It’s me and Franco Franco and we’re laugh rattling in the back of chemistry class like a pair of rotten tomatoes, like two tennis shoes tied together, like telephone cord curled in on itself, like the horizontal red white and green the other boys see when we punch their socks out.
It’s me and Franco Franco and we’re crammed in his sick-ass yellow mustang, our eyes watering, our cocks growing like hot commas against our jeans as we look at all the boom-boom babies at the burger joint, all the Mary Maries, and the Angelinas, and the Monicas with their pasta nest hair and their Our Father asses, and their spaghetti strap tops.
And it’s me and Franco Franco on his Ma’s white-white couch and he’s such a cugine the way he rolls up his track pants, the way he says a Hail Mary faster than anyone, the way he’s always got another Fuck Your Mother inside him, the way he’s knee deep in the tomato pie in the middle of the night, the way he combs his hair with a knife.
It’s me and Franco Franco and we’re army crawling past midnight under his mother’s lace table cloth, breaking her crystal water glasses with our pelvic movements, we’re just trying to get out, get into something, get on top of something and we’re shaking the table the one with all the other Francos on it, their portraits: wide-eyed Nona Franco and loosey goosey Jimmy Franco, and wing tipped Geno Franco, and baby Francesca Franco who grew up a straight-up beauty bomb. The Franco chins, all moving, all wagging, all watching—they’re gonna rat on us, rat us out, we are rats Franco Franco and I—we moved so slow, I swear, I swear, we saw the holy ghost.