JUST FUCKING ONCE

before I die
I'd like to saunter
up to a counter
in the most exclusive
dessert, pastry, sweet
shop in the world
or a corner diner
in a seedy remote
shit hole in buttfuck USA
and order
a vanilla malted,
a hot fudge sundae,
hot apple pie with a healthy scoop
of DAZ on top,
or pancakes with maple syrup
dripping from the lip of a tree,
without giving a fuck,
without taking a goddamn motherfucking blood test,
without pricking my finger
or fingering my asshole,
without inserting a rectal thermometer,
or taking an oral temperature,
or hormonal temperature,
or emotional temperature
or any goddamn temperature
before
or after
enjoying the goddamn thing.

And while we're at it:
I'd like to make a chick
without thinking of
my next meal,
my next carbohydrate
or complex or simple
sugar or if I'm high
or low or peaking
or declining or bobbing
or weaving
without worrying if the sweat
I'm sweating is sex sweat
or ridiculous fucking
hypoglycemic sweat.

I'd like to dive
into a bottle
of single malt scotch
until white flags
spring from my liver
like any good goddamn
booze addled lover would
without thinking
of the added price
to be paid
twice over
for my ticket
already bought
and punched.

I believe I'm entitled
after being hamstrung
with this shit for
fifty-five
out of sixty-six years
to say that.
Especially while sipping
a goddamn fucking Diet
Ginger Ale.

C'mon folks,
let's give him
a hand.

Go
and fuck
yerselves.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013