GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST

Two years ago
I had "a date
with the executioner."
She winged her way
from the north
& settled in my crib
for a week
of mad love
& madder hopes.
For me
it was a gift
I didn't want
to question
I only wanted
to enjoy.
In less than two months
it was over: I went up
to her crib; she handed
me my balls
in a box & sent
me packing--
devastated,
humiliated,
blown-up
without a
compass or
much of a reason
to go on...
but of course,
we have to
go on,
and do.

I still love her
and love women;
I love
their skin,
their perfume,
their way
of doing,
& their way
of being done;
I love their
bodies, their
nuanced way
of seeing
while ignoring;
their special
angers & regrets.
But this year
has not been kind
to me: a job
that does not pay
my rent; hours of
waiting for assistance:
food stamps, arrears,
interviews, paperwork.
Days mangled. Yet
I've never felt
more accomplished.
The words
have never
betrayed me; the writing
has never stopped.
"The blood-jet of poetry"
has splashed on the page:
my blood, your blood, her blood.
I can see our bodies splayed
waiting on the word's knife.

In January I start
a new gig. I'm happy
to be able to afford
my pad. Debts
will be repaid
over time; I'll look
at women and not
feel guilty--I can afford
another mistake.
And her
living
in her own hell
I'll flirt with.
I know it will do me no good,
but there's now less of me
to kill.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

I KNOW IT'S LOVE

More than whispers
through the circuits;
more than melancholia
or madness or horror
or pining or pinging
or longing or traveling
those dark highways
between dreams.
It no longer matters
to me
if love,
mine
or
yours
or
anyone
else's,
is crippled
or mangled
or mixed up
and fused
or inter
fused
with roses
blue
or
black
or red.
Certainly
it's not
my poetry
that causes
you to return
over & over
& over
despite
what you might call:
reason.
It can't be me
either, or the love
of self.
You've proved that
over & over & over
again. And...
I don't care
what it is.
Some crazy switch
was turned. I'm a
mirror for your own
life; a neuron
that tells you
how to act, how to move,
how to proceed.

Freud doesn't work
for me anymore, nor
does Sartre or Picasso,
Keats or Bukowski.
We're all driven
by love or lack.
If we're lucky
we still have illusion
and a certain faith
in getting it all wrong
over & over & over
again.

If you're home
you're watching
60 Minutes.
I don't blame you;
I could use some
new information
to misinterpret
or amuse. The bus
& trains will run
tomorrow & there's a hint
of autumn tonight.
I made some chicken,
rice & black beans with
hot sauce for dinner.
I've saved
a Milky Way for desert.
And I hope
you're smiling.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

THANKS FOR GIVING

For j.

me
married women
whose husbands
are dead
or might as well be.
Thanks for giving
them
ancient bohemian hearts
and well-springs
of curiosity.
Thanks for giving
us
chemical erections
to boost passion
and education.
Thanks for giving
Chinatown
instead of turkey.
Thanks for giving
trusting Indians.
And thanks for giving
me
a country
that tolerated
me
and made my life
a jumbled mess
of transgressions
and forgiveness.

Tomorrow
is there
to mold
and to
fabricate.
But tonight,
tonight is for
deep reflection
and above all else
laughter.

The wing
is yours.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014