Sunday, May 28, 2017

THE SONG OF THE GOAT MEN


White beards
in my bones;
swimming in a mosh pit
amidst realities entrails.
I am Nietzsche
circumcised. To Athene then
carrying blanched barbs
to a trapeze way station.
And there I balance
a dull watercolored world
of sculpture & science
with drunken rapture
saturated in music
birthing its mongrel son: poetry.

I want my madness
to possess your madness
which thrashes and pulls
the leash near snapping.
If I know
where I am I am
nowhere.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Saturday, May 13, 2017

VODKA


Don'tcha love
potato farmers?
Tilt up
the glass
& taste
Fyodor's blood,
Mayakovsky's phlegm,
the drip
of Turgenev,
the mad laugh
of Gogol,
the fever & grace
of Baryshnikov,
Vygotsky's reach...
The liquid breath
is clean
anger
only clouded
by rants
of those possessed
by a holy negation;
too holy
to be written,
too sacred
for screed,
balancing a universe
drunk
on its axis
& lonely
for its
children.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

TAKING A LEAK IN URINALS MADE OF PYRITE


All men peek
at urinals
at men
who stand
next to them
surreptitiously
checking size.
Their eyes
on a swivel
as mine were
the other evening.
O, my,
I said
to myself:
Trump,
on my right,
had a dick
like a wrinkled spigot;
Vlad had the head
of a marble.
I turned
to my left,
I turned
to my right
& zipped up
slowly.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017


Tuesday, May 9, 2017

UNDER THE VOLGA RIVER


flows tributaries
of blood.
And that blood
flows through
the heartbeats
of dissidents.
And those dissidents
are the only ones
keeping Russia alive.
Remember that,
all those who think
those stains
on the shoes of dictators,
are freshly applied polish.
We can do more
than just bleed.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

NARCISSISTS CHIRPING


1.

I love me.
I love me too.

I really love me.
I really love me too.

I really really love me.
I really really love me too.

I love me truly...

I love me well....

I love me wholly...

I love me broken...

I love me spent...

I love me fractured...

I love me most...

Takemedomewantmeholdmekissmethrillmebuymefeedmefondlemefuckmedrinkmeingestme

2.

I wish to be
on intimate terms
with distance
and want only
the beginnings
of love affairs.

3.

I have only walked
with those who've walked across
ponds where the ice is thin
and have flirted with blackness
more than once. And who caress
their genitalia absentmindedly
and often.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

SHE WAS A PROFESSOR


of the springs; a doctorate
between the sheets.
She wrote her thesis
on positions &
the various openings
of pleasure.
I, at the time,
was a quick study
but a quicker shooter.
She gave me
an "incomplete,"
and I never
made up
the work.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Sunday, April 16, 2017

DOMINATION


Stick it in my ass,
she said.
Huh? I replied.
Hurry,
put it in there.
I dunno,
I wavered.
She was a smelly old whore
full of promise
to this fifteen year old
idiot full
of doubt.
I had no idea then
that one of us
was really full
of shit.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Saturday, April 15, 2017

EASTER, 2017


Christ rose,
opened his eyes,
looked around,
& went back
to being dead.
Fuck this,
he said,
& rolled over
to find
the cold side
of the pillow.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

THE CHEEKS OF HER ASS APPEARS


an inch below
her short
shorts.
It's supposed
to enchant or
entice; it's supposed
to be sexy, but this
escapes me.
I'm unusual,
I admit.
I'm attracted
to scars
& scowls;
the turn
of ankle
or phrase;
a Dada depression
or suicidal
surrealism.

I like my women dressed.
What happens later,
behind the curtain
is Greek
to me.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

NIPPLE WEATHER


encourages
the urges
of infants
in bodies
of men
propelling mouths
towards milky heads
of nails
in this jack-hammer
civilization...

It nearly broke eighty today
with more heat, more baby talk,
more drool
coming
tomorrow.
Evolution
through fabric.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Thursday, April 6, 2017

SURRENDER,


my dear. Hoist
the white flag
and engage
the beast.
The beast
who marvels
at your diseased
heart and
the coarseness
of your peasant soul.

I promise
we'll waltz
to Brahms
and serve
each other's
flesh in a
Freudian hothouse.

