Monday, July 4, 2011


as if it were dope
or booze or coke
or reefer or pills
or money or any other thing
that's dead.
It takes more
than work
or incarceration
or substitutions
or institutions
or chosen.
It doesn't leave
through the same doors
that piss or shit travels;
love laughs
at seventy-two hours
and it's out of your system jazz,
or days
or weeks
or years.
Love clings
to your guts
and wrenches you back
against your will
or better sense.

But you will try:
you'll think you've put it
out to pasture
or on a leash,
letting it graze
or tugging it the fuck back;
you'll try to frighten it
or massage it
sweet talk it
or beg it;
you'll laugh
you'll promise;
you'll lie
to it
and yourself;
you'll say
all that stupid shit:
a day at a time,
an hour at a time,
then a minute,
a second
at a time
and you'll still be
grinning like a man punched
in the stomach,
left on a platform
in the rain,
all the trains
full and hopeless.

When it happens
to you
I hope the dope was good,
almost pure, not cut
with shit. If you're gonna kick
you might as well kick over a love
that costs something
that gave as good as it got,
that gave you something to measure
a diminishing world against.
You want to kick over something
that puts your ass in the streets

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011

1 comment:

  1. this is a fantastic pome & i wish i had written it. can i be your fan?