VODKA

Don'tcha love
potato farmers?
Tilt up
the glass
& taste
Fyodor's blood,
Mayakovsky's phlegm,
the drip
of Turgenev,
the mad laugh
of Gogol,
the fever & grace
of Baryshnikov,
Vygotsky's reach...
The liquid breath
is clean
anger
only clouded
by rants
of those possessed
by a holy negation;
too holy
to be written,
too sacred
for screed,
balancing a universe
drunk
on its axis
& lonely
for its
children.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

MISHA'S DANCE OF DEATH ON HIS OWN RUSSIAN SOIL

My age now,
Misha is,
nearer than further,
astride the grave,
a Beckett waltz
on his breath
he dances
in Brodsky's shadow.
How the old dowagers flock
toward the memory
of his beautiful body
and find only
decrepitude instead.

Almost forty-five years ago
in a loft on Chambers Street
I sat like a schoolchild
watching the clash of egos.
Cecil and Misha
(and poor little Heather
in a corner) cornered
by their art
trying to birth a marriage.

Our beginnings are our ends.
We know this,
but don't really know this,
until we see the flesh
hanging from the bone.

Twenty years ago
I saw Cecil at The Vanguard.
A solo performance.
It sounded like a late Beethoven sonata,
a summing up. Now Misha.
And now the dowagers
who no longer smile
at their memories.
"Art" never was
supposed to be
entertainment.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015