Wednesday, April 29, 2015

LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT


I leave
all my troubles
to Jesus.
I never bothered him
when I was alive,
so I figure I can
break his balls
now.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

Sunday, April 26, 2015

I KEEP


the door open
by not killing you
in the book--even
when you're ready
to die.
Everything about you
tells me to return
you to a state
of nothingness.
But, obviously,
I find that
too troubling
even for me.
I cannot stuff
and mount you
on my desk,
like the black
panther of prey
you are, nor
place you
in a convenient
sarcophagus
under my bed
embalmed by
your sexual
juices.
And I do
love you,
you see,
but your
usefulness
is done
in this
matter.
So now,
as your
death scene
approaches,
I delay
and make
all kinds
of excuses
not to show
you the door.

I'm getting it done
in inches,
I tell my brother,
Hamlet, never very good
at this kind of thing either.
Finish the goddamn thing
and get on with it; it won't
be published anyway, despite
what your agent says.
Still, a death
is a death
whether in life
or on the page,
especially when
it's love
that's dying.
You'd like a moment more
to co-mingle,
co-noodle,
co-miserate
with what you thought
it was before it became
what it was
originally.
The closer I get
the farther away
you become; I
can feel that
in my bones.
Doing this
was a way
of stopping
that and that
grows fainter, too.

Get on with it,
they tell me...
and I will.
The pain
is still
exquisite...and
there's
nothing else
to do.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

BOUNCED AROUND


You don't know
what you're getting
into: an icebox
or cauldron.
You don't know
how the cord
you've come from
tightens
once it's
cut.
How unfortunate
not to have skins
like the rhino
or the freedom
of a fish.
Instead,
we're at the mercy,
(for such
an ungodly time),
of lunatics
who've been mothered
by other lunatics.
They're drunk
or broke or
broken or
both; they scream
& curse
& fondle
their charges.
They abandon
or ignore
or shame
because
they can.
And those
are the lucky ones.
They haven't been
bounced against walls,
or tied to their beds
for days or weeks.
They haven't been
pissed on
or touched
or fondled
or fucked.
But none
are really
lucky.
Early on
they believe
the truth
of the lie:
their fault
for the fights
or the coldness
or the ravings
of drunks; their fault
the world tilts
& slides
& slips
underneath
them.

I never really wanted kids;
I always knew
I was too fucked-up
in all the ways
that matter
to them; consistency
for one. I'm no hero.
Today I saw a few
newly minted diabetics:
nine and fourteen.
No family,
but too much family:
drunk and addled
and miffed that a
disease demanded more attention
than they did.
The kids were quiet,
but inside, their bodies
churned: their eyes
sensitive, ears receptive
to every and any
jungle sound. They will
have to develop
a better nose
for deceit
& truth
if they are to survive. And that
could take
a lifetime.

Coming home
the train
was empty
considering
the hour; perhaps
the rain and wind
kept the animals
in their cages.
I sat alone
in a corner
and let the underground
rock me. It felt good.
I'd been through
what those kids
were going through
now: the diabetes,
the blame,
the shame,
the wanting to fix
the unfixable. They will,
I knew, waste
a lot of time.
I didn't want
to get off the train
and passed my stop.
I'd eat out tonight.
And then write,
what turned out,
to be this poem.
Not very good,
I admit,
but I really
don't give
a fuck.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

Sunday, April 12, 2015

DARK CUBAN COFFEE

for KB

sipped as slow ribbons
of cream play
in the fat thick brew.

You never forget
how good
that tastes.

While the after
taste lingers
for hours
& hours.

Viva Fidel.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

Saturday, April 11, 2015

THE GHOSTS


in my fingers
summon her
animus;
I straddle
her grave.
I've killed her
enough
to mistake
the living
for the dead.

Who
but the loved
know
how many deaths
it takes
to make
a life
together?

Each shadow,
a poem.
Each poem
a shadow.
Let my loves,
the ones
wielding knives,
& machine guns,
cannons,
& bombs,
even words,
step forward--
I'm ready...
for the blindfold.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

APRIL FOOLS


are all of us,
of course,
being fools
and being
fooled
and fooling
all who are
fools to fall
again and again
and again.

http://en.sinovision.net/april-fools-day/

Kudos to Joey Skaggs, et al.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015