The creature
straddles a fence
and all the boats
point west.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Monday, April 3, 2017

SOMEBODY


has to be love starved
and somebody has to inject
formaldehyde into the veins
of corpses. Somebody
has to be in Alberta
looking for a dried twig
while somebody is looking
for a drink
in an SRO in LA.
Somebody has to have dialysis
tomorrow morning and somebody
is pissing honey tonight.
Somebody will wake up in Paris
and think it's Greenwich Village
and somebody will wake
in Greenwich Village and think
it's hell.
Somebody will be defeated soon
and somebody will be lucky rich
and somebody will turn dance
into defeat while somebody hunts
little girls in Bushwick.

We fill-up our space
with what is given. I've worked
the apple cart. My horse huffed
and shat on Houston Street. I've
held a muffler to my throat
against the East River winds.
I've seen streets cobbled
against the hooves. I am
somebody when I'm inside
someone, but someone, a somebody,
when not knowing who that somebody
is. The fracture
is love.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Thursday, March 30, 2017

PRIVACY...AT A PRICE

For all my Russian readers...

There's me
buying a vacuum
on Amazon; there's me,
again, watching
a gorgeous chick vacuuming
thirty-five cocks
into her mouth
on my Mac.
O, look,
me again
buying a children's tea-set
on Target
for my granddaughter
who lives on Crete and me,
once again,
an hour later,
copping some oxycodone
from a Mexican outhouse pharmacist site
on my smartphone.
I feel so important
being tracked
& looked after,
like a president
in a palace.
And really,
there must be
better porn,
& better drugs,
& better prices out there
and why would I want
to use all my precious time
finding them?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

I'M FULL OF SHIT


and full of words.
They go together
like...
Life & narratives...
Experience & poetry.
Text & testifying...

Some stand
on their heads,
thumbs up their ass.
I'll take the soapbox,
my tongue flapping
in the breeze.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

MY JOB IS TO DREAM


words: bread & marbles,
apricots & onions,
moles & Minotaurs.
A shaft of light
dancing across minnows
wet with belief
& the smell
of religion.
Honeybees leaning along
the Queen's thigh
suckling a thickening liquid
sprung from the head of Zeus.
How else
to reconcile
the people
& the rocks?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Friday, March 17, 2017

A BAD LUCK WOMAN

"Many a good man has been put under a bridge by a woman."
--Henry Chinaski

and she's all mine.
She was sick & suicidal
when she found me.
Just the kind I like.
I got her well
& she thanked me
by twisting the knife
into my innards
like she was twirling spaghetti.
She was Faye
& I was Jack
and this was Chinatown.

I couldn't quit her.
I couldn't quit her
before it cost me my job,
my money, my sanity and
nearly my pad--eviction notices
blanketed my door. Her absence
bothered me more than anything real could.
But I fought
the good fight
until her boil
became a pimple
that I sometimes,
even to this day,
absentmindedly rub.
My poems
as my life
doesn't concern her;
she cares
only if I still care
about her; only
in that regard
she's like
the rest of us.
I do not say
this is good
or bad but is...
until yesterday...

I saw that someone
from Canada peeked into my blog.
I had that feeling
that we all have
from time to time: anxious,
troubling and worse still,
curious.
I contacted the three readers
I have up there.
No, they said, not them.

Later in the a.m. I was woken
by a stiff white light
shining into my eyes & the outline
of a monster with a peaked hat.
There's a fire, the voice said,
sorry to wake you like this, but you have to get up and out; too much smoke in here.
I reached for my sweats and sweatshirt and slippers.
I walked out into my hall where six or seven other firemen were doing their thing.
I noticed my lock was busted, its entrails hanging by a thread.
Everything's OK now, one said, sorry about the lock, but we had to get in.
Yeah, I said, it's OK.

I was saving money to buy a comfortable chair and light stand so I could read and watch whatever.
That's all gone: 400 for a lock and house call; New York's a stick-up without a gun.
She probably knew that. I don't know how but
I know she knew
that.
Chop Suey anyone?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

IT CATCHES YOUR GUT


like a fishhook
baited by an old
& patient angler
& deftly cuts you
and out spills
an intestine's worth
of memories; a bowel
of inane blather; a fly ball
lost in the sun.

