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.
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.
 |
| Dupont Circle, Washington DC |
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.
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:
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.
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 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 me 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.
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 will move in the shadow of its predecessor and that of the Polo Grounds and the kids will line up outside McDonald's not far from where Jackie Robinson made history in Brooklyn, but the memories will some how remain enshrined in the hearts of millions of fans, some broken, some hopeful, some ready to love again.
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.
 |
| Audrey Prater |
Bukowski Would Kick My Ass
Or so he would think ... I heard his voice through a degenerate video-poker drunk who was knocking back Black Russians while the bartender snuck breadsticks on a butter pat, "I've never seen anyone eat chicken wings with a knife and fork," he said as he whispered "f--kin yuppie" under his breath and rather than point out that I was eating boneless tenders smothered in hydrochloric acid, I snarled at the decrepit, toothless son-of-a-bitch and said, "If you live long enough, you'll see a lot of things."
He left.
Bukowski would have taken a swing. And, after he was bloodied, he'd go home and call his woman a c--t.
He left.
Bukowski would have taken a swing. And, after he was bloodied, he'd go home and call his woman a c--t.
Alan Fishman Fleeced WAMU for $7.5 Million
As the dust continues to settle around the annihilation of Washington Mutual by Jamie Dimon's JPMorgan Chase, common stockholders of WAMU should be readying the pitchforks and torches and hunting down the directors who so shamelessly abandoned the company in a week of a panic leading up to the congressional rescue vote. A good place to start the effigy is with replacement CEO, Alan Fishman, who stands to make $7.5 million in a signing bonus for two and half weeks worth of "work."
Fishman, who seems more interested in not spilling martinis on his evening wear than mulling through stacks of 8-Ks and 10-Qs, may have orchestrated this so-called run on the bank by phoning Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson and blowing the whistle to facilitate a fire sale of the nation's largest thrift. In my opinion, he should be sued and shamed far worse than Martha Stewart was for her ImClone dealings.
While Washington Mutual's loan portfolio stunk worse than a wino smeared in his own feces, its physical market share and deposit base had value, so much so that it was speculated Jamie Dimon was willing to bid $7.50 per share, that is until he found out he could screw the common shareholder completely.
As congress bickered over the bailout, executives of Washington Mutual watched their offers dry up as Jim Cramer stumped irresponsibly on CNBC's Mad Money about a run on its bank, but where was the evidence? I didn't see any lines at the branches strewn about the Tri-State area, nor did I hear any mention of it from Governor Swarzenegger when he delivered his moratorium on the state of California's economy, where WAMU was most exposed.
How could a bank, governed by the Office of Thrift Supervision, disclose that it was well capitalized and at the height of its provisioning for loan losses a month ago be marauded overnight?
The whole thing reeks more than the unfettered sub-prime lending WAMU proliferated during the deregulated Bush administration. Not to mention that scoundrel Kerry Killinger who should be thrown in jail for defrauding the public and stealing more loot from shareholders than those convicted for Enron's malfeasance.
Reports are that Alan Fishman won't be seeking severance that JPMorgan Chase has agreed to pay WAMU's employees, but then again I'm not sure how much he'd be entitled to for two and half weeks anyway.
Fishman, who seems more interested in not spilling martinis on his evening wear than mulling through stacks of 8-Ks and 10-Qs, may have orchestrated this so-called run on the bank by phoning Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson and blowing the whistle to facilitate a fire sale of the nation's largest thrift. In my opinion, he should be sued and shamed far worse than Martha Stewart was for her ImClone dealings.
While Washington Mutual's loan portfolio stunk worse than a wino smeared in his own feces, its physical market share and deposit base had value, so much so that it was speculated Jamie Dimon was willing to bid $7.50 per share, that is until he found out he could screw the common shareholder completely.
As congress bickered over the bailout, executives of Washington Mutual watched their offers dry up as Jim Cramer stumped irresponsibly on CNBC's Mad Money about a run on its bank, but where was the evidence? I didn't see any lines at the branches strewn about the Tri-State area, nor did I hear any mention of it from Governor Swarzenegger when he delivered his moratorium on the state of California's economy, where WAMU was most exposed.
How could a bank, governed by the Office of Thrift Supervision, disclose that it was well capitalized and at the height of its provisioning for loan losses a month ago be marauded overnight?
The whole thing reeks more than the unfettered sub-prime lending WAMU proliferated during the deregulated Bush administration. Not to mention that scoundrel Kerry Killinger who should be thrown in jail for defrauding the public and stealing more loot from shareholders than those convicted for Enron's malfeasance.
Reports are that Alan Fishman won't be seeking severance that JPMorgan Chase has agreed to pay WAMU's employees, but then again I'm not sure how much he'd be entitled to for two and half weeks anyway.
Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001
My lungs burn with the ashes of the desperate,
The last gasp stretches across the river and into Brooklyn,
From the roof, the triumphant towers' boastful predecessor,
Green on St. Patrick's Day, purple for Gay Pride,
Red, white and blue on the Fourth of July ... Now black,
The Empire State in mourning,
The wondrous skyline, majestic, awe inspiring,
Raped while I watched helplessly,
Now thousands of people all looking to help
Thousands of people who can no longer be helped,
New York, New York, the city so nice
They built the tallest building twice,
A master plan destroyed by a mastermind,
Newly fueled jets, United, American,
Strike the heart of money and American defense,
Allies of Israel, enemies of bin Laden and the Islamic zealot,
Thousands of refugees on the Manhattan Bridge,
I stopped and stared, the Mona Lisa lost her nose,
The masterpiece wrecked, the smoldering tragedy, unequivocal,
A ferocious bite taken from the Big Apple,
The restoration and mourning will loom larger than the structures,
A beleaguered mayor, a confident president, an undetermined
Enemy and the continuing threat of more media coverage,
To witness Babylon's fall to the sea,
To witness the long line at the blood bank,
To witness girls eating ice cream on Ave. A,
New York, New York, on a clear summer day,
September 11, a state of emergency,
The dream has not died bin Laden, your mark, the latest on this town,
But you underestimate me and those by my side.
The last gasp stretches across the river and into Brooklyn,
From the roof, the triumphant towers' boastful predecessor,
Green on St. Patrick's Day, purple for Gay Pride,
Red, white and blue on the Fourth of July ... Now black,
The Empire State in mourning,
The wondrous skyline, majestic, awe inspiring,
Raped while I watched helplessly,
Now thousands of people all looking to help
Thousands of people who can no longer be helped,
New York, New York, the city so nice
They built the tallest building twice,
A master plan destroyed by a mastermind,
Newly fueled jets, United, American,
Strike the heart of money and American defense,
Allies of Israel, enemies of bin Laden and the Islamic zealot,
Thousands of refugees on the Manhattan Bridge,
I stopped and stared, the Mona Lisa lost her nose,
The masterpiece wrecked, the smoldering tragedy, unequivocal,
A ferocious bite taken from the Big Apple,
The restoration and mourning will loom larger than the structures,
A beleaguered mayor, a confident president, an undetermined
Enemy and the continuing threat of more media coverage,
To witness Babylon's fall to the sea,
To witness the long line at the blood bank,
To witness girls eating ice cream on Ave. A,
New York, New York, on a clear summer day,
September 11, a state of emergency,
The dream has not died bin Laden, your mark, the latest on this town,
But you underestimate me and those by my side.
Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail 2008
In the spirit of our great departed Doctor of Divinity, the founder of Gonzo, I fear Sarah Palin because she is sexy and can herd sheep that bah she sounds like my sister when we talk on the phone.
You knew McCain wasn't going to go out with the weakling Lieberman or the buffoonish Giuliani -- no, McCain can only be slew like the 18-0 Patriots. If you recall your Scorsese, to kill a king, you must do it in open court
Bill Clinton is prescient, Obama is on the right side of history and like Eli Manning he will have to orchestrate a fourth quarter drive, complete a miracle, and throw a perfect spiral before he and Michelle can move into the White house.
And then, four years from now, when John S. McCain is shelved by the GOP like Bob Dole, Palin can run with her VP, another staunch example of family values, Mr. Tom Brady.
You knew McCain wasn't going to go out with the weakling Lieberman or the buffoonish Giuliani -- no, McCain can only be slew like the 18-0 Patriots. If you recall your Scorsese, to kill a king, you must do it in open court
Bill Clinton is prescient, Obama is on the right side of history and like Eli Manning he will have to orchestrate a fourth quarter drive, complete a miracle, and throw a perfect spiral before he and Michelle can move into the White house.
And then, four years from now, when John S. McCain is shelved by the GOP like Bob Dole, Palin can run with her VP, another staunch example of family values, Mr. Tom Brady.
I Hate Valentine's Day Films in Brooklyn
For two weeks this summer our neighborhood was transformed into a movie set once again as Nia Vardalos and John Corbett of My Big Fat Greek Wedding were seen daily on Prospect Park West shooting scenes for their upcoming movie, I Hate Valentine's Day. 
Production began at Terrace Bagels, a neighborhood standby that stayed open to the public so that I was able to get my morning coffee with the minor inconvenience of having to step over a power cord. The next day, however, after picking up my dry cleaning, I nearly tripped over a boom when Nia came storming down the sidewalk shouting reasons why she hated Valentine's when I realized the bum I had taken for granted on my way in was actually an actor.
