Thursday, June 26, 2014


They say that life after forty
is "maintenance," but that's
bullshit. The real test
comes at sixty & beyond.
Once you hit
that number
you've entered:
The Departure Lounge.
Now some,
very few,
are able to fly
First Class, but most
of us sorry bastards
are in Couch. And some
poor fucks
are put in the belly
of the aircraft with
the animals and luggage--
nobody gives much of a fuck
if they make it or not.

Our shit
just breaks-down,
or gets rusty
from use or disease
or recklessness or
trumas, accidents,
love affairs and/or
the carelessness
of others.
And instead
of one thing
going wrong,
it's many.
The body just pops
with betrayals
large & small;
it's a shit storm,
an avalanche
of happenstance.

That's where
I'm at
one eye
needs surgery;
my uppers cracked;
my winter's cold
seems to have moved in
for the summer;
my legs lumber
with neuropathy
& nicotine;
& my heart has
too much courage
for my brain's wattage.

I'd like to take myself
in for a major tune-up.
Put myself
on the lift,
and let an old German
or Italian who knows
his way around an engine,
an engine geared for speeds
starting at sixty--Porches,
Ferrari's--get under my hood.
Change the oil,
adjust the clutch,
time the carbs,
time the cylinders,
blow the dirt out
of the engine &,
if necessary,
change the shoes.
I'd lay on that lift
for a week--
why the fuck not?
--and be ready to race again
instead of nickel and dimming
my way to death.

"We will now board
First Class passengers
& the handicapped."
Some kind of justice
seems to be
at work.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

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