And there you are
flopping around
on a wet deck
blood smeared & useless
save for your goddamned history:
almost rolling a 300; making it
with a heavy legged waitress
at the end
of her shift; endless nights
and endless breasts and endless beasts
that you commanded and told where to sit
& when...and now
nothing, being tricked
by the cheap lure
of loneliness
as another organ
gets pulled from you and you
can hardly even moan.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Sunday, March 12, 2017

NO, STAY THERE


she said
with her hand,
light, yet full
of urgency.
My mouth
wrote
curlicues
inside
her privacy.
I signed
my name
with my breath.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Saturday, March 11, 2017

SATURDAY NIGHTS ON A CONEY ISLAND BEACH


we'd lean our backs
against the concrete bunker
built during the second world war
to look for ships & subs
who might try to fuck with us,
and our shoulders and arms
would touch and I'd pass her
the joint
and then the bottle
of wine and we'd look
into the blackness
and tell each other
secrets no one else knew:
her mom used a hair brush
on her while my father choose
a belt buckle; he ripped farts
in the middle of the night
waking us up while her mother shacked
with a family friend next door.
I ran my hand along her thigh
and marveled at this easy intimacy;
how I hid and ran and dodged
and she told me I didn't have to do that anymore...
and neither did she.

We sauntered along the boardwalk
to Nathan's and had a gloppy Chow Mein Sandwich
and a Beef Bar-B-Q bun for a buck
and shared a large fries for 50 cents more.
The night had sharp jaws and edges,
but we had our own space, enough
to feel safe within as she slid her hand
through my back pocket as natural
as the stars coming out while the salted air
alerted my nipples and I reached over
and put my hand inside her shirt
and found one of hers and she jerked
and laughed and I laughed and I knew
I had some more pot in my pocket and
would not be going home
for a long long time and might
catch a beating for that but that
didn't enter my mind.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

WRITING


My hands
have wrinkles,
seven hundred
and eighty four of them
to be exact:
770 poems,
3 novels,
1 memoir,
and 10 short stories.
You might say
I have honest skin.

If I don't finish
this poem
I'll stay
at 784
and never get
another wrinkle.
More than that
you can't ask for.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Thursday, March 2, 2017

THE IDES OF MARCH COME EARLY THIS YEAR


I'm not that strong.
This does not come
as revelation
simply fact.
If she had rung
my bell
one more time
I would have
opened the door.
She's the navel
of pleasure/pain
in the dreamer's heart.

I would have eased
the needle's tip
into an old
& trustworthy vein.
It would have slid in.
It would slide under
hardened flesh.
It would have slaked thirst.
And it would have
made true the bargain's lure:
find what you love
& let it
kill you.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Sunday, February 26, 2017

THERE ARE TWO THINGS YOU MUST NEVER EVER DO:


One:
Answer your phone;
and two:
open your door
after midnight.
Unless
you're a fool
or
you're in love
with your past;
or
angry
at
your future.

or

love to fuck
with danger,
misery,
pain;

or

just plain
stubborn.

I'll wait...

there's somebody
on your line...

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Saturday, February 25, 2017

SATURDAY NIGHT ON THE GERIATRIC EXPRESS


"I'm gonna get that limp lookin
sorry-assed piece of meat up...up...up,
yeh here me, up!"
She sounded like The Fifth Dimension.
"Here, take this," she said,
and pushed a few pills at me.
I took em.
It still might be a lot of work,
I cautioned.
"Work. Shit. That's what I live for:
Challenges!"
She was young. Energetic.
I was old. Nearly finished.
We made a funny couple.
The devil was in
both of us.
I might outlive
everybody
she whispered
when it was
over.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Sunday, February 19, 2017

FIRSTS:


Asking Maxine out
for a hot fudge ice-cream sundae
when I was six and summoning up
the courage to take her hand
on our secret path back home;
swimming without my father's arms
underneath me & feeling the waters pull;
surfing on asphalt on a tar spun Brooklyn street,
the training wheels off
with only my own power & balance to guide me;
a hardball sliding into my Rawlings oiled glove
and hitting a liquid smart drive on the fat of the bat;
having courage in the darkness
& the high spun arc of magisterial wide screen technicolor
coming on at once like LSD kid style; melted popcorn
oozing between my fingers licking the tips;
the first time my dick moved straight up
all by itself;
the first time I mastered making a bridge
so the pool cue slid easily between my fingers;
the first time the ball touched nothing
but twine and the swoosh it made;
the first touch of silk;
or the smell of my dog wet
from the spring rains;
the first time I saw Corinne
and moved toward her without
knowing why; the first smell
from a mimeograph machine or
gasoline pump, paper solvent
or horse manure or man sweat
after a summer's football game
on the beach; the first pull
on a stick of reefer or opium pipe
and the snake that slithered up
my spine and around my shoulders
and up into my brain;
the first time I realized Coltrane
or Monk or Miles or Billie or Nina;
the first time I knew I really existed
and found the keys into Joyce's pocket;
sighting Diane behind a glove counter & knew
how love can come from behind and mug you.
It has been a long slow kiss
to the fates and it has been
sublime.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Friday, February 17, 2017

