Sunday, December 28, 2014

IF


you've never been seduced
by a madwoman
you've only known
pedestrian affairs;
if you've never
been to Peter Lugar's,
MacDonalds will suffice;
if you've never read Celine
your brain will be cooled
instead of heated;
if you've never heard Bird,
your flight will be limited;
and if you've never heard Billie
you've never heard the word, "love."
These are obvious
things.

Tonight,
I'm tired.
This poem
will tell
you that.
You have
so many
words
& then
run
out.
Only
for awhile
I hope.
Instead,
I'll watch
a bad team
play
some bad
basketball.
I'll hope
the other
team
carries me
across
a blurry
night.
It's all
I have
to go
on.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

Saturday, December 27, 2014

I'M CLOSING IN


on two hundred pages
and figure I'm a little more
than half way done.
I also know
where it's going,
though I have no idea
of how
it's going
to get
there.
I could say,
I'm confused,
but that's not true;
confusion
is just
my normal state
that no one word
describes, it's part
of me.
I'll take that
anytime.
The word gods
have been
very very
good to me;
they always
have.
It's a Christmas gift
and New Year harbinger
of allowing me to do
what I do best:
play with myself.

I'm bloated
with words; rabbit
pregnant pushing
out poems
& paragraphs
& pages.
But
there is
a cost.
If you fuck
with those gods
you fuck with losing
what those gods have granted.
You believe
that there will always
be another girlfriend,
but there might not be
another poem
about her. History
has told you that.

I have no intention
of returning the gift
that fits so well
& feels so good.
Words of cashmere
and silk; words
that taste good;
words that linger
like the glow
around the bulb
after you turn-off
the light.

And I am a junkie
on that kind of run.
I've got enough
dope for tonight
& a wake-up shot
in the morning.
What else
is there
for a junkie
to know?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014



Friday, December 26, 2014

DOING A POST-MORTEM ON SANTA


No sign
of strangulation,
no cerebral
hemorrhaging,
not a gun shot
or knife wound
on him; no
broken bones,
not even a sprain;
his liver's fucked,
but I expected that
with all those burst
blood vessels in his nose;
he's too fat
to have froze,
and his dick,
though small,
is in working order.

But his face,
his face was so sad,
so serious,
I took another look.
You see his heart?
Enlarged.
Three times
the size.
You see inside?
Regret,
pain,
love,
loneliness.
More than a man
should have
to hold.

A friend told me
that they told him
not to make the trip.
Told me,
that he was never
really a gift giver
to begin with.
That he was in
no kind of shape
to travel.
But few men
listen; women, too,
by the way.

I just hope
the next one,
sick with love,
believes them.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

MIDNIGHT MASS


I'm not into
baby Jesus,
or mangers,
or wise men,
three kings,
four queens,
a jack of hearts or
an inside straight.
I have no reason
to pretend
except for
my usual
superstitions.
The woman
I'm seeing
differs; she'd like
me to go with her
& her family
tomorrow; a small
request
she believes.
And I believe
that Santa
took a dump
down my chimney.

I'm a selfish man.
And my previous
love affair
did nothing
to restore my faith
or expand my borders.
If anything
they shrank.
And my last poem
did not endear me
to her either.

I'd like a little
ease, but ease
has never been
easy. This time
of year is a live grenade
of lies. Silent Night
does not need
my voice.

One way
or another
I'll be up
on a cross
tomorrow.
Preferably
alone.
What is
is.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

Monday, December 22, 2014

FRENCH-FRIED CHRISTMAS


There's only one
girl for me.
And she's
too nuts
to do
anything
with
or about.
And so
I'll just
have to
squirrel
her away
in
my heart's
winter
and take
out
whenever
I want
a nibble
or two.

C'est
le guerre.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

MUSTARD SEEDS


Nobody's fault,
really; it's in
the mustard seed
I suspect.
We're given
our rations
before entry
& can only eat
from that plate
or tin can.
It is
a war
of sorts,
all the time,
and we act,
or not,
accordingly.
Angry?
of course.
Bitter?
sometimes.
The rules,
if any,
are none.
To advise
or suggest
alternatives
cannot be
avoided.
They can
only be
brokered
by chance
& chances
taken.

Old age
has softened
me like
a fine Brie--
allowed to run
& gain
a slow
knowledge
of urgency.
I would hold grudges
like a wizened Jew
with Alzheimer's,
forgetting
everything
else.

But not now.
No longer
does it make sense
or matter.
By the time
the jury decides
& is polled
it's over.
Then,
and only then,
is it time
to shed
a little
ink.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

ONE HELL OF A YEAR


Plenty of beauty
and plenty of blood.
Both were given
and granted
without
permission.
The body
sometimes moves
without knowing
why.
Such
is life; such
is the task
and the terror
lived
on a border
of disorder.
It's jazz
and jism;
it sticks
to the air;
it's in
your underwear.

I loved the beauty
and needed to be bled.
My alienist helped
cure me
by all this
exposure.
I can't say
it helped; I can say
it worked.

I began last year
in the arms of a love
and will begin this year
in the arms
of another.

(Inside
that and this
parenthesis
was only
misery
with small pockets
of pleasure).

There is
in all this
some kind
of balance.
I know
not
what
this
balance
is. But
I've seen it
through.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

"TAKE A BREAK"

for j. and in spite of her...

she said to me.
"Gimme a minute...
I need to get this shit
down," I answered.
"You said that
an hour ago...
it's my Sunday, too."
"A minute,
just a minute,"
I promised.
"Now, Savage,
I need some
attention
now."
"It's still early,
night's young."
"But not you;
your shelf life
is almost expired
and I've got an itch
that needs scratchin."
"Come over here," I parried.
"Seriously,
take a break; this cat
needs to purr."
Black women
are different
than white:
they get up
in your face
and no "no's"
placate
or appease.
"C'mon Daddy do
what you do."
"Fuckit,"
I said
without
letting her
hear it.
Beside
she had
a better way
with life
than I did.
And I'm simply
not that much
of an artist
or fascist.
I shut-off
the Mac
and did
what any man
would do:
obeyed.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014