Thursday, June 14, 2012


I'll find
in my in-box
a note
written by a reader
of mine
expressing a desire
to either write
or visit me
in the future.
it's in an email box
that I open infrequently
and have set up
for the purpose
of communication
with those whose presence
are better left
on the page.
write with interest
others with ardor,
most, however,
are flat
or stale
or profess knowledge
of my soul
which, thank god,
remains hidden
from myself.
It's why
I've been able to continue
to write
these many years.
Some tell me
how crazy
they were,
how alike we are,
how, when we meet,
(which the gods
have predestined),
we will have
a most treasured
remaining years
of bliss. They are emailing
from Canada, Japan,
Europe, next door;
arriving six, eight, nine months
from the time of writing
and would like,
to make it more exciting,
be able to just knock
on my door
if I give them
the address
and/or mail them
the key.
I have to tell those,
that while I have talents
in abundance,
being with people
I don't know
is not one of them.
Even those I do know
I, more than not, fail
to connect with.

You cannot work
at isolation;
many things
have had to conspire
for you to enjoy
what most others loathe.

Most other animals
and birds and reptiles
know this already;
seldom do you see them
going over to the lairs
and caves and holes
of others and having anything
except dinner;
and even that
was need, not desire.

I used to take those threats
seriously, but no more.
Most lack courage.
Most have very little to say.
And the ones who have much to say
won't waste it
on other humans. So...
I get those emails
once in awhile,
and respond,
and never hear from them again.
It's an exercise
that poets do:
it's called:
"let's pretend."
I still
like that.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

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