WHAT WOULD THE OLD ONES SAY?

No, not the graybeards
that gave name to this merrygoround;
and, no, not the Old Masters
who took pain
and oil-slicked it
with words
& brushstrokes
& notes;
and not the ones
who casually rested
along the outlines
of my skin. No.
Not them.
The ones I think about
are those who've entered
when I was most vulnerable,
blood-jet love,
and had hearts
I clawed into
& tugged & ripped
& eaten--human love
at its most animalistic,
sheets etched
with blood & semen.

I believe
I gave
so little
& robbed
so much
god-awful
time worse
than betrayal
or sins
which sit
inside
a novel's spine,
that I wonder
what would they say
seeing me obey
the rigors
of mortality?

Ancient vulnerabilities
exposed. Humbleness
dictated by god's engine.
And although I'm still fighting
all this, I know that is not
a way to go.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

WHY I'M HERE

is obviously not
what I thought.
It's not to get
my way, but to
find a way;
it's not to stroke
an inflamed
and engorged
flabby ego,
but to leash it
to reason; it's not
to get my cock sucked
with whomever however
I choose and not to offer
my arm to the blind
& crippled at crossings.
It's not to sing
praises to the Lord
or His parasites or care
if Mother Mary gives a fuck
over what I'm doing or done.
It might be to listen
to Coltrane conducting
a Latin Mass or marry
words or wonder
why the Blackbird
is hungry today?
It might be to breathe
heroin fumes off concrete
in the Bronx or rub
an amputee's stumps?
It might be
to have dinner
with Puma
& talk baseball
and loves stranded
on third?
These are all legitimate
concerns.
Certainty
is for the dispossessed
who know
they need to eat
or pee.
Those,
like myself,
who have the luxury
of play, can be artists
of cowardice--like
wondering where
all that living goes
when it stops.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

RUNNING ON EMPTY

For A...
http://bit.ly/2bU0bZ9

Chances are
if you're reading this
you've eaten today,
or will tonight;
you have a roof
over your head;
you can fuck
or be fucked
by someone
of your own
choosing;
you can,
at least,
have a hand
to hold;
you have ways
to go.
Most of those
who I'm supposed to counsel,
who I'm supposed to know
more about living than they do,
have had none of this
and even the hobo bed
they sleep in
tonight
will be fraught
with an evanescent
darkness.
Some wait
for me
to arrive
in the morning,
believing
I have answers or,
at least,
another way
to go,
to get them through
another day;
addicts,
myself included,
have always been
magical thinkers.

But today,
I'm fresh out
of words,
worn thin
from my own
battles
with my own
demons
who keep finding
my new cracks
in old cracks
to slither & slide
through and take possession
of flimsy pretensions.

I would think
it would change:
I'm older;
seemingly
at peace
with this carnival
of Hell that excited me so.
But I'd be wrong
to think that.
I could find fault
with Heaven
not being Heavenly enough.

But tomorrow
I'll go to Chinatown
with a woman
who likes spice.
She knew Arbus
and listened
to Ornette.
She'll sleep over
& leave when I leave
for work Sunday morning.
I'll play Nico for her
& she'll know that too.
Good things
are sometimes
hard to take,
but I'll live.
Yes,
I will.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

"I'M DYING

to know
the ending.
This
is where
I came
in.
I've seen
this part.
Don't
be
a prick.
Stop
teasing
me.

I can't make
heads
or tails
out of it.
Why
He's kept me
in this crap
game
so long
is
a mystery.
It's
the first
thing
I'll ask Him."

"What do you think
he'll say?"

"Nothin,
that's what.
I don't think
he has
any fuckin answer
either."

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016