SUNDAYS, A FAMILY DAY

were days
to lick
your week's wounds
while trying to avoid
repercusions (& concussions)
& trips to the family's farm
of home-grown kosher guilt.
It was a day littered
with traps
sprung from short-term memory
and long held grudges,
and the poisoned paranoia
of projection missles
launched into an already
scattered mind.

Sunday was a reminder
of not what you were,
but what you'd never become.

But away from the yapping
I would think of journeys
into the mouths of ideas;
each cavity, a tunnel;
each country or little town
held its own language
of pain as I dived
to meet where each exposed nerve
came from; where the roots
were rotten, where they shimmered
naked before my inexperienced eye.

Love was salted with fear;
empathy, a narcissitic fatality.
Seeking safety, I found a bed of lies,
which I was happy to cover myself in,
allowing the whispers to warm me
as I searched for an ending
that didn't feel so goddamn awful.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

WHAT DO I DO

now that I'm too old
for love
but not love songs?
What if my tears
are for me
& a world
grown paunchy
& infirm?

I'm not gracious,
I know.
In fact,
more ravenous
as my stomach shrinks
from a diet of memories.

How do you feel
the first kiss
or the last
good one?
How do you breathe
that young breath
of candy-store bought powder
or an educated perfume?
How does your body shiver
when fingers,
other than yours,
unzips you?

It's time to declare
a "Do Over," a "Hindu;"
the ball hit a crack
or was taken by a strange wind
& spun
in a direction
unintended.
I want another shot
at these ancient mysteries.

And who knows?
I might even find you?
Again.
Perched on a ledge
ready to dive
& kindle
a wild river
or have nothing
on your hands
except time.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

C'est Le Guerre

A million lips & words
& fingers & smells
& false starts;
a hundred thousand zippers
pulled
up & down
a half million times
with hairs caught
in steel teeth &
two million pimples
popped a half billion
fumbling & rumblings
& phones falling out
of their cradles
by silence & midnight
forays into forests
of motives & maybe
a urinary infection
or two beside a pregnancy
& cold linoleum abortions
decided in extremis...

& now
little
laughs,
but
safety.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

COME ON OVER HERE, YOU

and plug me in;
percolate me;
heat me, get me
hopping; slay me
and fillet me
flash fry
& sauté me;
splay me open
like a stuttering
question mark!

I've been without
magic & fear
for too long.
I've been a sober man
walking a drunken line.
More things
than a dick
needs watering.

Yeah, that feels good.
Yes, that too.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

MY LITTLE HOOKER

is down
in Clearwater.
I've not heard
from her
in a few weeks
and was worried.
Today,
she surfaced.
She was busy
as anyone would be
starting what they think,
and might be,
a new life:
getting her kid
in school,
and fixing up
a crib
so they can
have a home
for the first time
in years.
She knows
that soon
the rains will come,
even a hurricane
or two
or three
to fuck-up our best
plans, even dreams
we've had
from the time
we were old
enough to know
what dreams
were.

But beginnings,
no matter how exciting
always levels
out; we can't outrun
our own foxes.
But so the fuck what?
As long as we keep
ourselves in the game
we have a chance
maybe not much
of a chance
but we can't ask
for more.

I take some comfort
in knowing
I've done my part
in getting her out
and up; I gave her
a cigarette
when she really
really
needed one.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

CREASED WITH EXPERIENCE

I like her scar
underneath her chin
from a bicycle mishap
when she turned seven
& her first blind corner.
I like how her ankle
curves into her shoe
when she wears heels
and the way she announces
her shapely calves to the
men
& women who follow
her. I like
how she questions
what she already knows
& expects to be disproved
or challenged.
I detest her poise
but take comfort
in her insecurity.

So far,
we're letting it
unfold like a good mystery
should--a real page turner
we're taking our time with
& savoring. Soon,
I'm sure, we will get up
on the cross
of ambivalence.

Until then
I'll pretend
& so will she--
like this morning:
freshly showered
she stepped from
the steam wrapped
in a towel,
smelling soapy,
hair dripping,
& tip-toed past me
into the bedroom;
we caught each other
from the corners
of our eyes
I'm sure,
small grins
played across
our lips
but kept
our mouths
shut.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

IT SPRINGS

from the bellybuttons
of dreams & the mouths
of minnows; it settles
between double features
in old Times Square porn theaters;
it's in the smile
of ticket takers
& the flashlights
of old matronly ushers;
it's in drums
of sludge & boxes
of organic apples.
We go to battle with it,
fear thick and greedy
sleeps inside our creases,
and,
victorious or not,
leave
in a worsen state.
It's in the oil
that covers our fingers
opening a can of tuna fish;
it's in the tears of onions
and the sad play of old radios;
it's in black&white&
in color; it's roadkill
and hospital mistakes.
How we think
we get away
is indeed
the mystery
& the myth.

Agonies
great
and small;
sorrow
near
and wide
while pleasure
hides
in pockets
& thieves its way
to those
who expect
nothing.

Be easy.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014