Tuesday, July 31, 2018
RUSSIA HAS THE GOOD SENSE
to look backwards
at my poetry--
they must feel
the rawness
of my youth
when the blood-jet
was greatest.
I was young enough
not to know
what I was doing,
but did it anyway.
I figured
I'd leave
my mistakes
for other people
to find.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018
Saturday, July 21, 2018
MY BLOCK
used to be hot:
Dylan Thomas drank himself
into St. Vincent's;
Delmore Schwartz
dreamt himself into suicide;
Eleanor Roosevelt funneled
her tits into a D cup
& her lesbian lovers;
Melville & Twain & Poe
scraped horseshit from their boots
& ambled and rambled about America
& God & sea journeys;
Pollock & deKooning
had fist fights
over brush strokes & pussy,
while Rothko thought of black
colors & early death while Klein
the black & white firmnament.
Now...
there are bankers
& banks...& kids
who still smell of piss
& freshly minted credit cards.
You,
or your parents,
have to be rich--
7 dollar ice teas,
& 15 dollar a pound laundries
demand no less.
"Art" is no longer a subject
but a laugh.
And I
can't get
a hardon
over much,
much less
poems
like this.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018
Labels:
art,
bankers,
Banks,
bullshit,
deKooning,
Delmore Schwartz,
Dylan Thomas,
Eleanor Roosevelt,
home,
Jackson Pollock,
Klein,
poems,
Rothko
Friday, July 20, 2018
GOING HOME
is an instinct,
a drive;
it's where
the fever
started
& where
the bit
was placed
into your mouth;
it's where
your spirit
broke.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018
Thursday, July 19, 2018
GOD WAS STUDYING
the indestructability
of matter
when he made
the cunt;
it was as close
as He came.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018
Wednesday, July 4, 2018
FREE
not from the monthly
menstrual cycle
of bills bleeding
me to death--
Sicilian rent,
Cable's stick-up
without a gun,
Con Ed's
air-conditioned nightmare
of need running
through tubing of oxygen masks;
not from this cage
of skin
where microbes dance
& diseases sing
their own special tunes,
& a war of instincts rage
against an overdrawn bank account
of hormones, enzymes, & synapses.
But let me not be so personal
& selfish
on this day
of all days
when celebration
fouls the air
& sits in mouths
like embers
& ash.
Think of the heron
& the tit mouse,
majestic & trivial,
bound in a joint pursuit
chained to the freedom
of survival,
and granted
by a god
they know nothing
about.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018
Labels:
4th of July,
free,
freedom,
Independence Day,
July 4th
Tuesday, July 3, 2018
WHAT DO I DO
now that I'm too old
for love
but not love songs?
What if my tears
are for me
& a world
grown paunchy
& infirm?
I'm not gracious,
I know.
In fact,
more ravenous
as my stomach shrinks
from a diet of memories.
How do you feel
the first kiss
or the last
good one?
How do you breathe
that young breath
of candy-store bought powder
or an educated perfume?
How does your body shiver
when fingers,
other than yours,
unzips you?
It's time to declare
a "Do Over," a "Hindu;"
the ball hit a crack
or was taken by a strange wind
& spun
in a direction
unintended.
I want another shot
at these ancient mysteries.
And who knows?
I might even find you?
Again.
Perched on a ledge
ready to dive
& kindle
a wild river
or have nothing
on your hands
except time.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018
Labels:
age,
aging,
Beginnings,
beginnings & ends,
Doing it over,
future,
remembering,
Time
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