Monthly Archives: April 2012

you were kind enough to give me water and let me use the bathroom when i was freaking out on acid at berry park (on 4 berry st and nassau ave) 27 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)


-identity crisis-

*by someone who walks by himself for a reason*

(frankie leone, just a man)


*like a maladjusted teenager

orbiting reality, exploded on angel dust

i’ve tried to pulverize the image

of who i might be

or like a thorough crook

strung out on the acquisition of wealth

hide the origins of who i am

laundering my identity

through a series of intermediaries

but after a lifetime of fighting and hiding

i’ve grown weary

and can no longer afford the luxury of fear

i’ve come to face the mirror of who i’ve been

in hopes of finding brutal clarity

on who i am

there will be no flinching

as i stare at the past

to find my present

i stand here

by myself

armed with exhaustion and desperation

to catalogue some of the stops

on my subway ride

through this human’s experience*


*the kid on the street

with nothing to lose

convinced there’s nothing to gain

you don’t know what’s hidden in my pockets

that may or may not motivate you

to stop running your mouth

or why i’m so dedicated

to stop you from vocalizing your opinions

but you do know i’ll try to use it

because that’s what i do*


*the punk rocker

swearing allegiance to an army

that guarantees i won’t be negotiated for

after legions of bottles, glue tubes, and syringes


aligning with this religion

that will never identify itself as one

in beds, bathrooms, and train cars

making despondent love

to its hazy mistresses wearing corresponding uniforms

of torn fish-nets and black eyeliner

and walking to the beat of sloppy drums

and inconsistent power chords

under a black flag

reeking of body odor*


*the tough guy

banging to the sound of years combusting

respecting alleyways and avenues

that aren’t familiar with this concept

loyal to a crew of ever shifting faces

raising arms ending with clenched fists

covering in r.i.p. tattoos

you know

when things go too far south between us

for either of us to fly home for the spring

i’ll be there on time

with minions wearing skin functioning as masks

and it won’t be to talk*


*the fuck star

twisting my face

into disingenuous expressions of ecstasy

giving the camera my most personal moments

like a lukewarm handshake

because i’ve been blessed

with these flexible morals

and big cock

numbing reservations with complimentary

powders and liquids

to soldier through the next filming

under the impression

i’m providing a valuable service

and the one really in control*


*the junky mercenary

following whoever’s money

to the next fix

as my liver dies

and the crooks of my arms

bruise and abscess

rallying behind the next opportunity

to fight, fuck, or steal

not because there’s pleasure in it anymore

but because there hasn’t been another option

for quite some time

i can’t remember

what i’m trying to forget at this point but

hitting the snooze button on my emotions

has taken priority over the possibility

for real friends

a loving family

and the hope to live to my next birthday*


*the imprisoned criminal in the free world

who won’t give up bondage

watching people who have a liberty

i believe i’ve taken from myself permanently

unaware the keys to my cuffs

lay in my lap*


*a man who’s seen more than i should’ve

because i’ve seen too little

of things in front of my eyes all along

a lost boy who sees into a tarry darkness

filled with funhouse mirrors*


*the poet

walking the street in my own shadows

unable to move passed things that need to be

but recording them so others will

in hopes of proving i’m not a monster

to the city around me

but more importantly, myself*


*the enlightened madman

who stands behind convictions

i won’t surrender

even after laying my own world to waste*


*the life force of the rager

making the superficially beautiful smile


pouring drink after drink after drink

to people who surrender some autonomy

to me, a man they don’t know

but don’t feel threatened by

because others don’t

i have a decent dance move or two

and am not a bad kisser*


*i have been these things

among many others

maybe still am

but after poring over these reflections

they haven’t ceased to exist

just ceased to frighten

because while i don’t desire to turn my back

to the days ahead

to watch yesterday try to run up on me

i no longer feel compelled to lock my head forward

to avoid the vision

giving up this tug-of-war

makes things easier on my neck in the moment

and makes walking into tomorrow less difficult.*


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when i get to pick the restaurant you’re frustrated i always choose the cubana social on 70 north 6th st (between wythe and kent). – 27 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)



*by someone who’s heard

the music plays on*

(frankie leone, just a man)


*most in new york city have an opinion about williamsburg, brooklyn.

there are those who hate the locale, some who love it, and others who don’t care enough to voice thoughts about it.

i’ve found those harboring resentment do so because they don’t live here. this section of the wildest sexiest beast of a city on the globe (populated almost exclusively by the young, attractive, artistic, intelligent, and wealthy) is a gigantic bullsesye for negative attention. these individuals are interesting to me.

people who feel the need to lie to themselves about the roots of their disdains remind me of me. they make me uncomfortable. more often than not i engage them with a ruthless drive to instill clarity.

experience has revealed those who love it generally feel this way because the smoke and mirrors of “hip” and “cool” have seduced them to a point where snarky remarks and jealous avoidance is easily resisted. these individuals aren’t interesting to me.

their delusion is beautiful, in its own way, and i don’t feel compelled to dispel it.

those that are indifferent have dull opinions. they don’t interest me either.

they are comfortable enough inside their own flesh that they don’t feel the need to conjure disingenuous beliefs to compensate for insecurity. there’s no reason to engage them in debate.