SOMEWHERE IN CHINA


one person,
in a country of 1.4 billion,
checks my blog everyday
around 11, 1130 a.m. to see
what's up.
Undoubtedly,
he
or
she
is the hippest
cat
or
chick
in the land.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Thursday, February 16, 2017

PACK YOUR SHIT


Mr. President.
It's only been a month tomorrow
so you can't have much to take:
a bathrobe (maybe two);
a toothbrush (maybe two);
perhaps a thong.
You've already fucked-up
more shit than everyone
who came before you; you'll only
fuck-up more if you stay.
But take heart:
you've made the history books:
most fucked-up president ever.
That's what they'll say.
You'll be the one
they make comparisons to:
You think he's fucked-up? That ain't nothin. I was around when...
And you'll have your portrait; your windswept "do"
will be next to Lincoln Kennedy Washington Roosevelt
and your skinny scrunchy lips and beaver mean eyes
will frighten the shit out of school children
taking a tour with Melania who never noticed
you were even gone.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

A PALL


has descended
over me; I struggle
to do anything
except move my fingers
over the keys and let
whatever flies & lands
in my head create the lie
of exercise & movement.

Depression is gifted
for the young;
melancholy
for the lovelorn.
I am neither.
I am like my words:
lugubrious labored
leaden lonely.
A shroud covers
my TV, anchors of folly
slither over its face.

I'm waiting for the earth
to turn over
us and the intrepid worm
become our jailers.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Saturday, February 11, 2017

JEWISH EXPOSURE


Some women
have been shielded
from Jews
their entire lives.
They've come
from the backwaters
of Michigan, Wisconsin,
Mars; somewhere where
no circumcisions never
needed to knit
or unravel.
They've never been
around charming Jews,
tough Jews,
shrewd Jews,
smart Jews
in one chosen package.
They've never been romanced
and seduced and
lied to and
liked it.

I've met
and bedded
many.

I'll get this;
you leave
the tip.

Our eyes caught
and locked.
We knew
what came
next and it didn't
have a name.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Monday, February 6, 2017

A LONG POEM FOR SHORT-TERM MEMORIES


Strength tests
for a blubbery country
its body grown old
fat & full & sloppy
from corn syrup
& sedimentation;
muscles dripping,
arteries slogging,
reflexis dull
& slow and full
of shit.
The light,
if ever there was some,
is a brackish yellow seepage,
it flickers and burns
out. It happens
to all of us: those who dine
on caviar & gherkins,
or those who spooned Mulligans Stew.
It happens to University profs
with their dainty organic salads
and long-distance truckers
sucking down Big Macs & Red Bulls.
We've been content
to have let ourselves go
and segment ourselves for the sellers:
pilferages seven days a week;
footballbasketballbaseball non-stop,
homeshopping, mafia housewives, LA Hair, lock-ups
of the toothless and hopeless and helpless; penny-ante pilferages
of grapes or nuts or toothpaste or toilet paper while we wait
for the weather--rain or a half inch of snow is enough to send us
into paroxysms of anxiety.
Do you need a dick pill?
A nervous pill?
A vaginal cream?
How about sugar pill?
Nosespray?
Neuropathy? Can I sell you a car that can see behind itself?
Can I help you park it? And what about those tits on that anchor woman?
Where is that handsome young man who wants to tell me about Medicare?

The fabric has weakened
as predicted it would.
It is neurosis which has flown
in a widening gyre
while the falcon
trains its eyes
on us.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Thursday, February 2, 2017

THE LOVE SONG OF DONALD J. TRUMP


Let us go then
you & I
as the country is chained
around a megalomaniac's thigh
like sheep
about to be
buggered.

Let us go
through flaccid streets
under silken sheets
of puffed bravado
and stubby fingered falsetto
to where madmen wait
sucking an empty space
like prunes within a vacated bowel.

In the room the blowhards come & go
Tickling each other's assholes.

There will be time, there will be time
to grow a dick
and fornicate
with a stranger tonight...
or each other's mate
even when their there...or ain't.

No, I am not Nikita
nor was meant to be,
am a jester and a saint
but would not hesitate
to drop a shoe
upon his pate.

