*

-dusk and dawn on bedford ave-

*by someone who doesn’t control the sun*

(frankie leone, just a man)

 *

*he sprawls without thought

-

relieved of things

he has

doesn’t have

is getting

and isn’t going to get

-

surprisingly

no cigarette burns in his hand

no warm feeling’s in his gut

-

from bottom-shelf gin

or middle of the cooler beer

-

someone paid more money

than he makes in a month

-

years and years ago

for the beat-up couch

upholstered with dirty-gold velour

-

he’s half-laying half-sitting on

-

it’s worthless now

but the moments transpiring

are etched on platinum tablets

-

filling the pockets of his faded jeans

-

she reclines unaware

of the same impediments

-

but that’s not out of her norm

-

her clothes are torn and

self scissor-cut hair’s a little greasy

-

it hasn’t seen a brush in a while

-

someone seeing these facts

only as words

-

as ink suspended on paper

-

might not understand they help make her

the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen

-

his long frame bearing a few marks

-

maybe a little too skinny reclines

-

hers the same

does the same

-

they don’t speak

about what was

what is

and what might be

-

regret seems to have forgotten them

-

he looks at her

at her face

-

and has unflawed confidence regret’s never

had a clear recollection of her

-

he’s thrilled to feel

like he’s a couple feet from her

instead of the usual miles away

-

he’s accustomed to watching

her through a scratched spy-glass from

-

even when they’re in the same room

-

her face turns toward him

-

the world-warping blue of her irises

that at times he fools himself into thinking

is the surface of a frozen lake

-

flows into him like a tropical river

-

a film of perspiration

on the skin of her

shoulders neck and face

-

says something he likes too much

-

she’s not drunk

but’s had a drink or two

acquiring that look of guiltless passion

-

rarely present

without some liquid forgetfulness

-

her cigarette burns comfortably

and the embers in his shadowy green eyes

smolder as he bites his lip

-

this man has too many words

-

sometimes in his mind

they’re all he has

-

she takes them from him

bringing breathless joy

-

something happens

the only thing that could(n’t) happen

-

she sighs and flashes almost white teeth

in a devious but almost white-spirited smile

-

taking her time

-

before bringing herself to a slouched sit

leaning forward and resting elbows

on her knees

-

with a relaxed expression

blanketing her features

-

she points her .45 caliber eyes at his

and pulls the trigger

-

nodding her chin upwards

not rushing the gesture

-

this man’s learned

to not trust

-

a dishonest perception

-

but even if it’s lying maliciously

during these ticks of the second hand

-

he’s joyfully swallowing the deceptive hook

to the bottom of his empty stomach

-

and welcoming her bullet

into his green eyes full of scars

-

his expression’s an unmarked page

in a new notebook

-

feeling the truthless hook

nestle into his stomach

-

overtaken with ecstasy

-

he nods his chin once

-

doing what he’s never had the courage to

she stands

she walks

and bends her knees

-

lowering herself

-

to tug on his shoulder

coaxing him to a sitting position

-

and sits down beside him

the entire length of her outer thigh

connecting with his

-

raising her toned arm

an arm with pretty scars

-

she rests her elbow on his bare shoulder

-

running the fingers of her hand

across his stubbly jaw-line

-

his eyes are scared

because this moment will end

-

that’s what they do

-

but hers aren’t

-

she keeps them open

not breaking eye contact

-

pressing lips

that pull on rollie smokes

-

lips he often swears

he’d give his eyes and thumbs to know

-

against his*

*

*this lie of a moment

is an idea

-

within the walls of his skull

-

it whittles itself into his duskly mind

while he sits alone

-

in an empty blackbird parlour

in north brooklyn

-

gazing out the window

watching the rain

-

beat bedford avenue

-

as the hopeful fantasy lingers

in the twilight of his consciousness

-

but staying true to reality

-

it fades

and is left faintly visible

-

by its inevitable dawn.*

*

 

 

