Category Archives: misc

i sold out to amazon.com. – 28 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)

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question: why is every short story password protected all of a sudden?

answer: because i’m broke. published them into ten separate collections on amazon.com. they emailed giving five days to take the short stories off boroughoflostboys.com or else.

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question: so i can’t read them free anymore?

answer: no you can’t. *wink wink.* if someone was to send me a facebook message or email asking for the password, giving it to them would be a personal favor to a friend (and not a violation of my contract with amazon).

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question: what’s your facebook url and email address?

answer: http://www.facebook.com/frank.leone78 and frankie@bottleservice.biz.

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question: where and how can i find your ebooks and paperbacks?

answer: amazon.com (their main site and kindle store). search “frankie leone” or “borough of lost boys.” they’ll come up. ten different titles in paperback or ebook. the first in the series of collections is “-self hating egoist-.” find it in ebook here or in paperback when that goes live in a few days.

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question: so you’re selling out with no shame and abandoning guerrilla publishing?

answer: yes. yes i am.

*

dance with your devils,

(frankie leone, just a man)

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you didn’t get upset when i fought with the waiter for not letting me smoke my electronic cigarette at beco (on 45 richardson st. between union and lorimer). – 27 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)

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-a love letter-

*by someone who’s heard,

“even if doesn’t work out, it’s just another way of it working out.”*

(frankie leone, just a man)

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*my dearest love *****…*

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*i told you once that i spent three years of my adolescence in confinement. a few days before my birthday i was sent away. my birthday is in december so it was right before christmas.

the beginning of those three years i spent in a boot camp for juvenile delinquents. it was in the desert in idaho. we didn’t have tents or real food, and had to hike with very heavy backpacks miles and miles a day.

i tried to escape.

while i was lost in the frozen desert (it was winter) with no cold weather gear to speak of, no compass, and no way to find help i wandered. i wandered all day and night. soon, i realized help would not find me. thick fog was everywhere, which is why helicopters couldn’t be used to find me. i gave up on being rescued.

i realized i was going to die. i started to take off my clothes so i wouldn’t freeze to death slowly.

once i’d removed most of my coats and sweaters i laid down on the desert floor. it was in that moment i saw headlights through the fog. it was a rescue jeep.

the people in the jeep were surprised i was alive and took me to a medical compound. they were kind to me, and gave me chocolates and dorritos.

then they sent me back. two more years or reformatories came after that, but i lived. i survived.*

*

 

******, you are the jeep that came through the fog in the frozen desert that was my life.*

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*years did pass. hard years.

i was the youngest in the homes for bad children. making friends was difficult. no one loved me or took care of me besides myself, and i could only do the latter because i hated myself. my family could only see me a handful of times a year.

i had to fight all the time and endure abuses. i never understood why i deserved what was happening to me. every morning i would wake up in my bed at the reformatory and realize i wasn’t home. every night i would pray i would die in my sleep.

eventually, i was selected to go on a trip with the other bad children. it was going to be the first real trip i’d taken in years. it was to bryce canyon. it is the most sublime place on earth.

when the setting sun hit the natural red rock of the canyon it changed my life. i watched it and was able to forget the years of pain and loneliness. i knew i wanted to enjoy it in a way that would make it even more memorable.

at the time i was dating my first girlfriend. her name was ******* *******. she was four years older than me, had just turned eighteen, and was the daughter of an internationally renowned chicago brain surgeon. she wasn’t very smart, but she was pretty and loved me. she said i was sweet and beautiful, and that i made her feel special and loved. she said this was more than enough to forget my age.

i knew how to make the sunset even more moving. i wanted to smoke a marlboro red (my brand too when i smoked) with her, watch the sun set, and kiss.

we did. it was almost the most beautiful moment of my life.*

*

******, you are my marlboro red and sunset, and you turned my poorly insulated loft filled with fellow weirdos into bryce canyon.*

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*someone snitched on us for smoking. we were caught. we were punished. i lost everything, including my upcoming release date.

as one of my consequences they put me in a huge field in the back of the housing units. (the reformatory was in utah.) it was filled with acres of tall tough desert grass.

they stationed a guard and gave me a hand scythe. then they told me to start cutting, and not to stop until sunset. it was noon at the time.

