SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE

I was always attracted to weird weather
of any kind, but especially rainstorms,
ice storms and blizzards. The crazier
the better. I was always praying
that the gods would be good to me
and allow me to stay home
from school. Any excuse
was good, but legitimate ones
were better.
I'd be glued to the TV
to get every and all updates.

It took the major stations forever,
but they finally had to hire black
and Puerto Rican reporters. It was to those
hearty souls
to get their ass'
into the meat of the matter.
Whatever storm there was
you could count on the local stations
to sacrifice a black offering
to the sponsors
who loved disasters
of any kind.
The white sages of local wisdom
would cut to those poor fucks,
and place them
at the edge
of an ocean,
or in the middle
of a four lane highway,
car and truck crashes
piled up at either side
with ice ripping into his eyes:
"Now we go to JJ Gonsalez at Jones Beach.
JJ, how's it going out there?"
JJ looked like the leaning tower of Pisa
as he fought to remain erect;
the wind and rain or sleet and ice
whipping through his clothing and around his balls;
a black mic clutched to his gloved hand,
the hood of his parka falling off his head
as his Afro was spiked straight into the sky.
"Kinda rough out here Chuck, kinda rough,"
as he struggled to even be heard through the gale forced wind
pushing the waves closer to his feet.
"Gonna be bad out here tonight, Chuck;
the whole community has been evacuated. Gonna be bad."
"Thanks JJ; we'll get back to you later. Be careful out there
you hear me."
But JJ couldn't hear shit;
he couldn't wait to get back into the truck
or fucking car
or any goddamn thing
that had four sides.
And then you saw Chuck,
back in the studio and you wondered
whether you'd see JJ tomorrow.

It's been a rough winter this winter
and tonight
with storms ripping the shit out of most of the country
some snow some rain
inches of water fell here in the northeast.
This time it was Brian
kicking it over to some other poor black fuck
who I saw last night
in the same new river
saying generally the same thing as JJ did
all those many years ago: "Gettin bad,
gonna be rough,
folks are out of here," etc. Instead of a parka
he wore hip waders
and a cool looking microfiber of some kind
probably waterproof;
but Brian was still Chuck,
safe and warm
while the poor black fuck
was still JJ
wondering
how he could hold on
to a gig
that was saved
especially
for him
promised
after years and years
of journalism
school.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011