Saturday, November 18, 2017

COME ON OVER HERE, YOU


and plug me in;
percolate me;
heat me, get me
hopping; slay me
and fillet me
flash fry
& sauté me;
splay me open
like a stuttering
question mark!

I've been without
magic & fear
for too long.
I've been a sober man
walking a drunken line.
More things
than a dick
needs watering.

Yeah, that feels good.
Yes, that too.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

SLAVE BLUES SERVED ON A THANKSGIVING SLAB


She absorbed
my breath
& odors
on a 270 pound frame;
she withstood
grunts
& false starts.
She felt the drip
of foul Vodka sweat
& a thick spaghetti strand
of mouth drool
pooling around her nipple.
Somewhere
far off
Sonny Boy sang
the blues
of men; his harp
pumped blood red
trapped
by women
of color
by instinct;
she, too,
trapped
by young deliveries
& aborted safety
finds America
in God's trust
& open-school nights.
Everyday,
another stranger's flesh,
everyday,
the same dinner;
everyday,
a cold,
a missing tooth;
everyday,
a cheap cologne;
everyday,
a budget
breaks: speeding ticket,
toothache, a discharge.
I finally finish,
pull out
& fish
for green slime
in a pocket that hangs
with shame
over the chair.
Here, pleasure, thanks.
She tucks it
next to the pocket knife
& pepper spray.
Anytime, she says,
just call, you're
fun. I better run.
Have a good holiday.
You, too.
Sonny sang Bird.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

A DESPERATE RESPONSE TO A DESPERATE POST


There is
a place
where only
you may go
for comfort
& madness.
You need
& desire
no others;
you crave
only
your own
need
& your hands
& your fingers
that are
educated
by that
need.
But do not
go there
now. Wait.
Wait
until
you begin
to
moisten.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Wednesday, November 8, 2017

PACK YOUR SHIT


You've got
six months
to live.

Non-negotiable.

No,
this is not
Hemingway.

No,
this is not
art.

Yes,
this is
cancer.

(mommy)

(Mommy)

(MOMMY).

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Sunday, November 5, 2017

THE WATER BUG'S DRESS REHEARSAL


scuttered across
linoleum outside
my door
as I left for work
this morning.
It was an ugly fuck:
big & fat & black & brown
with whisper feelers
going this way & that
finding its way
into a kitchen
cabinet, water drain,
bathroom piss stained
shit stained soul stained
corner.
Goddamned motherfucker
as my sneaker clad
two hundred and sixty pound
frame found his beetle
back and stomped the shit outta him;
his liquids flew,
underneath his broken body,
flying to his sides puss green,
purple matted latched upon
the nearest wall's borders.
Bam: back broken, spleen exploded,
lungs busted-out, brain mashed,
eyes popped, ears filled with slime,
arms and legs shattered, asshole
popped. He was gone before
he knew
his name.

I lifted my leg--
just the way
I'd like to go
someday, as I went
to the trains
instead full
of mercy.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Friday, November 3, 2017

EVERYDAY YOU PASS BY


everything you need
to know

about everything
there is.

II

Residues.
Kick ball
then doorways.
A darkness
is at the top
of the stairs,
but money too.
Need
is your gravity
today.

III

Dreams
in a book
bag.

IV

I gave you
a hundred,
I know
I gave you
a hundred,
I only had
a hundred
and now,
I don't
have it
anymore.

V

I fell
in love
when I
was little
and now love
sucks the life
out of me
as I grow
impatient.

VI

One should look
harder
at what
one knows.

VII

Her dress
has its first stain
of journeys
to come.
His lips
hang
over his teeth
like shadows.

VIII

Slugs sun
in the summer
slime;
they have
no job
yet.

IX

Vespers
from a Harmon
mute; a jazz
musician
fingers
the hem
of a garment
whose mother
doesn't know
where she is:
this circle,
this time,
now.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017



Saturday, October 28, 2017

MOST EVERYTHING


bugs me
these days:
a vein
resistant
to liquids,
a candy colored
blemish
of fear
in the cheeks
of a baby's smile.
The passage
of years
have set
my teeth
on edge:
The price
of toilet paper
or the toil
of buses
wailing
from the grim
silence of
travelers
risks
gunfire
and chafed
hearts.
My woman
keeps to
herself.
She has prepared
a dinner
she doesn't expect
to eat
with consequence.
Luckily,
I do not
come home.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017