TELL MAMA

"Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better."

I'm gonna miss ya mama.
I'm gonna miss ya.
I always loved whores,
those angels of kindness,
those nighttime angels,
and mama,
you were one of the grandest,
one of the best, in your face whores
I've ever had the pleasure of tumbling with.
You mighta been born Jamesetta,
but quickly became Peaches
to me and many other
one nighters; mighta been fathered
by a pool stick hustler,
but everyman who ever laid down a bet
or grabbed what they could,
when they could,
had a piece of your action
and wanted more--
didn't matter the cost,
didn't matter the price.

I fell in love with you
when your body shimmied
and when it fell,
when your hair was dyed
a black rooted whore's blond,
or when it sprouted red
like a cockscomb,
when your eyebrows arched
and when your lipstick ran
into your mouth's cauldron;
I loved you when your tits where giving
and then when your thighs and ass
was as big and thick as a Montana mule's.

And through everything,
you felt the painfulness of air
against which you rubbed
and made it sing.
I know nothing
made sense
unless you were singing
and sometimes, probably,
not even then.
There was drink
and there were men,
to get you through,
but never enough
and never for long:
drink took too long
to work
and most men took too long
to come and go.
The ones you fucked,
and wanted to fuck and stay
never stayed
for long. But you knew
that no one
can ever stay
for that long.
At some point,
the point that rusted
the place
in your heart,
you didn't know
who you were fucking
or why. The only thing
that was important
was the time
eaten up
between shots.
By then you knew
what it took
to survive
and went about
the business
of forgetting.
Your arms became
scarred
and your hands
blew-up and swelled
by the wasted dope
that missed your veins.
And that was all right,
with you, too.
Unless there was none
left. But by then
falling
was welcomed
as much
as flying.
Each offered escape
from the repetitious
breath.
You fell
and got up,
and fell some more.
And landed better.
You were Beckett's queen:
A real queen.
A real whore:
perfumed, dolled-up,
and regal.

At the end
you didn't know
who you were
or where you were,
and that
was a good thing.
Though
who could be sure
of such things?
This country
and this life
makes fools of us all.
But even most of us fools
knew the wrong star shone
inauguration night
and starting tonight
will not come out
again.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012