i cut the grass with the scythe for hours. i was refused water. it was a hot summer day. i dehydrated badly and started to hallucinate. still, i kept cutting.

then i had the most beautiful moment of my life. an almost-fifteen-year-old me realized, looking up at the desert sun, that it was all worth it.*

*

******, this morning i realized it was worth it. no matter what happened or is going to happen. you gave me something no one has ever given me before, even if you didn’t know how to do it in a way i could consistently feel it.

you loved me, and i loved you, and i’ve never had that before. for that i will always be grateful.

i love you *****. thank you. i wish you all the best. no matter what i say or how angry and bitter i get i will always love you.*

*

*…your man,

frankie.*

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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.*

*

*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).*

*

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

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you liked my “sick tats” in front of fun city tattoo (on st. marks place between 1st and avenue a) – 26 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)

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-ink-

*by someone who’s read “it’s just flesh”*

(frankie leone, just a man)

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*the screen pokes you into my mind. hollywood villains wear you without apology. street-corner thugs stab you into my consciousness. old photographs of sailors display you with defiant past tense.

this child admires all your cameos in his eye-path. someday he’ll have you.*

*

*you mark a man with a beard and unkempt hair walking towards the convenience store. you tell me he’s been places he shouldn’t have.

you tell me he’ll buy an eleven-year-old a pack of cigarettes. i pull the product of this man’s moral flexibility into my lungs.*

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*you’re spackled through a crowd of teenage punk rockers, aging skinheads, and hopeless squatters. cbgb’s smirks around your bearers. you look dangerous. you look sexy.

i long for you all over my marred skin.*

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*rhythmically, you drill in the kitchen of  a shitty one bedroom apartment. it hurts. i’m silent the entire time. maladjusted youth of a crew whose emblem you drive into me watch.

it’s my first time.*

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*you start defining my upper body. you come onto my chest and stomach, my arms. i swear i’ll never let you onto my hands, neck, or face. eventually you wear me down.

you spread sparrows, guns, swirling cursive, kings, broken bottles, laurel wreathes, gothic lettering, sacred hearts, roses, clocks, straight razors, women, spiderwebs, and clipper-ships across me.

i want you. i need you.*

*

*i get older, rougher.

you get more thoughtful. intricate. detailed.

you gave me a scrapbook. i gave you this flesh for its pages.*

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we defaced some artwork from hand of glory tattoo (on 429 7th ave between 14th st and 15th st) – m4w – 26 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)

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-content-

*by someone trying to not over-aspire*

(frankie leone, just a man)

*

*she lives in the ghetto. church ave. last stop off the g train. her place is down an alley carpeted in cracked concrete and up a flight of narrow stairs.

the two puntable dogs scurrying around the floor irritate me. probably because they lick shoes. i joke about taking them to prospect park to release them into the wild. she doesn’t laugh. i realize the comment wasn’t funny.

an apology’s offered. she assures me she doesn’t care. i relax.

she seems genuine.*

*

*they’re green.

no.

they’re jade. wonderfully large. always sleepy. they move slow. i doubt a hand-grenade could panic them.

her vision’s terrible and she’s out of contacts. the glasses shrink them to marbles. a tragedy.

it’s after eleven pm. her bedroom’s small. i ask her to take them off.*

*

*her teeth are jenky. i like that.

once she told me both her parents got braces in their forties. they felt their children never needed them though.

“they’re adult children,” she’d said quitely.

there’s never detectable anger in her voice.*

*

*touching her hair’s relaxing. it falls below her shoulders and is almost black. bangs like bettie page’s, only thicker, fall into her face.

whenever we finish she brushes it.

she can’t weigh more than ninety-five pounds dripping moist, which she is.*

*

*i’m a sucker for sublime features and she likes it rough.

no.

she likes it brutal.

i give her what she wants.*

*

*a latina mermaid’s freshly tattooed on her outer thigh. a banner reading “brooklyn” flows through the image.*

*

*i always arrive in her.

or on her.

it lands across the new tattoo. “sorry baby girl,” i say breathlessly.

her smile’s listless.

