Tuesday, December 12, 2017

A SWEETER SOUND


I've never heard
then wind escaping
before a turd.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017
4:25 a.m.

Sunday, December 10, 2017

TAKE WHAT YOU WANT, GOD IS DEAD AND HIS MOM WENT SHOPPING


The world will soon explode
from grief.
Young black & white girls
expose fecal tunnels of love
on CraigsList for cheap
tradeoffs of minimum wage
allowing the breath
of truck drivers
& university professors
to reach into their innards
& steal what never was:
youth & possibilities.
Russia is mad
with memories
& China with rice futures;
India keeps trying to grow
deserts of food
& the Congo beats drums
of failures & fortunes.
A crippled falcon
cannot be seen or heard
as the circles grow wider
above Christmas sales
& Hallmark bromides.

Our guts get pulled out
struggling with biology
as our little experiment
is unraveling.
Our only meal
is eating pussy
or sucking cock--
damn the nutrients.
Money & pleasure
should be the faces
on bills of exchange:
Caligula, Nero,
Mick Jagger.

Mom will be back
soon...unless
she gets trampled
in the rush
to be first
when the store
opens. She wants
an X-Box.
She's determined
not to lose
another son
that has yet
to be
conceived.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Saturday, December 9, 2017

WE USE WHAT WE GOT (every little bitty thing) THAT GOD GAVE US


like guns
& pocket mirrors;
like a hairy fist,
or a fast thumb;
like tits
on a '55 Cadillac's bumper
put in a push-up bra,
or a chiseled jaw
bracing a British accent;
we use our parent's wealth,
or food stamped passivity.
We use our reputation,
the written word,
stuttering,
or long legs leading to mysterious fortunes.
We play humor, twist pathos, dance with angels
or devils or landlords or tax collectors--
all that dross,
--secrets & solitudes
and the desperation
of others;
vanity/poverty
& holidays of blue suicides,
big dicks & tight cunts
snapping shut or dribbling
out the clock;
sophisticated offhandedness,
construction sweat,
a beaten fighter's courage,
a hooker's scars,
a priest's purity--
what we got,
is what we use.
I do it.
You do it.
We all do it
in the service
of love,
like the worm,
like the snake,
like the slug.
Everywhere.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

C'est Le Guerre


A million lips & words
& fingers & smells
& false starts;
a hundred thousand zippers
pulled
up & down
a half million times
with hairs caught
in steel teeth &
two million pimples
popped a half billion
fumbling & rumblings
& phones falling out
of their cradles
by silence & midnight
forays into forests
of motives & maybe
a urinary infection
or two beside a pregnancy
& cold linoleum abortions
decided in extremis...

& now
little
laughs,
but
safety.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Friday, November 24, 2017

SOFT FUEL


is the touch of a woman
on my skin. They shatter darkness
inside my soul
& stretch
what cannot be
into a homeostasis
of hope.
How often have they
injected a casual touch
into a crowning validation;
how they allow me
to preen or crow
without pretense or prevarication.
They have lent me
courage with a glance
& stemmed the fears
of a heart gone mad
from reality.
Sometimes,
I wish to go inside them
& sleep, nestled,
curled up,
in their natural bed
of curlicues
& mysteries.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

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