-captain ahab-

*by someone that’s fond of the expression

“it is what it is”*

(frankie leone, just a man)

 

 

*the sea of asphalt before him

feels no need

 

to offer promises

explanations

or excuses

 

he understands it

and subdues his expectations

 

steering his two wheeled ship

through the streets and avenues

with no compass

 

it’s an unnecessary instrument

because the eyes of an idea

 

filled with a blue

the sky couldn’t hope to imitate

on her best day

 

float on the horizon

simultaneously guiding him

and eclipsing his streets

 

this boy

with the face

scars

shadowy eyes

and tattoos of a man

 

is like most sailors

following the sea

with respect and love

 

but differs from the other men of his class

sailing his ten speed schooner

with a different purpose

 

he follows those eyes

shaming the skyline

 

to a destination

existing only in his skull

 

conscious of this

he sails

 

through flatbush avenue

starr street

the williamsburg bridge

dupont street

and kent avenue

 

chasing himself

to the ends of his city

and back again

 

there’s probably a logical course

on the shrink-wrapped map

in his torn messenger bag

 

but he’s never had use

for the logical

reasonable

practical

or factual

 

he feels the wind

on his face

 

content with being

lost at sea

 

continuing a warm pursuit

through the borough of lost boys.*

 

 

 

 

 

-compassionless clorox at giant laundromat-

*by someone considering giving up

to the drop-off service*

(frankie leone, just a man)

 

 

*“skin’s the largest organ”

 

trick trivia people use

trying to feel superior to others

 

there’ve been moments

i’ve longed for an organ transplant

 

white and pink lines

not the kind for forgetting, mark me

along with ink and indentations

 

they can’t be escaped

because i’m the most secure prisoner

 

one shackled with thoughts

in the rikers of my mind*

 

 

*she’s wasn’t staying gold

but was wrapped in bronze

 

i stared, trying to conceal it

 

she had lines, like mine

a little ink, and some prettier

 

imperfections

 

my green eyes full of rollie smoke

kept exhaling on her

 

seeing a 40 ounce of pain

a six pack of passion

and a fifth gentle sexiness

 

she was shorter in stature

but kissing the night sky in spirit

 

she kindly concealed disinterest

the best she could, which impressed me

not because of it’s (failed) effectiveness

 

because the effort was put forth

 

my city, the bitter-sweet apple, always

wears dark sunglasses and headphones

 

she poised on a cheap wooden chair

pulled clear of an expensive wooden desk

 

projecting her raw-hide persona

on the deep red walls of the small room

 

christmas lights were strung (out?) lazily

through its center while pot stained the air

 

despite my desires i wasn’t

close enough to smell

the beer coloring her breath

 

she spoke with aggressive staccatos

arguing for causes i deemed hopeless

 

or uninteresting

 

i spoke with malcontent

not believing my words

 

subtly and rudely implying

she didn’t understand what we discussed

 

something she easily detected

 

cringing inwardly

i watched her grow to dislike me

 

for a reason i don’t understand

*(A LIE)*

i kept driving our conversation this way

 

even though a filament in my chest

would glow when i saw and heard

 

this woman be a girl*

 

 

*i dump hundreds of dollars of clorox

into the washing machine

at giant laundromat on bedford & north 3rd

 

rotting the fabric of my spirit

desperately thinking my soul

will soon be a colgate smile

 

knowing it will always be

slush in a brooklyn street

 

not long before our argument

this woman was a girl

 

speaking worn velvet to me

about a crush on some boy

 

that from the sound of it

had a bleached soul

or one never soiled

 

i was and am envious

 

this elusive girl usually covered

from head-to-toe in a rawhide persona

 

sometimes with openings

for those eyes and that smile

 

never took it all off for me alone

 

i laid on her bed in dirty skinny jeans

and an undershirt feeling like guilty passion

 

my lanky frame writhing attempting

to relieve discomfort in my back

 

trying to lie myself into forgetting

 

she didn’t want

 

my long fingers in her hair

or my lips on her neck

 

quickly giving up

 

my body kept writhing

on cotton sheets

 

by itself

 

as a sensual woman and pretty girl

covered in rawhide, took it all off

 

from across the room

 

speaking of some boy

with a bleached soul

 

i begrudgingly accepted

unable to forget

 

a poor man’s fortune’s being wasted

at giant laundromat on bedford and north 3rd.*

 

