THERE WAS THIS GIRL

in high school
I lusted for.
It was not desire,
but need. But she
was tangled up
with a moron.
You can argue
against anything
except stupidity.

That next summer
things had changed:
her mom was fucking
a Communist neighbor
and she had abandoned Russian
for an Art major in college;
she knew what lies were
and how to create some
of her own; and I got smart
in the cosmology of drugs
and bullshit. She'd also quit
the moron and watched
how her body leaned in
to itself. Her eyes
were still cat's green.

We read Ramparts
& Ginsberg, sung Dylan
& Motown, smoked pot
& fucked whenever
& wherever we could
& survived some of the onslaught.
But not all of it;
she's dead forty-five years now
& I'm still going--not as strong
but still going. Our pain,
inviolate & absolute, created
a union having little to do
with love as we imagined love
to be, but each time I think of her
it's different--and that's
a real poem.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

NOW THAT I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION:

I love you.

In my own way.

Askance.
Awry.
From a distance.

Just the way
you've always
wanted.

I love how you hate
yourself
and anyone else
who would dare
love you; anyone
who would challenge
your ugly & unworthy
appraisal; I love
how hard you've worked
to remain
obdurate
& singular
resisting love's entreaties
of spirit; I love
your sabotage
& surrender
only for a second;
I love
how you take
no prisoners
having room
for only
yourself
chained
to misbelief
& false premises;
and I love
how powerless
you really are
to my own
powerlessness
in pouring
love's elixers
down your
throat.

Drink up...

And I'll bring
the handcuffs.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016