drank a pinot noir,
Rascal, they called it,
from Willamette Valley,
Oregon.

drank it at The Quarter,
a charming establishment
on Hudson Street,
in the cobblestoned West Village.

I love a good name
as much as
I love a good Pinot,
and to scribe about
the city I love
where I was born,
schooled and fooled in,
by many a woman.

The city where I named
and raised my children.

Will probably die in
this city, and when
I am long forgot,
my name never uttered,

you,

as my designated
rememberer,
will think of me
whenever someone says,
he was such a rascal

http://www.thequarternyc.com/

My favorite poem
is the next one, yet to be,
that I shall write....

Once, I wrote:
a flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one^

When asked again,
I still thus answer

For everything I have ever writ,
flawed,
even if the imperfection,
minor,
the clarity, not the pristine perfect
I sought

Digging mining refining...
this process endless,
a life long condition of being
human

It is therefore and ironically godlike,
unchangingly immutable,
this, the divine spark within me,
my nizotz,
unceasingly immutable
in search of the flawless poem,
my favorite-yet-to-be, to be

my favorite poem
is the next one I shall write....
and the one there after,
until the flawless one is either created
or found, bound, full formed

or

until the inkwell empty,
the mind black blot dimmed,
the eyes yellowed-weakened,
the lips, white parched beyond repair,

whichever comes last,
conceding,
the last poem, perforce, must suffice.

Dayenu