Lovelorn Poet in Brooklyn, NY: Music.

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconHer Two Cents
Despite my love of all things summer, I’ve grown fatigued with the never-ending stickiness of sweaty skin and hair.  My inner being rallies against dulled and lethargic senses in a battle of active-passive-aggression. Every single movement, thought, and expression is gooey and slow-coming and I grow frustrated with my mental dullness. The mosquito bites on my legs itch and my wrists and forearms tire of mouse-n-keyboard work. I’m not usually one to complain, but today it was all sad violins and unhappy faces. I went to the missed connections in search of the word RELIEF and Frankie Leone’s strong, energizing piece about Brooklyn appeared. Combined with a little old-school Mos Def it’s like a tall, cold glass of lemonade. Just what I needed to turn this day around as night approaches…


Music. (Brooklyn, New York)
Missed Connections from Brooklyn

*these streets
my streets of brooklyn
don’t tune their instruments
wait for a maestro
or perform the same tune twice
they play this symphony effortlessly
strings start the morning with a sunrise
bringing to life first
the chords of east new york
bowing forward to bushwick’s strings
and lastly north williamsburg’s
awakening dirty windows of a loft
of an old warehouse building
filling the tiny bedroom of a lost boy
a lost boy whose tried to
find himself in the most irrational places
finally finding what he’s chased
to catastrophic ends
hearing himself in cursive
as rays vibrate his pen
he feels relief as a duo joins him
the single mother in sheepshead bay
doing what she can to make ends meet
melodically sighing a deep sadness
thinking of her child’s father
gripping a bottle of malt liquor
near the bowery mission
aided by the park slope bar owner
a tired expression his pick
playing knowing his bar’s strings will
be cut soon by a lawyer in a cubicle
stamping forms without emotion
all three remind the audience
wearing bow-ties and evening gowns
what’s important
or maybe what isn’t
until the section’s soloist begins
the puerto-rican boy
instilling hope with sounds of his foot-steps
walking to school through sunset park
thinking of how amazing the girl sitting
in front of him looked in those jeans yesterday
the solo ends
as his teacher begins attendance
and he tries not to stare too hard
the percussion comes in right on time
opening with the construction worker
passionately playing his jackhammer
in a gentrifying neighborhood
smashing in progress and higher rents
abruptly balanced by the hustler that does
what he has to on the block in brownsville
sickly and sadly justified
because even new jacks know
only one person can eat off a corner
hollow tipped notes
from the barrel of his drum
aren’t making threats
just delivering the only promises
brooklyn makes those that play the game
all-the-while the steady beat of trucks
stopping and going on flatbush avenue
in and out of bushwick warehouses
up and down the brooklyn queens expressway
hold the section together
the winds itch to be heard, coming to life
with the russian woman in brighton beach
breathing instrumental words to
her daughter in a realistic tempo
“america’s beautiful and can bring your dreams
be like these americans, but never hold their belief
the world will conspire to take care of you”
her sound’s accentuated
by the hasidic man’s steps
hitting notes of confident purpose
through south williamsburg
keying deliberately away from hateful outsiders
they are only men, their judgements meaningless
a final pair of musicians bring the crescendo
the teenager in bedstuy getting a cut
laughing rich notes in tune with his barber
who plays a joking melody
about being angry with o.j.
that fool’s kept out of the news too long
all three sections
strings
percussion
winds
synchronized perfectly
the audience feeling
life
struggle
beauty
hardness
love
resentment
and hope
but all good things end
the italian head usher from
the small remaining italian community
in bensonhurst
smiles in approval from the aisle
wearing a perfectly tailored suit
holding a rocks glass of chivas regal
and fading the sun
with a casual turn of the knob
quieting the music until tomorrow
as a lost boy prepares the cap for his instrument
you’ve just heard this symphony
you’ve just heard these streets
my streets of brooklyn
you’ve just heard
a lost boy’s humble contribution
to the kings county orchestra.*

*

27 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)

*

-kings county orchestra-

*by someone planning to keep his seat
until it’s time to cross over*

(frankie leone, just a man)

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