 

 *

-commitment issues-

*by someone committed*

(frankie leone, just a man)

 *

*a friend and i

watch the three compete

on the sidewalk of lorimer street

 -

from my burgundy-ish car

 -

sufficiently aged

scratched

dented

and foreign*

 *

*two polish kids, eighteen or nineteen

one black dude, mid twenties

 -

the kids’ mouths run at full sprints

 -

the black guy’s jogs leisurely

unintimidated, amused

 -

until, “get outta our neighbuhhood nigguh”

 -

trips off the tongue of a pole

as he walks away, still speaking

 -

eyebrows on a coffee-colored face

flex a shocked expression upwards

 -

before a warm smile cuts it in two

 -

he rams his chest

into the courageous mouth’s owner

 -

face to face

his words hustling in earnest

 -

“please do sumthin’ stupe-it

i’m muthuh fuckin’ beggin’ you puhrowgee

please please do sumthin’ stupe-it”

 -

one shooting track star nervously spectates

 -

while the confronted kid loses

all the breath that

drove ground-covering words

 -

and bolts to sanctuary in the corner bar

 -

with his luminous smile the black guy shines

a commentators spot-light on the other competitor

 -

wordlessly observing the lack of heart in this race

 -

the remaining kid drops out with no dignity

walking with anxious speed up the block*

 *

*i share my thoughts

on the concluded sporting event

 -

into rollie smoke my friend’s

hung through the interior of my car

 -

“fucking terrible form

 -

whether it’s to

some guy in the street

or a lover in bed

 -

come correctly or don’t come at all

 -

those dudes have serious commitment issues”

 -

my friend smiles in agreement

while i turn the ignition key

in charitable applause.*

*

 

 

-obsession-

*by someone that’s lost the will to forget*

(frankie leone, just a man)

 

*streetlights

 

desperation for

their interest

and forgiveness*

 

*night skies

 

and answers

they’ve never offered*

 

*filter cigarettes

 

smoked by stunning people

unconcerned with ten dollars a pack

and shortening life spans*

 

*scars

 

how they can be smiled into

or create a loft building phantom

in a hip mask*

 

*sunrises and roses

 

and the beauty

of hopeful hopelessness*

 

*the l(ove) train

 

packed with attractive strangers

shoulder to shoulder

standing alone*

 

*“good” ideas after midnight

 

and desperate acts

that follow them*

 

*the school yard bully

 

finishing the onion’s crossword

comfortable in the flames of an eden

she’s set ablaze

 

a spoiled child

who can’t understand

 

herself*

 

*unrealistic expectations

 

people on pedestals

and the agonizing interstate

to a moment of truth*

 

*eyes

 

light enough to see

deep into a soul*

 

*walking my streets

 

when the sun tires

of brooklyn*

 

*151 kent avenue

 

the promised land

inside walls

bleeding noise*

 

*momma

 

the virgen de guadulupe*

 

*apartment 1**

 

and wearing a broken crown

on a silent throne

in apartment 2** *

 

* ***** ****** *******

 

a mist taking form

with eyes that eclipse my streets*

 

*brooklyn new york

 

the only locale

it’s magical to be lost in*

 

*sex

 

my chrome forty-five

in this gray wilderness

 

or

 

my ornate mask

worn over sincere features*

 

*the coney island bound q(ueen)

 

and tears on a scarred face

behind mirrored shades

awakened by an idea.*

 

 

 

 

valerie’s favorite.

