Monday, October 13, 2014


has been going
into the novel
I'm working on;
it's a different
animal; it demands
more attention
instead of
the short bursts
of libido or id
that informs
the other.

The poem is
a sweeter smelling
fart, if you will;
it's a more perfect
and keeps the howl
to a minimum;
it yelps & whimpers
& whines within
discernible borders.

The novel
is messy,
even when
your aim
is also poetry
but of a different sort--
more like a beer shit,
messy and inclined
to get you and whoever
gets close
& befouled.

At my age
it is difficult
to do both
and so, for now,
unless it insists,
I'll struggle
with the longer
& fatter shit.

One has to
make a call,
& this one
was mine.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

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