“it’s ok sexy. brooklyn mermaids get pregnant that way though.”*

*

*a black and white photograph leans against her vanity mirror. it’s of a young bob dylan.

a length of light yellow ribbon’s pinned to the ceiling. a deceased rose is tied to it.

the flower dangles stoically. i ask about it. per usual her voice is almost a whisper.

“my ex put it there. i’m too short to get it down. will you?”

“do you really want me to,” i ask, “it’s interesting.”

we saturate in a quick quiet before i proceed, “and one of the only two decorations in this room.”

the conversation doesn’t continue. a scented votive flickers next to the bed. the supermarket-bought candlelight looks good on her.

naked, she takes a drag off an american spirit.*

*

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you and your boyfriend picked me up at sway lounge (on 305 spring st between hudson and greenwhich), this went down – m4w – (williamsburg, borough of lost boys

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-gravenhurst, ontario-

(frankie leone, just a man)

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(I)

j***’s brooklyn love song

*to m******** and frankie*

(male)

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“she doesn’t talk much – *to frankie*

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“ok let’s get started – *to m******** and frankie*

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“the lights need to go off

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“you have a nice cock – *to frankie*

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“can you deep throat him m********

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“that tastes like maddy alright – *after kissing frankie*

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“no. i’m enjoying this – *response to ‘aren’t you going to take of your clothes’ – (frankie)*

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“keep your eyes closed m********

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“you’re so beautiful m********

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“say ‘fuck’ m********

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“does that feel good m********

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“like this – *response to ‘how do you fuck her’ – (frankie)*

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“bite my hand every time it feels good m********

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“say ‘fuck’ every time you go all the way down on his dick m********

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“i wasn’t hard a lot of the time i just loved watching

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“ok let’s get started – *starting second time*

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“how’s his cock feel m********

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“say ‘more’ every time he goes deep in you m********

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“she likes it on her back – *to frankie*

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“do you want your legs on his shoulders m********

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“tell him to fuck you m********

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“you’re doing good – *mouthed to frankie*

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“say ‘fuck me’ m********, say it

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“can i touch your cock – *to frankie*

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“i’m not gay – *to m*********

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“fine i do – *in response to ‘yes you do [want dick]‘ – (frankie)*

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“don’t write about this, i’d look like a creepy scum bag watching someone fuck his girl – *to frankie*

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“you look sad” – *to frankie*

*

(II)

m********’s brooklyn love song

*to j*** and frankie*

(female)

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“i feel like i’ve known you for a long time – *to frankie*

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“what did you guys talk about while i was in the bathroom

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“i have a feeling a plan was made without me

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“this isn’t organic

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“i guess we actually have to pay rent

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“well it isn’t organic but it is on my list of things to experience” – *response to ‘do you want this’ – (frankie)*

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“in this environment i don’t mind it – *response to ‘do you like it when i touch you’ – (frankie)*

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“yes *response to ‘do you like who i am’ – (frankie)*

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“i’m not much of a talker – *response to ‘what would you like me to do’ – (frankie)*

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“i like it when you talk j***

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“what should we do j***

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“fuck me – *response to ‘tell him to fuck you m********, say it’ – (j***)*

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“it feels good

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“more more more more…

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“fuck fuck fuck fuck…

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“that hurts

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“slower softer

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“a little – *response to ‘are you sore’ – (frankie)*

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“it’s ok – *response to ‘i might not come’ – (frankie)*

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“it’d make me feel better if you did – *as j***considered blowing frankie*

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“will you write about this – *to frankie*

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“you mean in farmhouses – *response to ‘in canada do you guys fuck a lot of tattooed brooklyn writers in loft buildings’ – (frankie)*

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“this isn’t me but i’m glad i got to experience it”

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“thanks much for letting us stay at your place frankie.

