UNDER THE HOOD

Every once in awhile
the female creature
walks by--maybe one
in ten thousand--
that had been made
by an artisan
of the gods.
Each are put together
by the poets
of aesthetics: giving the world
just one of them
to admire: Marilyn, Ingrid,
Grace, Halley, Liz, Sophia,
Audrey, Lena, like Bird and Bach,
Bee and Trane, Miles and Monk, Jackson
and Vinnie.
There is not just
one type; they can be pure
or mongrel, but somehow
in this game
of genetic roulette
the egg and semen conspired
to fall on the right number.

Other women,
who've always had
digitalized eyes
record the picture
and try to remain
aloof, but will spend
lavishly for their essence;
men, childishly, pretend
that money and success
can equal cock
think they can buy
into their presence;
and sometimes they can,
but usually find
they can only afford
a Tijuana whorehouse
and a two dollar penicillin shot
later.

I've spent a night
and sometimes a few years
in limited battle with some.
At first
it felt magical,
almost blessed,
to think you've been chosen,
not by them, but by them
and not for your charm
but for their inner
constellations.
Inside
the skin
you find shadows.
A cylinder is broken;
a piston won't pump;
it overheats
with neurosis
at a light;
it can't start
while parked;
it shimmies,
or pulls
to a side,
or is all over
the road.
It needs work
and you're broke.
The love making
is the love making
and that's fine
while the upholstery
still has that leather smell,
but the fights are still the fights
and they come even from the most sensual
of grills.

Still, it's nice
when you see one
and nicer still
when they pass.
I always make sure
to breathe deeply
and hold it
in.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012