i put myself, after desperately trying to do the opposite, outside these three groups. i do my best to just exist here and study what i’ve been struggling to understand my whole life- other human beings.*


*there’s a sadness saturating the five foot five bodega man who runs the store on the corner of north 6th street and kent avenue one block from my williamsburg loft. his rotund frame moves through the few narrow aisles, and behind his counter with a slow despair i detected early in our acquaintanceship.

his soft-spoken voice carries the marks of his homeland of yemen. it floats passed his lips to express only what he needs to when he needs to because he needs to. he reminds me of me.

he makes me uncomfortable.*


*she’s gorgeous and she’s mine.

her skin’s snow white, and her body is tall and thin. it moves with a grace only the unconsciously extraordinary can. when looking at her statuesque features i feel like i might’ve cheated lady luck for us to come to possess each other. she articulates her inner beauty and i remember i did.

when i go to his bodega every day to buy her her favorite bagel sandwich (without being asked) i know i’m not doing it because i should or can. i’m doing it because i want and need to.

when buying things for herself sometimes she’s with me and sometimes she’s alone. it’s become clear whether she’s with me or alone he expresses that he sees the same things in her i do. he throws words like “sexy,” “wonderful,” and “lovely” across the counter whether i’m there or not.

i don’t like this.

a man can’t keep someone like her as a pet or prisoner. the beautiful go where they want when they want if they want, because they can. i know this, and i’m sure if i force her to figure it out she will too. with expedience.

i decide to mind my own business and let her deal with it in her own way, if she wants to deal with it.

every time he asks me where she is (with a wall of cigarettes and $10+ items as his backdrop) i feel my fists beginning to clench. it’s a good thing i’m not young in my mind anymore- the son-of-a-bitch would take a nap on his bodega floor after each reference.*


*my ben and jerry’s purchases at his bodega are at an all time high.

she’s decided to walk out of my life and has bought a one-way amtrak ticket out of town. i’ve spent the entire day staring at the empty space in our clothes rack where her tailored jackets and body-gripping button-ups used to be.

she’s coming back tomorrow to get her boxed up things out of the common space.

my eyes spike continuous tears down the unshaven skin of my face. she hasn’t always been kind to me, but the void she’ll leave (represented by the missing clothes) is more than i can bear.

it’s time for a number nineteen from his bodega. a “how do you do.” chicken cutlet, beef bacon (islamic storeowners), lettuce, tomato, avocado, onion, and honey mustard. a space heater for a chilly soul.*


*his unshaven face (whose growth is more substantial than mine) smiles and asks how i am in a routine tone.

“i’m getting by,” i reply.

he laughs lightly and changes the subject, “where is your friend? you know who i’m speaking of. the sexy one.”

today i’m not going to gloss passed this.

“it makes her and i uncomfortable when you flirt with her. it’s probably part of the reason she doesn’t come by here a lot anymore,” i respond, “it’s fucking inappropriate.”

he falters in himself, surprised. i’m one of his store’s best customers. i’m there multiple times a day getting things for myself and six roommates. he knows this and grants special prices on some items, a line of credit, and access to less-than-legal services the bodega can provide. i’m also six foot four, covered in tattoos, have significant muscle mass, and mentioned in passing i grew up hard.

he’s watching his step as we both suffer in uncomfortable silence.

“i’m sorry. i didn’t know you didn’t like when i play with her.”

i answer, “when you flirt with her. especially in front of me. you know she’s my girlfriend.”

i don’t feel compelled to tell him we’re now severed from each other, but he understands the history leading to this exchange. his expression is defeated and he isn’t maintaining eye contact anymore.

“i’m sorry,” he concludes quieter than usual.

i have no desire to beat this man down, emotionally or physically. i try to resolve this awkwardness i’ve created.

“it’s ok. it’s really not a big deal. i’m a lot more upset about things outside this store. there’s a lot going in my mind. don’t worry about it.”

he nods in unsure understanding. i pay for my sandwich, some electronic cigarette refills, and a bagel sandwich to give her for her trip tomorrow. as i turn towards the door he breathes, “i like your writing.”

i stop still and turn around. this is unexpected- he’s pretty far outside my usual demographic. i answer, “thank you for reading it. sincerely,” and wait for him to talk.

“you know i used to be artist too. long time ago. played music.”

“what instrument,” i answer.

“sitar,” and our silence resumes.

a few moments pass in his empty place of business before i ask, “why don’t you play anymore?”

“war. the south of my country, where i’m from, got fucked up ten years ago. i came here and started running stores. now i am old. i don’t have it anymore.”

“do you know the expression ‘cop out?'”

he nods with an expression of shame.

“you just told me a tragic story. it’s the kind of bullshit i write about. but the real tragedy isn’t the one you think. it’s that you’ve given up. i think you should start practicing.”

i can tell he’s really listening, but he doesn’t feel compelled to respond.

“have a good day sammie,” i say and offer my hand.

he grips it and responds, “you too frankie.”*


*heading back to what used to be “our room” in my raw loft on kent avenue and north 5th street i think about sammie. then i think about myself. an epiphany burns bright in my mind as my feet tread the sidewalk- we’re going to be ok.

if we want to be.*


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