Up close, Nia was thin and reaping the benefit of her professional hair and make-up and I wondered how I might look if a team tended to my appearance with such care, surely better than the usual cross between Charlie Brown and Bob Dylan, who, as it happens, will be performing at Prospect Park this summer, too.
At times the line between illusion and reality was blurred. There was a buzz in the neighborhood when a sign above the old pet store read: Get on Tapas. We all rushed to see the menu posted in the window with a four-star review pasted by its side, only to find out that it was a set.
As the days wore on, Nia and John were at home among the Windsor Terrace faithful and even left autographs for nearby proprietors, which the crowd at Farrell's had seen before when Dog Day Afternoon, Smoke, As Good As It Gets and an episode of Third Watch were filmed on the same stretch of Prospect Park West, south of Bartlett Pritchard Square.
The shoot culminated one night with the lighting of a Christmas Tree on Prospect Ave. across from the Regina Bakery, where extras huddled around in winter coats and wool hats while my wife and I shopped at a nearby market for sunscreen in our t-shirts and flip-flops.
The next day the show moved on and the neighborhood returned to its regular busy-body self where a nice woman was murdered opening her store and a quiet skateboard punk was stabbed in the shadows of noisy little league games and the rowdy families gathered outside Lia's for ice cream.
Production began at Terrace Bagels, a neighborhood standby that stayed open to the public so that I was able to get my morning coffee with the minor inconvenience of having to step over a power cord. The next day, however, after picking up my dry cleaning, I nearly tripped over a boom when Nia came storming down the sidewalk shouting reasons why she hated Valentine's when I realized the bum I had taken for granted on my way in was actually an actor.
Up close, Nia was thin and reaping the benefit of her professional hair and make-up and I wondered how I might look if a team tended to my appearance with such care, surely better than the usual cross between Charlie Brown and Bob Dylan, who, as it happens, will be performing at Prospect Park this summer, too. At times the line between illusion and reality was blurred. There was a buzz in the neighborhood when a sign above the old pet store read: Get on Tapas. We all rushed to see the menu posted in the window with a four-star review pasted by its side, only to find out that it was a set.
As the days wore on, Nia and John were at home among the Windsor Terrace faithful and even left autographs for nearby proprietors, which the crowd at Farrell's had seen before when Dog Day Afternoon, Smoke, As Good As It Gets and an episode of Third Watch were filmed on the same stretch of Prospect Park West, south of Bartlett Pritchard Square.
The shoot culminated one night with the lighting of a Christmas Tree on Prospect Ave. across from the Regina Bakery, where extras huddled around in winter coats and wool hats while my wife and I shopped at a nearby market for sunscreen in our t-shirts and flip-flops.
The next day the show moved on and the neighborhood returned to its regular busy-body self where a nice woman was murdered opening her store and a quiet skateboard punk was stabbed in the shadows of noisy little league games and the rowdy families gathered outside Lia's for ice cream.
Chinese Herbal Medicine
Heavy eyes and brain booze-addled again in a world of magic and tragic ends of meandering man-made waterfalls forged like talent captured by sellout crowds who can define this life of ours by hours of whores and bores and the money honey exchange among the tyranny of bleak bloodshed that will not dwell in the lap of melancholy beauty surrounded by well wishers and sentiments from another year with golden-haired princes arriving at her shore covered in the wretched stink of desperate designer perfume and the unyielding cool of boundless possibilities bound like bosoms in a black brassiere of politics and pendulums that govern brave brains who dare produce light from the electric shock of the fragile mind which beckons like Ahab and Hemingway to chase the invincible Mexican goddess thrashing about in the evening surf amidst the terrible stench of decaying print smothered in hibiscus to kiss the harsh minds and terse verse of a curse cast upon a pallet of pure blond beauty in a pale cocktail dress studying Picasso to haunt the conversations of a gumshoe in the grand auditoriums lit by the rich and humble to inspire a moist cloud on a hot, sticky day to pause and pray for what you want most at the very moment you realize you have it and can only contain it like a firefly burst in a plastic pail or a forlorn sail in crisp circles gauged by a synthetic count of days and dollars and hollers market wide within the great tombs of our construction, where lie great poets and words that dare strike out for new pastures and artificial putting greens atop the magnificent waste of euphoric good taste and the wonder of when it might end among the notion that it only now began.
The Kid From Buffalo
I was on the express train from DC to NY when the news caught up to me that Tim Russert had died. A great shock to us all, but fitting that he was doing what he loved, having just spent time at the Vatican with his family.
Tim Russert was a journalist's journalist and we mourn his loss. I shall dedicate my plate of hot wings and cold pitcher of beer in honor of the kid from Buffalo while I try and figure out how to get through this election without him.
Tim Russert was a journalist's journalist and we mourn his loss. I shall dedicate my plate of hot wings and cold pitcher of beer in honor of the kid from Buffalo while I try and figure out how to get through this election without him.
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