*

(III)

frankie’s brooklyn love song

*to j*** and m*********

(male)

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“say something m********

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“that’s because we’re the same person – *response to ‘i feel like i’ve known you a long time’ – (m********)*

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“am i on – *response to ‘ok let’s get started’ – (j***)*

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“you’re right, i’m covered in pesticides – *response to ‘this isn’t organic’ – (m********)*

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“do you want this – *to m*********

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“do you like it when i touch you – *to m*********

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“do you like who i am – *to m*********

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“it’s been a while since i’ve been spectated

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“it’s cool if this is your thing, you’re not the only one with this kink – *to j****

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“what would you like me to do – *to m*********

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“what would you like us to do – *to j****

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“thanks my parents gave it to me – *response to ‘you have a nice cock’  - (j***)*

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“i’m having trouble staying hard, this is awkward

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“she’s incredible, her mouth’s tight

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“does this feel good – *to m*********

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“taste her – *to j****

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“look into my eyes – *to m*********

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“you’re gorgeous – *to m*********

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“would you like me to stop

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“how do you fuck her – *to j****

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“are you sore – *to m*********

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“i might not come – *to m*********

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“i don’t have any more condoms – *response to ‘can you go a third time’ – (j***)*

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“people usually have to pay for this kind of show – *to j****

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“we saved j*** money on a porn site subscription – *to m*********

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“suck my dick, nothing in life’s free – *to j****.

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“yes you do – *response to ‘i don’t want dick’ – (j***)*

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“i’ve been writing about painful experiences lately – *response to ‘will you write about this’ – (m********)*

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“we’re one big weird dysfunctional family

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“in canada do you guys fuck a lot of tattooed brooklyn writers in loft buildings

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“i’m not this ugly, sorry i didn’t show you something beautiful  - *to m******** – (j*** in bathroom)*

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“i’m just reflecting.” – *response to ‘you look so sad’ – (j***)*

*


at yoga to the people (on 12 saint marks place and 3rd ave) you told me a secret, i almost felt beautiful – m4w – 26 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)

 

 

it sounded like a toy rabbit.

 


*”the skin horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. he was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. he was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. for nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the skin horse understand all about it.

‘what is real?’ asked the rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before nana came to tidy the room. ‘does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?’

‘real isn’t how you are made,’ said the skin horse. ‘it’s a thing that happens to you. when a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become real.’

‘does it hurt?’ asked the rabbit.

‘sometimes,’ said the skin horse, for he was always truthful. ‘when you are real you don’t mind being hurt.’

‘does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?’

‘it doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the skin horse. ‘you become. it takes a long time. that’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. generally, by the time you are real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. but these things don’t matter at all, because once you are real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.’

‘i suppose you are real?’ said the rabbit. and then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the skin horse might be sensitive.

but the skin horse only smiled.”*

 


thank you aja.

 

 


at pies ‘n’ thighs (on 166 s 4th st and driggs ave) you alliteratively described my motivation for writing as “predictably pretentious” – m4w – 26 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)

 *

-liar-

*by an artist*

(frankie leone, just a man)

*

*i’m a liar. my nature dictates the untrue. during developmental years deceit was my paint. believers were my canvases.

utilizing fiction as my medium i claimed to be an artist.

i brushed a mirage of myself that fucked deep, inspiring stolen moans and gasps. hollow ideas illustrated money into my pants pockets. numbing powders and liquids drove the process.*

*

*taking notes on my work, determined to be heard, was a reserved critic; truth.

on desolate streets it analyzed the world i’d created through my eyes. critical tears whispered down my face. unheard, truth shared the only meaning with me- there was none.

the lies didn’t stop. my fallacy-based painting career continued. truth’s review did too. it grew louder. whispered tears turned to friends turning their backs in a speaking voice. near the critique’s end my family recognized hopelessness in a scream.

the lies were sloppy. my work was gaudy, forced, and tasteless. the ugliness of my muddy lies moved truth.

the time for words ended. my critic panned me publicly with a haymaker. thick dishonesty painted over my features cracked.*

*

*this crack sounded like lost freedom. it sounded like a sky watched through the tiny window of shatter-proof glass in an eight by eight room. my brush, still wet with lies, flew from a limp grip.

it sounded like a truth. this review brought me to my knees.*

*

*in recent years new paint’s drying over a better life. still, truth’s tearful commentary whispers my new coats of lies are mediocre.

my most objective critic’s changed with its subject. its found a clearer voice. these long fingers.

truth’s vocal chords vibrates pens across pages and characters onto screens. respect for truth’s criticism has replaced fear. the words make the lies feel exhausting. they make the starving artist cliché seem less romantic. i’m starting to consider a real job.

this is why you’re reading these words.*

*


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