and those around me. losing sight of a world that watches me a lot less than i think. they know it isn’t. if it does they usually aren’t too concerned.

artists are high maintenance and mirror my laundry list of character defects. even a narcissist can tire of looking at himself.*


*having been ground into hamburger enough by the young and beautiful i’ve vowed to avoid those under twenty-one.

i found her on facebook in a creepy search for another way to create trouble for myself. she’s twenty-two and looks like a high school student. being a pervert, i like this. after she tells me she’s an architecture student i express interest in hanging out.

she’s down.*


*we sit on her bed in a park avenue apartment.

the plasma screen tv on her dresser intimidates me. cypress hill flows with clear precision from speakers of a thousand dollar stereo. the place smells like someone else’s money. i don’t judge- this place is a break from my heatless loft in brooklyn.

i touch the perfect skin on her face and tell her it’s beautiful. she laughs disingenuously.

“thank you,” she responds.

“i like your awkward laugh,” i continue.

“shut up,” she says with a nervous smile.*


*i also promised myself i’d never smoke cigarettes again.

when i commit to a negative behavior it’s never half-assed. i’d have to smoke at least a pack a day. it’s hard to find cigarettes in new york city for less than ten bucks a pack. that’s not my scene.

since i can’t go all the way i decided on foreplay. i started smoking electronic cigarettes.

they’re like mini hookahs. for twenty dollars you get an e cigarette, charger, and two flavored nicotine cartridges. refill packages of five are ten dollars a piece. each refill is the equivalent of two packs of cigarettes. this works with my financial restraints.

i ask if she minds if i charge my cigarette.

this strikes her as strange. an addiction is an addiction. i ignore her reaction and start charging my cigarette in the usb port of an open macbook pro on her down comforter.

she asks if i smoke weed.

“no, i fly into a paranoid psychosis. there’s too much chaos in my mind for me to handle it. don’t mind if you do though.”

“weird. want some vodka?”

“no, it turns me into a scum bag.”

she laughs.

“yeah? what would make you say that?”

“i’d drink the vodka, get a bottle, drink it, and start looking for cocaine. that’d only be the start.”

“oh, you’re a drug addict,” she sighs rolling her eyes.


she starts grinding weed in a heavy silver grinder. there’s a high-tech marijuana vaporizer on her bedstand. she punches buttons under its digital display. after setting up her apparatus she presses a “start button.” a large plastic bag fills with thc vapor. when it’s done she inhales it into her lungs through a mouthpiece.

watching her eyes i see a lot of her leave the bedroom. she gets up and starts dancing. i’m in the mood. i get up to move my hips.

“i’ve always wanted to dance with a devilish man from brooklyn,” she says.

“be careful what you wish for,” i respond.*


*she wants me to finish on her face. i oblige.*


*she texts on her phone across the bed not long after. she doesn’t seem like the cuddling type.

“my friend eddiy wants to hang out. i need to start getting ready.”

this is one of my least favorite situations- i’m being told to leave. i may be a slut but i’m not a prostitute.

“sure baby,” i say smirking. my expression’s insincere.

i put on my clothes and kiss her. she seems elsewhere.*


*as i head to the elevator she bursts from the door of her apartment and runs towards me. i’m excited.

“you took my phone!”

we have the same model blackberry.

“oh,” i begin quietly, “i’m sorry.”

she hands me mine. i dig into my jacket pocket and hand her’s back.*

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