-i meant to call you but i’ve just been and i’m kind of-

*by someone that’s over being over things*

(frankie leone, just a man)

 

*i meant to call you but

 

things are crazy with nights ending alone except for the spinning walls

things are crazy glaring enviously at that couple in mccarren park

things are crazy clock-watching knowing nothing thrilling is at home

things are crazy staring longingly at strangers on the l train

 

i’ve just been

 

so busy keeping everyone at arms length when i actually have time

so busy eating at anna maria’s alone pretending to enjoy solitude

so busy convincing acquaintances i have important things happening

so busy searching missed connections claiming it’s only for entertainment

 

and i’m kind of

 

over hanging with groups of happy people at coney island feeling alone

over searching for newness and excitement when there’s youtube/youporn

over feeling inadequate when there’s remarks to be made about hipsters

over being just another human with desire, fear, obsession and hope

 

i’m sure you can understand.*

 

 

 

 

-mary magdalene might’ve drank black label too-

*by someone that’ll always

feel more for sinners than saints*

(frankie leone, just a man)

 

 

“i’m twenty

but people assume

i’m twenty-five

 

i don’t bother correcting them”

 

she said with a smile

that seemed genuine

 

as waves of sadness swept over me

waves that were clean and foamy

 

but devoid of life

 

i remember

 

our first conversation

she said without shame

 

“i drink and make mistakes”

 

making it clear

these mistakes

were coital

 

hearing it was thrilling

 

like dirty magazines

found by an adolescent boy

in the top shelf of dad’s dresser

 

her obliviousness

and simultaneous

consciousness

 

of her downward spiral was

endearing and heart-wrenching

 

like a smile on a dying child

 

she was attractive

 

but her beauty

and sex appeal

 

were separate

 

her face and figure

were what they were

 

thought-provoking

 

but the morbid beauty i saw

was in her eyes voice and expression

 

she told me how she hustled

a liquor store clerk smiling

 

mischievously

 

i was enthralled

not-to-mention

entertained

 

i smiled

i listened

i twisted inside

 

when one knows that agony

it only entertains to a point

 

then you remember

then you know

then you feel

 

“i got the big bottle of johnny walker”

she said with a 10 karat gold smile.

 

 

 

 

below is a piece by borough of lost boys’

first guest writer.

 

 

a beautiful woman.

 

a beautiful woman

a self-loathing narcissist wronged.

 

a beautiful woman

a self-loathing narcissist wronged

seeing things in him he couldn’t.

 

 

(* substitutions made.

she wasn’t informed of her presence here.)

 

 

Joe Pesci Deserves A Happy Ending

By S***** ******a *********

 

 

I laid with a boy who has the skin of a man,

Who weathered his voice in the darkness

Until it burst into storm.

 

He would swim in the sea of his blankets

And anchor himself to sleep while

I tickled my feet on meadows of

Green grown grass and watched the day break.

 

And during brief moments when our worlds caressed—

Our bodies would pull at one another, at limbs and skin,

Pushing up against the other and breaking, like waves,

Never able to join two minds in different places into one room.

 

We both harbored ourselves from dark places

Where at different times we’d suffered our own exile;

We’d both ripped at ourselves, tore at our own bodies,

Overly aware of our mortality, sucking at it,

Then pushing it away, perhaps ungratefully.

 

The more I laid with a boy who had the skin of a man,

The more the vastness shrank into nonexistence.

 

 

 *

-casual encounters-

*by someone displeased

emotions are hard to fuck away*

(frankie leone, just a man)

