Tuesday, June 27, 2017

I SEE COUPLES KISSING


quietly with
their eyes.
They have to
let each other
go.
I felt that way,
too, with you
saying goodnight
and going
into my bedroom
or my bathroom
in the morning.
Much blood
is spilled
in that
space.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Monday, June 26, 2017

ARE YOU A WHORE?


I ask a little girl
who passes me
in the hot summer air.
She displays
a peacock's plummage
on top of her head:
streaks of green/blue/magenta/red
hair, black leather studded garb,
black fishnets ripped & torn up
up to her cunt & cheeks of her ass,
nose rings/ear rings/lip rings
snarl from her face.
Her mouth curls
as if I'd said something wrong
or beyond the pale:
Go Fuck Yerself,
she says.
A most reasonable request,
I think,
for a much
younger
man.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Friday, June 23, 2017

LESSONS LEARNED


She had the word "Vacancy"
tattooed above her mons Venus
in a motel yellow,
the letters
strangely glowing.
A few of them were dimmed
by the passage of time
while others
were nearly invisible.
How many travelers
have stopped there?
I wondered.
And how many
were still missing?
But I was O so tired,
and needed a bed
for the evening,
maybe longer.
But this time
I'd packed light
and didn't have much
to carry
or unpack.
I gave her
my driver's license
and a credit card...
and waited.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

I COME BEARING GIFTS


I bring you all my shit
and put it in your hands:
a hundred years of shards,
a library full
of tears, laughter
the wind catches
on its breath; these
are pedestrian
I know, but they're
just the foot soldiers.
Here's Johnny Too Bad
by Taj,By the Rivers
of Babylon, by Jimmy C;
Crime & Punishment,
which we've cultivated,
& The Ivy Crown,
which we haven't.
Miles
of music subversive,
and as dangerous
as Botticelli's gold
fuck rays streaming
to the virgin's womb;
vagabond's ramblings
& scrambled eggs
in forsaken diners,
thick slabs of bacon,
coffee hot enough
to know your tongue's there.
I give you old smelly corpses
of uselessness; dreams
brokered by cruelty; a city
of maybes...

My Medea,
I come to you knowing
I must be killed...
but not yet,
baby.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

I'M NO FOOL


I tell those
I try to help
in the patch of hell
I work in
in the Bronx.
They've been in jail,
institutionalized,
or homeless
most of their lives.
I never
lend money,
or give out cigarettes
on the first date,
I say up front.
I wait
until I'm lied to
a few times
before blessing them
with my largess.
They nod,
as if they understood,
and settle
right in
to the old
& comfortable
rhythm.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

I'VE NEVER BEEN VISITED BY THE DEAD


Maybe
they've been busy,
I've reasoned,
lighting the runways
for those
about to take off,
or land?
We all have our jobs
to do--like writing
this poem
in the dark.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Sunday, May 28, 2017

THE SONG OF THE GOAT MEN


White beards
in my bones;
swimming in a mosh pit
amidst realities entrails.
I am Nietzsche
circumcised. To Athene then
carrying blanched barbs
to a trapeze way station.
And there I balance
a dull watercolored world
of sculpture & science
with drunken rapture
saturated in music
birthing its mongrel son: poetry.

I want my madness
to possess your madness
which thrashes and pulls
the leash near snapping.
If I know
where I am I am
nowhere.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017