Monday, December 31, 2012

THEY KNOW ME:

the waitresses, bus
boys, hack
drivers, bar
tenders, bums,
workers
in dead end jobs
who dream
fantastic dreams;
blackandwhiteandbrownandyellow pure
and mixed womenandmen
oldandyoung carefree
or humped over,
who do it,
grind against it,
everyday.
they know
if they're not there,
they're going there;
a "there" that finds me
there,
because I've been there,
am there
and will be there
for however long
forever is.
They know
I've arrived
first
and still stand
amongst the wreckage
and pillars
of my life
and know parts
of theirs.

There are others
who nibble
around the edges
liking the taste
in small doses
still thinking
they control a part
of who they think
they are.
I don't quibble
with them;
but instead
allow them
room
to find their own
failures
or march to an easy
delusion that moves
each of us
to the graves edge.

It's the others
who provide me
with hope: a free tea
or coffee, shutting
the meter off
on my ride home,
or pushing my "case" ten
back to me from the lip
of the bar;
or charging me less
than half
for their late night touch.
There is little dialogue,
no "thank you,"
no stupid cordiality
that greases commerce;
just a nod,
and a smile--inner
and outer
to
and fro
across the ages
of what only seems
like a limitless
divide.

Happy New Year
to all us travelers
everywhere.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

Monday, December 24, 2012

I'M SUPPOSED TO BE FUCKED-UP

but I'm not
as I sit down
to write
on this
the sixty-fifth Christmas Eve
of my lifetime.
I've written
often enough
about the pain,
silliness, self
pitying uselessness
of it all
with all my defenses
honed and sharpened
depending on what year
it was and who
was listening.
But not this year.
This year I feel
rather well:
I'm loved
by a woman,
a musical luscious babe
who lives
in Mexico
and inside
my head,
who I think
I could love
if I let myself;
I'm loved
by a crazy brother
who I met again
after a storm
tossed me against
his door;
words still dance
and spark, igniting
fires in my brain--
and even though
they are brush fires,
they still, if briefly,
heat the inner landscape;
even my job,
which robs
my time
and steals my fantasies,
provides the four walls
that make it all
possible.

The odds were against
this poem
ever being written.
But odds never meant
shit to me. For me,
waking up was
the nightmare.
Yet I've learned
how to compound
and paint the chipped,
cracked, and open holes
in my soul
and was lucky
to have some hand-holding
along the way
by educated fingers.

Lately,
I've put away
some of the guns.
Others remain
loaded
and at the ready,
I know.
There are some,
I know,
who don't want to hear that.
Let some of those take heart:
misery never ceases.
But the opening of the cage
has widened
just a bit
as has my willingness
to walk
through it
at times.

Breathing
comes before
bravery.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

Saturday, December 1, 2012

SOMETHING FOR THE VAPORS AND VIPERS, THE CONDUCTORS AND PLAYERS, THE WHORES AND ANGELS, AND THE MEMORIES OF MAGIC

Random musings
on a lazy Saturday
as I scratch against
the advancing cold
that hints at the coming
winter.
I still sit outside
at a table sipping
coffee in the slate gray
moistness that indicates
snow not too far off
and the emptiness that is
closer.
Bundled up,
with sweater, and shirt,
and undershirt and scarf,
and hat I smoke
a cigarette
in a purified New York
and look at the young legs
and faces thinking
of all the loves
I've betrayed.
The most basic of things
I've had to learn
last. How I once
could of thought myself
brave, escapes
me now.
I was the cheapest
of tricks; a ventriloquist's
dummy speaking the words
that helped silence
my fears.

Memory lies
of course.
It's not its fault.
Even now
when I think of the music
of love
it is not
with the grandeur of Mahler,
the nuance and beauty of Bach,
the titanic battle of Bee;
nor with the eccentricities of Monk
or the harmonic brilliance of Miles,
but the simplicity of song.
The softness of voice
cushioning pain, muffling
thought; pretending
to care--which is really
all I ever wanted. Here,
listen:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=osVaF4t-zFc
www.youtube.com/watch?v=FWGn_-MeuZ8
www.youtube.com/watch?v=YsgL35RCGcc
www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQRV4NM2O1g
See,
see what I mean?
Simple,
like slugs fucking;
hardly have to think
about it at all.
That's what I could have been:
a slug, a dog, a whale,
chimp or a wisp
of pollen
in the heated air.
Not at all the rogue,
nor the halfback running
through the field
of broken girls and women.

Now,
unfortunate only for me,
my maleness dangles
like a rope; something
to piss through.
It amuses me
still
to do this; this writing,
this talking, to all
the unseen
who are now breathing
on this page. You
have your own lies
to keep you busy
should you choose to.
You have your own passions
to either cultivate
or long for. They are all
sweet
and delicious ramblings
that take you outdoors
for walks
and talks
and daring confrontations.
My advice to you
is the same I give
to myself:
Dress appropriately,
and don't forget
to take
your
keys.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012