Friday, December 2, 2016

I WISH I WOULD DIE


in a car
cruising
at sixty
or seventy
on a perfectly fine
autumn day
smoking a Lucky
and drifting
just drifting
next to a body
of water
moody
& full
of swells
& lulls
listening
to Sonny's Moritat
and wondering
what's next
on the playlist.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Thursday, December 1, 2016

THERE MUST BE LIFE


on some other fucking planet;
there must be some chick
who doesn't know me or
doesn't know my shit or
doesn't speak english
and doesn't give a damn
about Christmas
or New Years
and who gives
less of a fuck
about age
or infirmities
or gallantry
(whatever the fuck that means)
or has beetle-like opinions
gleaned from girlfriends
worse off than her
or relatives worse off than them
or children (real
or imagined).

I gotta get with Kepler
and a telescope
and make this happen
while things are still possible,
while I'm still possible
before I grow
into a complete asshole
while a tit like crab
crawls towards me
and the game
works on.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

I DROP WORDS


like breadcrumbs
so others
can find their way
to my home and I
can find my way
back.
It is a two-way
highway
of neurosis
on a one way
blacktop.

Men
are so obvious,
needy
& weak;
women
so devious,
cunning
& cruel.

Woods
emit light
from the center
of a sorcerer.
The evil parent
has been killed;
the house licked
clean. Bite marks
lace veins
in the finest filigree.
Memory
is the killer.

I no longer write
from instinct
but intention.
You've captured
me and we both
remain lost.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Sunday, November 27, 2016

MAYBE A PORK CHOP TONIGHT


if I get really frisky
and decide to cook?
Some rice
black beans
apple and hot sauce
too. Blessedly
I'll be alone.
I'll curse that
too. You can't win
with me.
I never could and
you can't either.

What's for
dessert?

Norman Savage
Bronx, NY 2016

Saturday, November 26, 2016

STAYING FUCKED


Cinderella has swollen feet.
She slouches
next to me
waiting
for her corns
& callous'
& bunions
to be cut
or dug out.
A frog's tongue
whispers
in her ear.
Her prince
dines on Mulligan Stew
on Macdougal Street
readying himself for
his evening's grate.
Buses & trains
are listless. Smoke
snakes from sewers. Cabs
poke their yellow noses
through steam.
I've waited in the rain
for Isadora Duncan
to dance on useless ankles
but tickets
are scarce.
Graves litter
a wormless earth.

My girl arrived.
She will save
her complaints
for Sunday.
We will have
our small tortures
at the right moment.
The night
is within reach
& hope
is stupid.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Thursday, November 24, 2016

EVEN ME, A MOST UNGRATEFUL KNUCKLE-DRAGGER, WOULD GIVE THANKS


if it were quick--
like turning off
a light switch.
I don't like to wait.
And I don't like mess.
I would give
three or four years
of my time here
for that.
(Like anything else
it's negotiable...

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

BEFORE THERE WAS SORROW

For Diane

there was only
The Bible
and prediction.
Before love
like a sugar glass
shattered & pooled
like the ripples
of an illusion
there was only
an oral tale
told by a blind oracle.

I was living,
they told me,
in high cotton:
59th & CPS.
A diploma
in one hand,
a syringe
in the other.
And you,
my dear,
was the price
of admission.

It will be nice
to see you again
even though
we can't touch
through veils
of history.
It's enough
to remember
the shadows
your body left
& the strong coffee
burning my tongue
in the morning.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016