*

*experience vomits most strangers give lousy head*

 *

*her eyes won’t leave the horizon

staring safety pins without fasteners

in and out of reason and logic

-

green eyes set in this rough face stare back

blinded comfortably with reckless hope

-

light blue irises in a navy night sky aren’t feeling kind

granting enough vision to see a silhouette of the truth*

 *

*the machine snows my face with an emotionless glow

in frenzied loneliness i search its features

-

i’ll find a blind-fold until dawn

-

it’s unimportant if it’s made

with old money cashmere

blood money razor wire

skin of woman, man, beast, or bird

-

orange light seeps through dirty windows of my loft

-

the same shade as a cigarette cherry in darkness

-

a cigarette cherry burning with utilitarian purpose*

 *

*the wrong bodily fluids are sexier than desperation

-

the desperate, negotiate, compromise, accept

the desperate grope, grasp, gasp in the dark

the desperate resign, surrender, contract fuck its

-

south *** street and ******

second floor apartment

above a laundromat

-

names aren’t exchanged*

 *

*it doesn’t seem unreal, doesn’t feel too real

-

simply now

-

we walk up the staircase

one solid flight to a tepid unknown

-

on the way up

“are you high right now”

trickles from his hopeful lips

-

“no”

-

“you seem so calm

you’re not high”

-

“i’m like this most of the time

i don’t need drugs to throw down a fuck”

-

he doesn’t laugh, he giggles

-

“ok”*

 *

*first kiss

-

reform school girl

italian, rich, big tits

originally from chi-town

-

timidly, in the back

of a twelve person van*

 *

*he persists with formalities

“would you like a drink”

-

“i don’t need it”*

 *

*first kiss

-

27-year-old gay guy

asian, rich, defined body

originally from across the pacific

-

straight hair pulled back unapologetically

he’s pinned against a south side apt. wall*

 *

*he’s fucked plenty of accelerated nights into blood-shot dawns

-

i’m not intimidated just scared for myself

of what, i’m too much of a coward to identify

-

my wounded aggression startles him into speech

-

“you said you’ve never hooked up with a guy before”

-

“no”

-

“really”

-

“yeah”

-

“you’re not high”

-

“please stop asking”

-

“what’re your kinks”

-

“i don’t know, how does this all work

straight people don’t use that term”

-

“you’re making it too complicated”

-

menacing silence

more awkward than a lost hard-on

-

i sucker punch it

-

“i want to fuck you from behind”

-

“i’m not a whore

i don’t do one night stands”

-

i don’t try to understand, just accept

-

this feels like coercing a friend to lend what he can

-

“could you suck me off”

-

a small spill of a smile cuts out of those features into my memory*

 *

*soft a minute or so in

-

“i’m pretty nervous”

-

“i would be too”

-

he stays on his knees

ass shifting onto ankles

-

i decide

“i’m going to leave”

-

“why”

-

“i’m being rudely honest with a stranger

but my cock’s been in your mouth

-

i realize now, too late

i came here to connect with someone

-

that was a ridiculous idea”

-

black eyes focus on my face firmly

the intensity’s almost gentle

before relaxing in resolution

-

“we could go on a date sometime”

-

the night’s events are strung out enough

half-aspirin lies aren’t on my to-do list

-

the subject changes abruptly, i speak

-

“what do you do”

-

“i’m an interior designer

what do you do”

-

“i move apartments and go to college, both full time

in spare moments of agony i do things like this

writing them into creative non-fiction later, part time”

-

expecting a satisfying response

would be expecting a pony from santa

-

his family might be buddhist

-

“you’ve never hooked up with a guy

and you’re not high”

-

irritation distracts me

my voice pisses

on the toilet seat intentionally

-

“no, fucked up right

what’s your name”

-

“alfonso, what’s yours”

-

“frankie”

-

we shake hands, i continue as a human being

-

“sorry for messing up your night alfonso”

-

it doesn’t register this motherfucker’s italian as jet li*

 *

*down one solid flight

into the streets of brooklyn

-

the truth pulls me by the ear

towards my ten speed bicycle

as my pajama pants pocket vibrates

-

the text message reads

“I WNT 2 FNISH MY BLW JB.”*

*

*

-devils handshake-

*by someone who’s heard you can learn

a lot about a man by his handshake*

(frankie leone, just a man)

