THERE IS MAGIC

in your mind's wilderness
whether in forests
or the gutter magic of cities,
provided you're alone,
most alone,
listening
to the winds wail
of laughter, or the screaming
tears of a siren;
you can never outlive yourself,
but you can cheat death
a little; you can fuck
with the gods provided
you make them laugh
and shake their heads
at your folly;
make them bestow some grace
despite your meanness
and narrowness of understanding.

the gods coursed in my veins
or sat next to me
in my gin mill stew;
they gave me women
who loved me despite
my stupidity
and lack of civility
and even now,
(though not too often),
they knock,
sometimes late,
sometimes early,
to bring silliness
to a body
and being
that should have
long before
stopped
but
didn't.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011