Wednesday, March 19, 2014


as we breathe: in
out, in
out & in
again: relief
in concentration...
a moment, maybe, maybe
your moment.
our rhythms like ancient
bellows torn
from use; an old accordion
tethered to a mustachioed Italian
and his monkey who stumbles
and grins a poor excuse
asking for change.
Up the streets
and down
it travels with us
like a birthmark.
The secret so obvious
it defies reason: Pain
simply is.
It makes flowers explode
& sagging bridges weep;
pain litters
long after the parade
is cleansed & remains
in the beds of those
long expired. Pain
has nowhere to go
because it goes anywhere
it wants;
it's patient,
it moves,
it waits
for your feet
to land on mats
that say, "Welcome Home."

It's not surprising
how many are mad,
but how few; how many
punch clocks day after day
eating from the same bowl
of shit and thinking it's sirloin;
how few suicides how few drunks
how few junkies how few nuthouses
how little exits
we have.
they've given us songs,
but the songs are mostly sap;
yes, they've given us scripts,
but they're concocted, too.
And they've given us love,
but the love is finally selfish
and brokered by forces we cannot hope to see.

Like now:
how little I've enjoyed
writing this

or you
in your place now
on it.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

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