 *

*the coals surrounding us

branding our graying souls

-

were black and glowing dark

-

while we stumbled side-by-side

through our shrinking hell

-

sometimes aware of each other

-

she’d forgotten our passion

because it’s likely

-

neither of us experienced

this feeling i remember

-

regardless

-

its memory scorches me

worse than the coals fencing us in*

*

*the devil helped

feed the voracious emptiness

that was all we had

-

with anything we’d welcome

into our bodies in powder or liquid form

-

maybe this was intended as

a gesture of perverse mercy

-

but

-

during these failures to fill our voids

i’d look at her unable to forget

the real atrocity floating in my existence

-

my memory of what might’ve never been*

*

*he gave me a moment of near-relief

-

and to this day i don’t understand why

the devil allowed me to steal

a grotesquely beautiful moment

-

during one of many uneventful nights

we composted, guests in his cheap motel room*

*

*his whiskey’d run out hours ago

but his last cigarette called

-

fear was beaten out of me

with everything else

-

without thought i stole

the devil’s last newport

-

lit it while she smiled sleepily

meeting my blank stare with hers

-

i feigned playfulness

blowing smoke onto her face

-

in my only successful attempt

to make nothing mean something

i spoke to her slowly

-

“rome’s been burning for a long time

and my fiddle-strings are long gone

-

but we’re still platinum

even if we can’t dance anymore

-

i’m loving you into all these flames”

-

i’m unsure but i might’ve smiled

before taking a few fast puffs

without inhaling, making the cherry hot

-

and placed the devil’s last cigarette

into the palm of my left hand

-

then

-

he blessed us with his only honest gift

beyond the black coals*

*

*she understood our moment

gripping my hand fiercely

-

in that place with no hope change sun or moon

helping the devil’s last newport burn us

-

it was a mild itch but enough to stir life

-

we stared deep into each other’s shallow eyes

for an eternity within our eternity*

*

*i saw what i wanted*

*

*years have evaporated

from what’s become a life

-

but i often look backwards in desperation

trying to read our eyes in those moments

-

sometimes i think

it was merely our lost humanity flashing

-

but i’m terrified

and comforted

-

i might never remember the truth

-

now, my scarred left hand moves this pen

and i’m surrounded by all these pretty things

-

bathing in morning light wandering through these windows

and i believe i’d burn all of it to know for certain

-

it was love i saw rising from our flames.*

*

 

 

handwritten piece.

requested by maya.

(loyal reader.)

 

 

*

-80 milligrams and aesop rock-

*by someone wandering

in a labyrinth of absent logic*

(frankie leone, just a man)

*

*it was years ago but i remember

-

i remember her

-

looking into those eyes

-

eyes painted on the walls of my skull

-

i can see her with clarity

the present can’t give

-

she knows pain

and a variation on love

-

smiling like she knows better

a wary hope visible in her pupils

-

accentuated by irises a oceanic blue-green

-

i’m one of the reasons suspicion’s there

-

i remember

-

how rooms get smoky and scars whiten

when she walks into pool-halls and bedrooms

looking tough like brick, not aluminum siding*

*

*you’ll see her walk

you’ll see her smoke

-

and after a flawless french inhale

you’ll see her exhale she’s seen her share

-

on these

streets

avenues

and alleyways

-

i look at these eyes in my mind

knowing they’ve pled prayers

to a world they can’t see

as many times as me

-

time’s passed

as it does and will always

-

the seasons cycle impatiently, eternally

and i still remember her

-

this girl with dirty-blonde hair

and ripped pants with sex coming out of the tears*

*

*i wonder

how our romance could’ve been hollywood

how i could’ve been her solution

how she could’ve been mine

-

gazing with acceptance at charcoal skies over brooklyn

i know we’re both doing what we have to to get by

-

under the shadow of our skyline

-

and i know i never loved her

and i know she never loved me

-

but the street-lights shine on these illustrated limbs

they shine on this face of kings county sandpaper

-

and i know we meant something

even if we meant nothing.*

*

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