Monthly Archives: November 2011

our shitty fakes got us into our first club when we were both fifteen at cbgb’s (on 315 bowery between east 1st and 2nd streets) – 26 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)

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-job-

*by someone who pays his own rent*

(frankie leone, just a man)

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*music soaks the walls of this professionally decorated room. it might convince your hips to grind against someone else’s. booths lining this strobe painted space are populated by gorgeous people. (including, but not limited to, legions of unusually tall women and androgynous gay men.) the drinks in their hands, and yours, are free. they’re poured by slender men and women smiling from one side of their faces to the other.

consciousness this is happening for a higher figure in an old man’s bank book might dampen the evening. it won’t improve your night to know everyone’s been coaxed here by a career scenester either. if you’re like most you want to believe this is spontaneous, it’s magic.

i sell that lie. i’m a night club promoter.

if you’re a beautiful stranger i’m kind to you. if you’re a well dressed stranger i’m kind to you. if you’re a beautiful well dressed stranger you might demand the brooklyn and manhattan bridges in snakeskin gift wrap. i’ll ask for a few hours.

have some complimentary drinks and dances in this leather-upholstered booth while the bottle waitresses uproot them. after some shots and drunken feels on my chest or ass maybe you’ll forget that request.*

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*you ask how i do it, or why i do it. my answers vary depending on snap judgments.

if you exude vibrations of having had a good life you’ll hear i fell into it because i can talk to people- i know what they want to hear, have enticed a few with words, and like inspiring moments of joy.

then i illustrate my workplace in a deprecating but flattering light and offer a phone number exchange (if i suspect my bosses will like your aesthetic).

if there’s baggage in your eyes i tell some of my truth.

i’m a hustler. an acidic cocktail of circumstance and choice hasn’t allowed me to develop skills for sustaining functional relationships long term. to cope i’ve become an expert at puddle deep acquaintanceships en masse. they drive me deeper into quagmires of decadence and loneliness.

then i illustrate my workplace in a deprecating but flattering light and offer a phone number exchange (if i suspect my bosses will like your aesthetic).

if you smell like hopelessness i give the rest of my truth.

i need to know love but have given up. i’ve settled for illusion and delusion. you express adoration, insert a tongue passed my teeth in intoxicated frenzy, or insist on leaving with me. i believe it’s me you want- not my plastic image. ignoring plain truth allows me to believe a lie that’ll carry me to tomorrow.

then i illustrate my workplace in a deprecating but flattering light and offer a phone number exchange (if i suspect my bosses will like your aesthetic).*

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*sometimes you show up to party. sometimes you have a good time. sometimes i forget why i do this.*

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you laughed and said, “you may be a wolf but at least you’re up front about it,” at the electric room (on 355 west 16th street and 9th ave). – 26 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)

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-restless night-

*by someone crying out to the same moon as you*

(frankie leone, just a man)

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*momma and i are morning people

-

but the malady of night

permeates my bones

and seduces my spirit

-

heaven probably isn’t in the cards

for a man like me

-

so after midnight you’ll see me

dancing with my devils*

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*a full moon floods gasoline

through my veins

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while your hungry eyes

fill a syringe with fire

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those words floating

passed that confident smile

sound put off by my intentions

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but i suspect otherwise

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feeling your stare

press fantasy tipped rounds

into the magazine of my mind*

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*the streets of our city

are owned by sheep

-

but run by wolves

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so when their flocks slumber

under synthetic blankets of security

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let’s take our turn

with these avenues and alleyways

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and howl towards a nightmare

or dream.*

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you got the check at 67 burger (on 67 lafayette and fulton st) and screwed my brains out. – 26 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)

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-parakeets-

*by someone who takes his coffee with milk and sugar*

(frankie leone, just a man)

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*she’s tough.

after working shifts at two different jobs she has energy to fuck through our voids and the night. despite being a hundred pounds and barely five feet tall she pleads for bedroom brutality. when i get coffee in the morning she reminds me no milk or sugar.

she doesn’t speak much but doesn’t need to- her actions always flex who she is. thinking of her it’s easy to forget she’s from upstate. i believe she’s all new york city.*

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*she makes money.

and spends it.

her boots are always more than a couple hundred. the jackets covering her slim frame are tailored. her make-up and banged black hair reflect fashion mag ads. the tattoos of mermaids and women accentuating her thighs (revealed by short skirts) aren’t bargain pieces.

all this money isn’t wasted- natural beauty aside, when she walks into a room her miniature stature doesn’t stop everyone from suffering whip lash.

when we eat out she picks up the check. as i reach for my wallet her dismissals are brief, polite, and hard as granite. she’s one of the few people, besides myself, who’s ever taken care of me.*

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*winter weather on brooklyn’s waterfront doesn’t forgive kent ave’s residents. the wind bites through skin into the spirit. my loft building doesn’t have heat (in a real way) either. this doesn’t stop her from coming to see me after work for conversation and relief from deviant itches on her soul.

she sits, legs crossed, on the faded plush of my rust colored couch. “get by” by talib kweli spills from a blown out speaker. we talk about her job, my financial despair, and our mutual dysfunctions. two mice fight in my kitchen. it’s too loud to ignore. i must look embarassed.

with graceful nonchalance she remarks, “i’m just going to pretend you have parakeets.”

i smile, kiss her, and we walk up shoddy stairs to my bedroom.*

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*she has work in the morning and doesn’t want to spend the night.

i watch her dress. i love looking at her naked. her ribs are decorated with colorful classical tattoo art and her stomach’s defined- she calls this “ninja abs.”

she puts herself all the way back together, even her hair. i haven’t put any clothes back on. she stares at me without speaking. i don’t realize she’s waiting. it takes me a few moments to get it.

“baby, is it ok if i don’t walk you to the door tonight?”

“that’s a deal breaker for me. i like to fuck, but i’m still a lady,” she answers. steely strength’s detectable in her quiet voice. i get dressed.

when i open the door for her the dead bolt behaves, for once.*

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you confessed a teenage me was your hero at manitobas (on 99 avenue b between east 6th and 7th st) – 26 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)

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-idol worship-

*by someone who won’t follow

ever again*

(frankie leone, just a man)

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*my middle school teacher asks us

to write about our heroes

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so i put down my pen

and put my mind on the rack*

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*bumpy johnson

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ebony thug in an ivory city

turning an insolent eye

into those who tell him his limits

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understanding if you want something

in this bitter sweet apple

you have to take it

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no one calls him a nigger to his face

because of this

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plus they’d like to keep their block

everything they have

and everything they ever will*

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*doc holliday

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friendless and softspoken gentleman

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with a well-tailored coat

and mind full of ideas not fitting

as well in his time and place

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an expert at games of chance

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whether they involve

hands full of cards

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or fists full of pistols

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walking alone

only because he doesn’t know another way*

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*sid vicious

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pretty boy punk rocker

reserved sober

wild animal with intoxicants in him

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extinguishing

only after achieving immortality

behind his sneer and syringe*

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*i jot “bill clinton” and turn in the paper

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it returns marked with a “d+”

under it she’s written

“lacks effort and creative thought.”*

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