Frankie and Johnny

Frankie and Johnny were sweethearts.

Frankie was a flower child who walked with a swinging gait in well-worn Earth Shoes, her unrestricted breasts left to sway to and fro with the tidal rhythm of a Moon Goddess as she searched for inner peace. She meditated daily, snorting Lucky Charms and the powdered wings of pre-migratory butterflies.

Johnny made a living stealing cars parked on poorly lit back streets, surreptitiously enticing current through the wires of venomous ignition switches, like a West Virginia preacher cajoles the Evil out of poisonous serpents.

Frankie was a vegan who drank only spring water and browsed on the leaves of freshly picked Romaine lettuce while delicately nibbling organic almonds for sustenance.

Johnny lived for months at a time on Jack Daniels, raw meat and deviled eggs.

Their dichotomous relationship was the Ying and the Yang of positive-negative polar opposition, but when they mounted Johnny’s bike their souls merged to work in perfect synchronicity.

Communicating through subtle, unspoken signals Johnny would twist the wick as Frankie threw back her head, finding the perfect symmetrical equilibrium to ride the rear wheel of Johnny’s Knucklehead through the barren, concrete streets of Bakersfield.