Tuesday, June 19, 2018


All my life
I've either
been anxiously
early or
But I've managed
to foul off
pitch after pitch
while staying alive
in the batter's box.
A few times
I've even connected
with the fat
of the bat driving
the ball deep
into the outfield
only to see it
go foul
by inches.
it was frustrating.
But no,
I was not defeated.
I'm still alive
taking my hacks,
biding my time
for when he makes
a mistake.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

Sunday, June 17, 2018


Do you, God,
swear to the tell the truth,
the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth,
so help you (...) God?

I DO..
i don't.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

Sunday, June 10, 2018


For PP--each in our neighborhood's jungle

To be smoking reefer
& sipping a beer
on a hot stoop
cooling our heels
is one of the more sublime favors
bestowed in this concrete womb
of a city amidst the squalls
of summertime heat.
Poems are squeezed
from the sewers;
love is laced
in this Petri dish
of hard won escapes.
Each other's dreams
drips down the sticky legs
of denim & popsicle sticks.

You live within
windowsills of fame
and home has become
a bed of thorns.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

Friday, June 8, 2018


to torture
anyway I can.
The disease
of memory
makes it easy
to gain entry
& allow you
to do the rest.
Be a good girl
& open
the door.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

Thursday, June 7, 2018


who I made room for,
rearranged the furniture,
put on a new coat of paint.
I had to,
so much was I drawn
to her scent,
and her eyes,
brown & flecked with greens,
so much was I drawn
into her cunt
& the ways
of enchantment.
She rouged her nipples
& perfumed her body.
In the dead
of winter fucked me
in a suicide ward
propped against
my bathroom door.
We had drinks with Mailer,
in Provincetown on a frigid February night
as he tried to make her
& she demured but refused me entry
later in our wooden motel
near the sand dunes.
Angrily, I fucked her
in the ass, her submission
a false delicacy
as we tumbled
into arguments
about poetry
and maturity
and reality
and other
I would wait
on the streets
where I knew she walked
and ran into her
by accident
and we'd pick it up
She found me
at St. Mark's Church
waiting on a Bukowski reading
and coaxed me
into the balcony
& took me in her mouth
while he read below.
We were in & out
of each other's blood
for decades.
And still are.
Both in our seventies
and not yet ready
to call it a day.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

Wednesday, May 9, 2018


They have fucked
their country silly,
and they've used
no protection,
but it's we
who drip
from syphilis,
genital herpes
and all manner
of yeast infections.
Pus is in
our drinking water,
puke is in the air.
Penicillan is useless
against this strain
of virus; only words
as guns or cannons
will staunch the flow
of bullshit.
Vladimir & Donald,
cocksmen for our age,
living in our bloodstream
for far too long,
has rendered us blind
and truly

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

Friday, May 4, 2018


No, not the graybeards
that gave name to this merrygoround;
and, no, not the Old Masters
who took pain
and oil-slicked it
with words
& brushstrokes
& notes;
and not the ones
who casually rested
along the outlines
of my skin. No.
Not them.
The ones I think about
are those who've entered
when I was most vulnerable,
blood-jet love,
and had hearts
I clawed into
& tugged & ripped
& eaten--human love
at its most animalistic,
sheets etched
with blood & semen.

I believe
I gave
so little
& robbed
so much
time worse
than betrayal
or sins
which sit
a novel's spine,
that I wonder
what would they say
seeing me obey
the rigors
of mortality?

Ancient vulnerabilities
exposed. Humbleness
dictated by god's engine.
And although I'm still fighting
all this, I know that is not
a way to go.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018