Her Two Cents
Frankie Leone has been throwing his words around on the Manhattan and Brooklyn Missed Connections for a few years now. There’s not much middle ground to be found in his Borough of Lost Boys: people either lovingly embrace every message (check out his Facebook page) or immediately flag his posts for removal. If you’re looking to revisit some of his better-known stories from auld-lang-syne, you can now download them for free on Amazon.
Thought About You Every Ride (Coney Island Bound Q)
Missed Connections in Manhattan
Subway Station Coney Island by Luna Park NYC
*by someone strung out on an idea*
(frankie leone, just a man)
*the sandstorm tears
through the hour glass
when he sugar-walks onto
the coney island bound q(ueen)
her car keeps the prisoner
half an hour most days
dripping molten candle-wax on him
the entire trip without fail*
*the journey to home-made purgatory}
is simple enough
feet forced onto the floor
friendly bantering, music playing
prayers to a rising sun
visible through a dirty window
unwashed skinny jeans onto chicken legs
battered wing-tips onto tattooed feet
slinking onto the street
walking slowly, always slowly
dancing alone waiting for the l(ove)
the delfonics making unrealistic promises
finding the most beautiful person in the car
intermittently looking at them
through tortoise-shell wayfarers
the l(ove)
approaches 14th street
and he gets off *
*she’s coming, he embraces it
with every fiber of his humanity
the q(ueen) smiles brightly
through the darkness
slows and stops
a depressurizing sound
permeates the air
the doors open and with
loosely-gripped six-shooters
he steps in yet again
to the final scene of
butch cassidy and the sundance kid
there are other options
it’s unnecessary
but it’s beautiful being sick
sick on her
the thera-flu
the vaccine
the chicken soup from a dear friend
the fully-insured visit to the doctor
all on the streets and avenues
at tips of long skinny fingers
but the blue light of a memory
a memory of eyes unmeetable
scorch both retinas
he’s completely blind
as she softly speaks
and answers her
with thoughts
that warp the world
thoughts that
take the cork
off the ice-pick
take the made-in-china sheath
off the canal-street sword
open the top drawer and light
the old zippo needing silver polish
spill the shelved box from last halloween
revealing a broken plastic crown
and carefully weave them all into him
within the walls of ribs
that’ve taken a few blows
while he sits across from a stranger
who’s rightfully unconcerned
of course, oblivious
the tears on his scarred face
disguised by shades
that sometimes mask guilty stares
directed at beautiful strangers*
*the q(ueen) proceeds
her scepter unfaultering
towards coney island
he sits in her car, sick
marinating in a warm jacuzzi
filled with hopelessness
and his i-pod
goes dead.*