We have lingered too long
celibate and lick the salt
upon the state.
So roll up
your sleeves and part your hair
and wonder how our fine creatures
only sit and stare.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Saturday, January 28, 2017

A LITTLE MORE DOPE, PLEASE


Got enough kindness,
thank you very much.
Food, uhuh,
got plenty of that, too.
Money? OK
with that.
A woman? You kiddin?
I'll pass.
Got my four walls,
some paper,
and a Bic--
if I need em.
It's dreams, man,
that I'm short of;
and I'm getting old-old,
so old that my old dreams
have gotten tired, too,
and can't make the leap
into my head
without some help.
So...
pass the dope, wouldya?
I've got the spike&spoon,
I've got the cotton&belt,
a glass of water rests
on my table & I've got the will
to sleep&encourage
rebellion
damning what separates me
from the dimming light.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

MARY TYLER MOORE IS DEAD


and I can't say I'm sorry.
I spoke to her once
while she was in Canada
filming some bullshit
and I was holed up
in my Greenwich Village pad
bloody and bandaged and minus
four toes and still trying
to dream and she
was in a phone booth
with a second or two,
she told me,
between takes.
I'd tried for years
to get my memoir to her: Confessions
Of An Uncontrolled Diabetic.
I tried through my doctors,
her publicist, her husband's colleagues,
and finally through her assistants.
The years were 1982 through '85
and she was living in the San Remo.
I was convinced that between the insulin shocks,
insulin shots, piss testing, food deprivations,
depressions from sugar highs, anger from the lows,
a commonality of Brooklyn, doctors, fears and
foreboding, she'd get behind the work if
she read it, though I never particularly liked
her work: too pretty, too perky, too sweet,
too American, but, hey, she held some ins
to my outs.
She was worth a shot.
Getting published,
getting validated,
getting out of this thing
called "life" was worth
whatever lies
I had to tell.
An actor friend of mine
knew one of her assistants
and so I traipsed up to the San Remo
and dropped the book off for her
with the militarily clad doorman.
After a year
I forgot about it.
And then a phone call
on a rain slicked day.
She was probably sorry
she didn't get my answering machine.
After my hello
she told me who she was.
"Sorry," she said,
"I can't get involved with this."
I just held the receiver.
"Best of luck," she said,
and hung up.
I could hear her voice catch.
I heard, "I'd really like to, but..."
kinda tone.
I'd suspected the work cut too close
to Mary's bone and wasn't surprised
a decade later when she wrote about
her alcoholism and the less savory
parts of her so called charmed life.
"Fuck her," I said at the time
and went back to what I did best:
hide
behind words
& substances.

I might have another eleven years
to go--give or take--and am not displeased
about the arc my life has taken
before and after Mary.
Redford must have sensed, too,
her drunken selfishness and filmed it.
Really,
it was her most honest role.
I should know:
I've played it
once or twice
myself.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Monday, January 23, 2017

WITHOUT THINKING


a hand finds
the back of my neck
and casually rests
soothing the wrinkles
inside my head
with her fingers
brushing
the tops of drums.
How lovely
is that in
the early evening
as the madness of the day
airs itself out
and a gentleness
eases itself in--
like listening to Al Green
Backing Up the Train.
You pray a little
you will never speak again
or hear any language that can't
be sung.
You know,
of course,
you've done nothing
to deserve this kindness
except live
through another day
of hell.
"Baby,
that feels so good,"
you want to say,
but don't.
Instead you note
the passage of time:
why it feels this miraculous
at seventy
as it did
at seventeen;
and there I am
still bewildered
at how women know
where to touch you
and when.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Friday, January 20, 2017

THIS INAUGURATION DAY IS A DAY


for Monk,
Thelonious
that is; it's
a WELL YOU NEEDN'T day,
a NUTTY day,
a STRAIGHT, NO CHASER, day,
a BLUE MONK, day.
Turn off
the news,
the TV.
Do not
read.
Forget
what you know.
Give yourself
over
to the dots
that can't be
connected,
but
(somehow)
are.
Arm yourself
with a chuckle,
a knowing grin.
And once sated
move forward
into the breach
and take up
the fight
again.

Norman Savage
Bronx, NY 2017

Sunday, January 15, 2017

MISSION IMPOSSIBLE


Working with the addicted,
the deranged, the borderline,
the schizo affective, the bi-polar,
the recently released, incarcerated,
the twitchy, the nervous, the traumatized,
the treated mercilessly, the tortured,
the stigmatized, the one's whose first word
was no, whose innards boast the picket fences
of fear, too early and too complicated and too monstrous
to look through and too briar rich to get through without
bleeding to death is almost as hard
as loving them.

