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Showing posts from 2009

BanJO

I want to be the sand between your toes,
the place where nobody goes,
the fragrant aroma in your nose,
your silky hair tied up in bows,

I want to see the smile in your eyes,
be free of goodbyes,
smooth the lotion on your thighs
and shop for bikinis in your size,

I want to be near when the sun goes down and hold you like the straps on your gown before the evening parade around town, as close as I can and not drown,

I want to see the sunrise light your hair, caress your navel to shoulders bare, traipse along your neck with utmost care
and abandon paradise as I'm already there.




Dupont Circle

To begin with nothing
At a quarter-turn the sun shines
The world is filled with promise
to shout so loud the Capitol shakes
and Wall Street trembles as the French sigh
and open another bottle of wine
Haunted by the threat of your every curve
Knowing you're the one God has put on this earth
Half-turn and the melancholy grabs me like a bouncer
Why this ending must be so sad
Why I'm tortured by the things you said to me in a cab
God's great painting springs to life
Joggers take a bench to let their circumlocution run
I am mute
My hands are tied/she got me with/nothing to win ...
Heart bursts again like the finale of Moulin Rouge
And I end as I began with nothing to lose
But this burning desire to be with you
Now and til the end of time.





Too Much, Not Enough

Too much time deadening the senses
Too much time patching up old fences
Too much time thinking up sentences

Too much time chasing skirts
Too much time teasing flirts
Too much loneliness always hurts

Too much time not knowing
Too much time not growing
Too much prick, not sewing

Not enough pain from playing
Not enough faith in what I'm saying
Not enough thank you love for staying.

Other poems: ConfidenceHauntedHawaiian Surf Princess

Exhausted

Like the noxious fumes from a tailpipe
Soft and brown as a banana that has gone ripe
Piled high as a butcher's bin of beef tripe

Exhausted

As in James Brown's sole (not soul)
As in tenth frame at the Melville Bowl
As in where lies the remote control?

Exhausted

The tipping point where the lung inhales
The easterly breeze puffing out the sails
The veterans who are tough as nails
A sense of humor like Christian Bale's

Exhausted

The river before the rain
The tooth after the pain
The friend who went insane
The life inside the brain

Exhausted

The sun as it rises
The hemline as it rises
The toast as it rises
The buttery world with no surprises

Exhausted.



Everest

Everlast. Ever past my wildest expectations and concept of nausea, with dimples as cavernous as canyons in fresh gelato park side refreshment a testament to the def chef sublime blonde on a Sunday afternoon caisson where a dark white-spot mare won the Preakness with a mouth full of Cheerios and sweetness of a woman who knows how to strain moonshine with pantyhose.


My Obama Story

Fitting that it begins in Hawaii where my wife and I spent our honeymoon island hopping, slurping pineapples thousands of miles away from the hustle and bustle of New York City in a land where whales run and the day is driven by the sun.

After two healthy weeks, we took the red-eye from Kauai to L.A. where our friend Amber picked us up and drove us to her beautiful home where we were able to sleep in her guest room. We woke up and had a casual breakfast with her husband Jess and our mutual friends Allison and Tobin before going to the California Democratic Presidential Debate where Amber's father, the producer of the event, was able to get us past the security and the Hollywood Boulevard shouts of Go Tell Ya Mama/Vote For Obama. Tobin and Allison had made up their mind for Obama, but it was still early -- Hillary was out in front and John Edwards had just dropped out due to his extramarital affair with his hundred-dollar haircut.

Lucky for us the row of seats reserved for the Edwa…

Shea Stadium: Twist And Shout

As the Mets look to open their new season in a new park, I look back on the old one.

Shea Stadium was home to many memories for many people including my very first game, a 4-0 loss to the Astros behind a complete game from Nolan Ryan. I went to the game with my father, my best friend and his father. Our memories of the game are hazy, but the disappointment of the loss lingers and in many ways brings us together as Mets fans. The game was played on Tuesday, Aug. 31, 1982 and I was eight-years-old.

Some 26 years later I would see my last game at Shea. Fittingly, it was a 9-5 loss against the Cubs. David Wright homered for the 33rd time that season and Kerry Wood recorded his 33rd save.

While I feel like I sat in every section of the park, my first game's seat was at field level behind first base and my last game's seat was a bench in the picnic area.

The tearing down of the old to make way for the new is nothing unusual for baseball. This year the famous House That Ruth Built

Greater Than

To be the vacant beach sand between your toes and the salty wind caressing your taught cheeks and wind-blown sea-shell hair as the sun beats down on each pebble of sand lost in your bikini line in syncopation with your blood gushing through circulation in the never ending wonder of peachy paradise as wave after wave licks your brave shins like the gentle nuzzle of a loyal dog content as you are to dare the surf with nothing wasted on your frame and eternity wrapping its horizon around your waist as you feel tight in your own skin in the precise moment of absolute wonder and awe assured the chorus of splashing salt will sing your praise in every note hit right in your unconscious laughter free from all that confines you to bravely face life as you are and always will be, a beautiful memory.