THE TEENSY-TINY TERMINATOR

Smaller than Arnold's
pubic hairs,
& stronger...&
it wants your ass.
It knows nothing
else.

And, unlike Trump,
it's really tough.
It does not
announce itself;
your dick
will not leak;
your pussy
will not drip;
you will not
emit an odor.
Its mug
isn't hung
in post offices.
No, it's more like
an AA meeting:
no "musts,"
no requirements,
no nothings,
just be
available
by breathing.
It does not brag,
it does;
it does not lie,
it's tongueless;
it lets you be
until you be
no more.
It is, unlike Trump,
very patient,
& very smart.

Arnold & Donald,
a governor &
a president,
predicting & deciding
our fate. You couldn't
make this up.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

WHERE DO YOU GO WHEN YOU GO WHEN YOU KNOW YOU HAVE NO PLACE TO GO

Those times when you know
you have to go but
do not know exactly
why you have to go
but go you have to
and go you will.


Those times when I become
a turtle drawing my legs
and neck into my space,
into a heroin enclave,
an armored shell & soft belly,
permitting the least amount of damage done
to an already compromised immune system.

Where do you go to breathe.
Where can you undress
down to the confines of your heart
and not be disgusted by its beat.
When will all those monstrous mirrors
tell the truth.
Where do you go when you go
to those unnamed & untamed regions
you know so well;
how naturally do you play
in Keat's sandbox
of negativity?

As for me
I go where safety waits,
though truth is fear's
first casualty.
Still, I would think,
(maybe hope),
it's a stone's throw
from yours;
close enough
for us to share
a shovel.
We cannot, alone,
dig a tunnel out,
but we sure as hell
can get closer
to one another
just by breathing.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

CALLING DR. FREUD

Vell, it's obvious, no?
He is trying to replicate
his greatest success,
his only success:
The Apprentice.
All his other business'
went into the shithole, no?:
Airline, Steaks, Water,
A Charity, A University,
A Football Team, Buildings, even Casinos (where
only the most incompetent
can't make a dollar)--Poof! Gone!
Only his Daddy's money
(and that was very stinky money, too),
bailed him out until other Daddys
allowed him only to keep his name
while they made the shit.

But The Apprentice, ah, The Apprentice,
that was his. He could be his boorish,
stupid stumbling self & still rule
the little office where syncophants went
to grovel to the mushroom capped cock
underneath a desk of make believe.
It is there, in the safey
of his home, he wants people--
and now cities & states--
to slug it out.
He wants people
to beg
before he hires.
He wants bodies
to contort,
to agonize.
He wants to see
all the states
all the cities
who betrayed him
turn on each other
in a feeding frenzy
for money, for equipment,
for a breath;
he wants those cities & states
to bring those trucks,
those iceboxes,
so he can see
in real time
with his racoon eyes
the dead carted out
to wait to be planted.
He loves this;
it's what he lives for.

Today, on this Friday, March 27th, afternoon,
he's already started to primp himself--
plastic hair, orange flesh--
for his daily fix:
a "news" conference
where his mouth--
looking more like a turkey's asshole--
will emit today's droppings:
small hard pellets of shit.
He will stand above the fray
& select the reporters he deigns to favor
with more lies
knowing full well
the havoc
& death
he stokes.

All this talk,
all this handwringing,
& all this breastbeating &
all these acts of courage,
is for naught.
He is
his one & only firament light
that he navigates by;
he is the only star
in this show.
He cannot
& will not
give that up.

There is only one word
for this disease, my friends;
one word that captures
a pathology for which
there is no escape--
that word
must be
love.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

I DIDN'T KNOW WHO I WAS

and so decided
to be both
intellect
& gangster,
obedient son
& overt lunatic;
a fear &
fearlessness
sitting anxiously
yet comfortably
on the electrified fence,
upon which
I sat.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

THE NEW NEW STRATEGY ON THE OLD OLD DOPE GAME

And young man, Izzy the candy-store owner asked,
what can I do for you today?

I'd like, (my eyes were salivating,
watering the treats below them), I'd like,
let's see, hmmm, a few packs of M&M's,
nuts please, 10 Bazooka Joe's,...
& 2 bags of Dr. Death...

