Saturday, December 25, 2010


They've all staked out
so much room
in this transient SRO that,
at times, I'm the last one
in a very long line
to get to piss.
But what relief I feel has always
come with the crowd:
the singers, the poets,
the lovers and the haters
that swim the loop
from here to there.
They breathed life
into my blood;
stood me tall
when all I wanted to do
was fall into some gentle yawn.
Most of their lives, I know,
have been one kind of horror
or another. My youth
and stupidity
only knew exemptions
of which none of us
are. Luckily,
our horrors
are ours alone. Just knowing
that never diminishes,
but only adds to,
their song. And so, they sit
inside me
patiently waiting for me
to take them out again;
to make them
part of the whole.

I can imagine
one day
a chance meeting
and one will say: "Did you hear,
Savage's dead?"
"Which one?" the other replies
and laughs.
"What a bullshit artist."
"But a good one."

So, here's to them
and me, me and them,

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2010

Thursday, December 2, 2010


Men need to believe
they are best
at two things:
and fucking.
I've not been privy
to see
up close
many instances
of them fucking,
but have been
in experiencing them
behind a wheel. (Of course,
I do not count any celluloid collusion
between the act and the editing.)

Most men know,
the wheel, the gas, the brake,
but not the intricacies
of the beast.
Their feet are too heavy;
their hands grip the wheel
too hard. They're too nervous
in crowds
or too dumb
when alone
to allow creation
or play.
They have little feel
for how they run:
the nuances of touch
for each model, each make,
each extension:
the stiffness
of a clutch
and its gradual
the hard pedal
or flabby wheel;
how each will go
so far
and no more,
but knowing
all want to be brought
to the edge
of danger.

They've driven
a few cars
in their lives
and believe
they all run
on the same
gas. They are simply proud
of just putting the pump in,
nothing more. If it then goes,
they think,
they've done their job.
No wonder,
a great number of them,
get fired
or bored
because the car
refuses to run.

One day,
they will be unable
to put the key in.
The car will sit there
a big grin on its face
and hope
that younger hands
will find a way
to spark
the ignition
saving their best show
for last.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2010