I should know:
For fifty years
I've made a living
off them & tonight
I'm taking one out
to dinner.

I myself
am one
& divide
against
myself
as tides
come in
& try
to drown
me.

There is something rousing
about jousting with impossibility;
something stirring
when the strings
are struck
in the hearts
of masochists.
Sometimes
they even summon things
of beauty.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Friday, January 13, 2017

SCRUBBING THE STAINS


cannot help
but leave a stain
but that stain
is smooth
like a chalk outline
around a dead body.
It's been hard
work but I've had help:
my ex has never called;
the nut from the north
has kept her distance;
I've had no uninvited
knocks in the middle of
the night; my parents
are dead and I've buried
"the bad
with their bones;"
and my brother
has trouble
of his own
that I,
unfortunately,
can't help with.
All in all
this past year
has been better
than good
for me; so good
that at times I believe
something bad is close
at hand.

I still make mistakes,
plenty of them, but
they are new,
too.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

SOMETIMES IT'S SO STAGGERING ALL YOU CAN DO IS WEEP


There is a point
rusted inside you
that is reached
when words collide
with your history;
they freeze
& bleed
into your next breath.
Time dissolves.
Pain
which was muted
& runny congeals
& engulfs.
You are lost
inside your flesh
desperate for air;
your defenses
useless;
your rationalizations
in neat boxes
of misery;
your reason
banished; your control
dismissed
as folly.

Hold tight,
my friends.
This visitor
doesn't stay
for long
because
it never left.
It's just reminding you
it's hungry.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Thursday, January 5, 2017

"LOADED"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-NwKZ9ZsgGA

Been listening
since new years
forty-seven years ago;
I was twenty-two &
loaded myself: my guns
were loaded; my body
was loaded; the times
were loaded & The Velvets
were loaded. I thought
I was dangerous I thought
I'd change literature I thought
I'd fuck endless women through endless nights and take endless drugs through endless dreams and thread my way through this endless life and bend this life to my will...
nothing bent
except me.

I still listen
to "Loaded,"
but now straight
as a steel rod
without its steel sister;
my gun
shot blanks
and life
was my master
while I
was its
masturbator.

Here, have
a listen.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

IF YOU LIVE LONG ENOUGH


it all comes back:
skinny ties,
berets,
goatees,
unfiltered cigarettes,
jazz,
existentialism...
all that stuff:
"Pour soi,"
"En soi,"
"Hell is other people,"
"condemned to be free"...
you know,
RESPONSIBILITY
FOR YOUR OWN ACTIONS kind of shit.
(And maybe another world war,
and devastation death rubble
and bread lines soup lines Maginot Lines
and despots dictators demigods de facto
and foolishness & fucking
and more than a Guernica abstract
and bad teeth & misery so thick
you won't be able to piss
without a bishop or rabbi
to direct the stream.

(And
I could be wrong.

(But
I'm not
am I?

(And you don't think so
either,
do you?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Tuesday, January 3, 2017

STEALTHLY, A THROWBACK MOVES FORWARD


She was
a white-gloved
street whore;
Picasso's mistress,
Isadora's partner,
Baudelaire's muse,
a lower east side
gutter hugger
when there was
a lower east side
to fight the chill
inside a world
full of spoons
& white cotton.
Now she fights
off dementia &
boils by forming
words in a darkness
of her own making
& singing to lights
of her own choosing.
She's pulp
in all its
glory.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Sunday, January 1, 2017

THE YEAR CHANGES, BUT THE UNDERWEAR REMAINS THE SAME

For Puma, with love...


Men still follow
behind women
quietly
as they are led
into supermarkets,
clothing stores,
restaurants,
movie theaters,
looking aimlessly about
as they submit
to the leash,
if not the lash,
of the female
& lean
into their own
confusion.

Jesus, too,
must have noticed
the Jaws of Death
when he followed
that old whore
to her corner
and watched her
throw-out her line
& began to fish
for her daily bread.
He looked about
trying to believe
he was concentrating
on something divine
but knowing it was
rejection
that had him coming
back for more.

Too often
I find myself
reading ingredients
on the backs of cans
while the woman I'm with
moves forward
with our lives.
I've been lucky
having always someone
who knows
how to dance.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 201