Harry, please, I can't,
your father would kill...

Don't be an idiot, Iz.
I got 500 here. Cash.

That's on top of the candy?

Of course--you old gonif.

It's 20 for the M&M's,
20 for the Bazooka Joe's,
& 50 cents for the good Doctor...

What's with the 50 cents?

Labor--somebody's got to put it in the bag, no?
And Harry, it's strong--don't forget
take the gum out of your mouth before...

Yeah, yeah, OK.

Izzy went to the back & returned with the doctor;
a picture of Marcus Welby on the bag.

Thanks, Iz.

Don't forget to say hello to your folks.

Iz, please...

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

MY PLANKTONIC MEMORIES

are oiled up

& waiting

to be caught

on this,

my merry-go-round,

of fear.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

A YEAR AGO TO THE DAY

I felt so goddamned good
I was riddled with guilt.
Don't ask me why
that was,
it just was.
And so
I didn't want to do anything,
(lest I jinx it),
until this strange mood
of feeling good
evaporated,
went away,
sucked up,
by my more natural stream
of venom
& recriminations;
until the vileness
of pleasntries
were denied
an easy passport
into my bloodstream
of doubt--
where all good poems live;
until I felt
normal again.

It figures
that today
was the day
I came across
whatever this is--
& will post it
against my better judgement
because, once again,
I'm feeling good
despite this topsy-turvy world
we're spinning on.
But soon
I will be unable
to call my shots:
eight ball, corner pocket...
Ya see,
see what I mean?
Simple, eh?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

DAYS AS STALE AS MONTHS OLD BREAD

as flat as a busted tire
and as predictable as worry
sits above the drippings
of a black bile
congealing on the hardwood floor
under me as I wait...and wait...
and wait for a fucking word
to show up.
Any word would do.
But obviously, they're better at hiding
then I am at seeking, and they know
how easily I discourage.
I decide to give up on the ineffable
lowering my gaze to the bellybutton,
intestine, naked balls & hairy ones,
fingernails & eyelashes, timecards & taxes,
strike one, and two, and three, first
& third, mouths, lungs, hearts, teeth
biting & teeth encased in glass,
tongues wagging or stuttering or silent,
and suddenly
I'm so fucking weary and wonder,
can I be the only one?
I would like my world
to be meaty & tempestuous
instead of picayune & vicious.
Let the seat that cradles my ass
be hot & anxious allowing roots
carrying the terrors of Callas
& the sorrows of Pavorotti
into my unflinching pen
writing words bloodsoaked
and blasphemous to the few
pockmarked souls sitting
in the stew
of their own making.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

THE OSCARS

I've not gone
to see a movie
in twenty years.
Most new movies,
like new songs & music,
escapes me.
But I tune in
for those golden statues
and the graceful hands
who fondle & covet them.
I still love movies,
but what I crave
are cleavages,
long finely crafted legs
& a body that stops
at my eye's edge.

I love that as much
as a well crafted phrase.

God's wheel of roulette
hitting a double zero.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

GETTING STRAIGHT IN A WORLD OF CROOKED DREAMS

takes an awful amount of work--
and I should know.
For over half a century--off
and on--I've sought & found myself
in the white lady's embrace,
but it wasn't easy.
We junkies are said to be a lazy lot,
by those Mayflower noses
who sniff our detached delinquency
with disdain, but our lives spent
in pursuit of heavenly abstractions
belie that.

Pretty much,
it's a sunup to sundown gig:
You ain't got it, ya have ta get it;
ya get it, you have ta use it;
ya use it, ya have ta have more...
and more...
and more...
unless ya have money & connects up the ass,
but even then other predators lurk--
just ask Michael or Prince or Seymour.

Usually, we must go amidst the savages
before Morpheus is tightly tucked
in your pocket, or sock, or under the balls,
before we get to our sanctity
to take him out & play; before he curls
against our thirsty cells; before
we can feel alright & safe
in a world not of our own making,
we first need get out the bellows,
and anvil, and hammer to straighten
a steel pretzel soul into
its reptilian progenitor who then
can dial a number or slither out
to cop...and cure.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020