THE CONCRETE WOMB

bristling blindness;
black, empty
with light, off
my fingertips i reach
for sound. there is
none. there is only
the studded shot that suggests
moon-like desire.
milky spit rides
the cats' back. my fugitive shell treads
cautiously, but fleetingly,
forcing decisions
that deserve
more time.
zero degrees nurtures
the seed that grows
and dies in the same breath.

grass beginnings mark
where i once slept;
sweated out my perverted sleep,
rolled over to suck
the paralytic marrow.
gaining momentum
in a soft flight down
i saw the bird's broken leg
and jumped from her wing--
landing inside the wriggling worm,
i froze
and remained
still.

groaned through the yawning trap
door pushed from my wet landscape
agonizingly slow
towards the dry light
and fixed colors.
exiled
for all the times i failed
to grasp the liquid solitude.

we live lawlessly
within bounds.

i believe in our innocent
selfishness, and our intrinsic
denial. death takes a moment
to be born in any season; not only
flowers concede shortly but we too,
who numbly hold on
for however long
forever is.

we have no choice
but to be egoistic. we are planted
out of
and conceived into
our own image. eating the flesh
that housed me and, again, demanded
nothing. i rip the tissue
of my heritage and revel
in the delight of unknowing
destruction soon to come.

my house had no colors;
no shape in contour,
and no consciousness.
out of control and silent
i float inside my early
prison and am not pardoned
before my time is due.

inside, taciturnity spoke
reverse deliquation; artistically
virgin, yet possessing
all possibility; life dictates
curiosity. it is too late to hunger
for only vegetables--i have tasted meat
and my fathers' father and his
before that made a christ-like choice
and tongued the snakes' heart.
there is nothing left--
except chronic instantaneity
--there is everything to do
again, almost retroactively
we believe we are alive.
even the degenerate
gambler would not wager
on when the white bullet
shoots out and holds.

outside, the sticky water
subsides, and lets me go,
into the human glue.

i'm aware
of my silent partnership
with death; he could not do it
without me.
i know that, too well,
and am worse off for it.
there is only the crucifixion
remaining for, even a slight
suspicion. my safety was lost
when i entered. and all my fantasies
won't return me.

i'm lethally potent.
my son will be the same;
my narcissitic double
lives in the mysterious aperture
of rocks. purposely,
i delay the furious thumping
of the jack-hammer.

chance comes to play every night
with an assortment of faces
but the same command: Rub.
the phantom lady
rides on top. i deny
her presence and accept
her passionate elusiveness.
last evening i played with her promise,
but refuse to spill
another child tonight;
tomorrow is different.

my mouth forms the circle
while my eyes look
for the red protruding mark
that will protect me
from having to deal
with a role
that was not decided on
by me;
i want desperately
to be that role.
i know what i am
only because
of my first name.

i've waited
for direction
out, and must wait
for direction
in.
i've teased myself
with kirilov's conscience
but remain inside the clock
and outside the act.

i have come to believe
in the impotency
of gods and mirrors.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1967