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