Monday, October 16, 2017

WHO KNOWS?


where they are?
or who they're with?
but I have
my suspicions:
one,
I'm pretty sure,
is fucking
a Cuban donkey
on some Havana side street;
another lies
under the sheets
in a psych unit
on a mountain side
in St. Moritz
waiting for a soulful skier
to fly onto her ward
& pirouette around her privates;
and still another,
lost in a memory dream
crosses a wet street
lifting her nun's robe
across her father's sternum.

Imagination dictates reality.

Most likely,
all the old ones,
and ones yet to come,
are battling
old battles.
Reminding themselves
they've misunderstood
themselves & their muses;
that ambivalence balanced
on the tip of her tit
gives her
enormous pleasure
and her sacrifices,
while tragic,
are trifles
as a white girl
sings Mississippi
juke joint blues.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Thursday, October 12, 2017

LIKE AN OLD MAN

For M

I fell asleep
on my couch
on my birthday
without warning:
one minute
here
next second
gone...
and then
she came.

She came
with a body
by Cezanne
and a Rabelaisian appetite.
I stuffed my dentures in,
wiped my chin from drool,
and got down
to business.

A few hours later
she left
no worse the wear.
I, on the other hand,
was richer by half,
smelling my thoughts
& fighting the curtain
coming down
too soon.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Monday, October 9, 2017

FUCK AND FUCKING WITH SEVENTY


When I was feeling-up Susie--
twirling her pink nipple
like a juggling fool
and inhaling
her adolescent powder or
gently chalking-up a pool cue,
or releasing a sixteen pound
black ball that rolled
down a slick alley and nestled
into the one/three pocket
turning five into five hundred,
or downshifting a Porsche
into a corner
doing fifty--
I hardly thought
about age or
infirmities,
those little gremlins
of egress and transgress
and impasse.

And now, suddenly,
here I am.
Most of the stuffing
come out
like an old pillow
and I still don't think
about what I can't do
but what I want to get done.

Tomorrow,
I will have been born
for the seventieth time.
And although more happened
during the first ten births
then my last sixty
(if what I hear is true),
and won't remember the final breath,
(if what I hear is true),
I have all the splendid mess
between. The gods
have been more than good to me,
they've been
generous...and
I want more.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Wednesday, October 4, 2017

IN MEMORIAM REDUX


Tom Petty
& 58 other poor fucks
bought it
the other day.
No memo was sent.
No warning.
No admonition.
No nothing.

Today,
when you go
to your mailbox
& find nothing
you'll understand
life
is nothing else
if not fragile
& quixotic.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Saturday, September 23, 2017

I WANTED TO SEE YOU


in the Carole Lombard
white silk
nightgown
dragging your sex
into an arid bed
marking your territory
with wet spots
against the blue night
as sound retreated
against your pleas
and my heart raced
with fears &
fearlessness.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Thursday, September 21, 2017

A GREAT POEM HIDES


in the thumb
of a hitchhiker,
or the greed of a Queen
bumblebee; it's
a dollar found
hugging a sock
underneath
a torn pocket
of a barfly
after last call
is called.

It could by a map's mistake,
or the dried out tit
of a riverbed. Perhaps,
the first or
the last word
of a tortured phrase,
or a sentence
outliving a period.

The gods
are wise.
They know
that this
could be
a great poem,
but that's
up to you.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

THE RUSSIAN ARTIST


I've always been
a little envious
of the Russian artist.
How to avoid
the whip & the pistol,
the ice & the cage
while sticking out
your tongue at your
would be masters heats
the vein's blood,
but makes the hand cold
& clammy.
Of course,
this is being written
by one who's never faced
a firing squad
or a censor,
whose back & hands
are unscared
& untroubled
by midnight knocks
& flashlight eyes.
My bravery
is limited--
like noting others
who are.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017