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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/
Posted a long time ago and fell between the tables...resubmitted for your reconsideration
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
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dayenu

^ see my banner

Nitzotzot (Lit. "sparks"). In Kabbalistic-Chassidic terminology refers to the sparks of holiness or Godliness inherent in all of creation. When something is used in its Divinely intended context, its sparks are said to be ‘liberated’ and re-absorbed into their Source, thus contributing to the establishment of the Divine dwelling on earth which is the ultimate purpose of creation.
I lose you
like I lose my mind-

effortlessly.
Glassy eyes
Slurred speech
Delirium
Or something of the sort.

Brush my hair out of my face
I want you to kiss me
But I don't.
I'm not sure how I feel
And yet, I do not stop.
Why do I set myself up for regret?

We're ready to explode.
It's written all over our
Morphine mouths
******* cheeks
****** voices
That resonate silently.

We're so wasted
This youth
This generation
Kids these days
Or, that's what they call it.

It's all our fault, too?
Last time I checked,
You will reap what you sow.
Addiction.
no one quite knows
how to define it.
for one in the throws of this.
is it Beautiful
or is it Vile?
Selfless
or is it Vain?
one can only speculate.

Recovery.**
another riddle
with a hint of ambiguity
that a person can only
hope to determine the meaning of.
Painful
or Freeing?
Pointless
or Meaningful?
i can never tell
if it is only here for a season
and leaves just as easily.
just as swiftly.

as for now
i am still a prisoner, held captive
to this paradox.
A sharp edge takes courage
But dull blades sting more.
You fell in love with the
late nights we shared,
just me and you

You fell in love with the
thought of me
being in your prescence

but,
there is no way you have
fallen in love with *me
The unexpected snow, disruptive,
in ways more burdensome,
than mere fender benders and
swapping travelogue commutation miseries

ah, the tv reporters regale
with snow tales, human fails,
but where do you hear
of the children
burnt once by fire
then again, now,
again!
burnt by snow.

here, hear, listen here

technology moves forward,
grafting new shells of skin
on burnt children,
but tonite you're cozy thinking
of your valentine's heart,
not of the little ones,
whose hearts are unprotected,
by what we take so for granted

beneath our protective gloves and coats, scarfs and boots,
our prophylactic human skin,
theirs, fire ravaged,
now re-hazardous,
by southern snows burning

these children hurt,
unexpectedly,
cannot play in the snow that came so
unexpectedly,
lest it burn them worse*

"in the children's burn unit, postponed all surgeries except 'emergency'.  Two days of outpatient clinic patients forced to reschedule,. That then, postpones their surgeries, second step grafting, etc. Our vents ran smoothly I heard via the generators, unlike last outage. We had to ambulance each individual patient.

I dread going in tomorrow but small comfort,
it will be warmer than my cold home."

Life first, poetry second
burnt too oft by the supposed caregiver, but not of that now, but later for surety, will I **** them
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