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.

Wait

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

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 cason 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 Edward's family became available and we were seated directly behind Steven Spielberg and Kate Capshaw, a few rows ahead of Brandy and Quentin Tarantino. Across the isle sat Pierce Brosnan, who my wife couldn't stop gawking at until Leonardo DiCaprio showed up and I found myself gawking, too.

Hillary owned the first half, espousing on healthcare and really coming off strong. Obama seemed tenative, but gentlemanly. I recall Wolf Blitzer asking him if Hillary would be on his short-list for potential V.P. candidates and Obama said coolly that Hillary would be on any one's short-list. I recall Wolf saying that would be a dream ticket and while the crowd sent forth its approval, Stevie Wonder got out of his chair and jumped up and down.

In the second half, the question on Iraq came up and this eloquent man put words to the feelings in my heart that I could not. He reminded of the time when I saw Eric Clapton play at Madison Square Garden. I remember saying something to the effect of he's no God just when he hit a note that sent a shock up my spine and caused me to spill my beer all over my lap. I was transported far beyond the earthly boundaries I've come to know. Barack Obama caused the same reaction and when the debate was over, my mind was made up.

We went across the street to the after party at the Roosevelt Hotel. I had been there a few years before on a random weekday in October and there was only a handful of people by the poolside bar. I imagined what the place must have been like in the days of Gable and Grant. Now I knew. The patio was swarming with people and Topher Grace and Fran Drescher bumped into me while Tobin, Jess and I ordered mixed drinks of Grey Goose and Red Bull. There were passed hors d'oeuvres, but in true L.A. fashion no one ate them.

Toward the end of the event I made a bet with Jess that Obama would win the election. There was no doubt in my mind even though the early returns showed Hillary had won the debate and held a comfortable lead in the polls, but I felt it in my bones, just like I felt the Giants were going to upset the Patriots in Sunday's Super Bowl.

Once the bartenders made last call, Tobin and I ordered a final round and I declared that I was going to dive in the pool. Then I realized the D.J. was playing Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow and I went over to him and said, "Yo, man, you've gotta play an Obama song -- this is a Clinton song!" The D.J. looked at me and said, "What's an Obama song?" I thought for a second and said, "Changes by David Bowie." He switched the record immediately and I slid out of my shoes and handed my blazer to Tobin. I got some good amplitude off the brick patio before plunging below the CNN balloons and out the other side where security was gathering around holding their ear-pieces and pistols and motioning for me to get out of the pool. They thought I was some jackass, but the dive was premeditated upon arrival and fueled by memories of Kauai.

In fact after I made my bet with Jess, I told Dave Chappelle's publicist that I would jump in the pool if Dave Chappelle told me to. I offered to plunge into the big CNN balloon with a butter knife and slide down into the water as an homage to Errol Flynn in The Sea Hawk. She asked me to hold the thought while she checked with Dave. She came back and said, "Dave Chappelle can't officially tell you to jump in the pool, but he did tell me, off the record, he wouldn't mind seeing it happen."

The water was warm and because it was Hollywood, I hammed it up for the crowd with a leisurely backstroke before climbing out of the pool. The lead security guard realized I was no threat and in an unspoken nod he let me address the crowd, so I threw my arms in the air as high I could in a soaked dress shirt and shouted "Obama" in a scratchy voice before being led out to the parking lot.

My wife said she had her back turned when she heard the splash, but knew instinctively that it was me and was able to track me down by my soggy footprints. When she saw me in the parking lot, she belted out, "There's my shame!".

I had asked the guards for towels and they said there weren't any available. I found that odd as we were standing by a pool outside a hotel. Then I dropped the name of the party's host and was instantly given a stack of plush towels. Ah, L.A. Tobin appeared shortly thereafter with my shoes and blazer and we all piled in a cab that was waiting for us with its heat cranked up.

The next morning we went for brunch at Barney's Beanery and there was a valley girl at the table behind us recounting a fabulous party she had been to at the Roosevelt the night before. I was ready to cringe at the mention of someone going in the pool, but luckily it didn't come up.

Jackie and I returned home late Saturday and, of course, the very next day the Giants pulled off the impossible by beating the Patriots. When the last second ticked off the clock, I ran out on 14th Street in Brooklyn and took off my shirt as if I was still in Hawaii running into the surf at Kaanapali before kissing the ground. Much like Obama, I bet heavy on the Giants, too.