FORT KNOX, CHRISTMAS EVE, & MOM

Ft. Knox
was easier to heist
than was my mother's passion.
Her cunt defied
global warming,
& her heart was tighter
than a frog's ass--
and that's waterproof!
She was so cold
that at the dinner table,
(if & when she made dinner),
we wore gloves.

You might be thinking
this is a strange poem
to be writing Christmas Eve--
on any "Eve" for that matter.
But to those,
who've never been in a madhouse,
or behind a wire
in a police cruiser or lock-up,
or who've stood on a line
hoping to be medicated,
or a cop-line
hoping to be medicated,
or in a hospital bed
hoping to be medicated,
to those & for those
I reply:
good luck to you
& may the bordom
be kept at bay
from the wolves
that at midnight howl
& prance
under a blood red moon.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

O SHIT, NOT ANOTHER CHRISTMAS

'Tis another season
of bullshit
is upon us.
In that joyful spirit
lemme say up front:
This season
I want to get
more than I want to give;
I want to have
more than have not.
I feel like sitting on my ass
& shoot Santa in the balls
as he tumbles down my chimney
from the trip wire I set, and laugh
at his sooted face
from all the carbon.
Today, though, Santa
doesn't have to do shit--
Amazon will gladly bury you
in inertia & debt.
I'm of the age
where most of my lovers have died
of boredom,
or are imprisoned
in their very special & deserved hells--
thank you very much.

However,
if I'm being honest,
I miss those heavens...
& those hells.
In fact,
I find myself
wanting to be Italian.
I want to be wrapped
in Grandma's lasagna,
swimming in escarole,
shrimp scampi, pasta this,
basta that. Uncle Tony
sending deft farts
into mouths paralyzed with laughter.
I want to be hugged-up, wanted,
not because I'm me,
but because I'm part of them.
Yes,
it's true:
I'm a wandering Jew,
& I'll wander into any family
on this day that reeks
from joy
whether they throw matzah balls,
or hamhocks, or all 7 fishes
around the dinner table laughing
or cursing who & where they came from because
what is in their marrow is their essence...
& that essence is love.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

JUST IN TIME FOR DINNER

I try to run my food consumption
like a good German runs his railroad:
ON TIME! Not just diabetes
nailed me to the cross,
but Ma & Pa whose world
didn't revolve around the sun,
but around a Lazy Susan.
But tonight, o boy,
tonight I was gonna feast...
Dine... Eat!...Grit-up! GO
FUCKING CRAZY!
I was sick at sticking
to strict diets & marginal fare--
not because of medical dictates,
but because my pockets were bare.
Tonight, they'll be no Heinz
baked beans/salami & eggs,
or Campbells Tomato slop
& Keebler Krackers crunched
on top like fake grated cheese;
and no peanut butter
& bullshit. No, not tonight.

Now, I ain't no fuckin chef,
but I can burn a little;
I can fry shit up
& make it happen
in the cast-iron skillet--
finish it off in the oven;
get that top char happening
& the bloody ooze
from the inside running
into that baked potato
slathered in butter
complemented by fresh
iceberg lettuce hearts,
Jersey tomato wedges
lapping up imported hazelnut
olive oil & Tuscany vinegar
& a hint of Dijon mustard.
O, man, gimme a glass
of Pelligrino with a lemon wedge
& call the undertaker--
I'm ready to go!

My man, Ramon,
cut me a one and half inch aged Ribeye
& I carefully culled the rest.
Exiting, I began to taste the dinner.
I started to salivate; drool
threatened to leak out a side of my mouth;
I made sure to swallow.

I prepared the salad & dressing,
heated the oven to 350 & inserted
one Idaho marvel which,
after 20 minutes took, cut open,
& spooned in an ungodly amount of butter
into its soul
& proceded to heat the skillet.
After dressing the Ribeye,
I flung a few drops of water
on the skillet--they popped,
& hissed; and when I lowered the red slab
of cow into the pan,
it sizzled.
The aroma of exceptional steak hitting
all the right senses.

Three minutes laer
I was sitting at my table,
watching the NBC evening world news with Lester Holt,
about to take a mouthful
of heaven...
when they came
relentlessly:
Hemorroids & rectal suppositories,
vaginal itches, penis carbuncles,
COPD & emphysema & breathing tubes,
toothless people talking out of their necks,
rasping gasping for a reason to live,
chair lifts, stair lifts, soul lifts,
menstration pads, piss pads, shit pads,
brain pads...Alzheimers leaking memories
and a thousand yard stare, Parkinsons
shakes, bi-polar, tri-polar, quasi-polar...
diabetes drugs--a new one an hour,
Pepto Bismal, diarrhea, and all manner
of discharges...
or just plain hanging on
by a fucking thread...all tied up
& made pretty by those beautiful & happy victims
by a beautiful red bow
around a Toyota for Christmas
with a Golden Retriever loving you up.
My balls went into a vacuum;
my butter curdled;
my steak stunk;
salad wilted;
Pelligrino flat & foul tasting.

I got off my ass & out.

The old Italian, Stromboli,
had the Yankee game on;
Judge coming to the plate.
Hey, Nick, gimme two slices...
and wait--put some anchovies on em;
make it to stay.
It was only the top
of the fourth
with the Yankees down a run.
All in all
not bad, not bad
at all.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

SANTA & HIS ELVES

are hung-up
on our southern border.
His elves
are hungrey
& Santa's balls
are beginning to sweat.
He's running
out of time.
Fuck this,
Santa said,
let's get out of here,
go south,
the hell with the gangs,
I'll take my chances.
Saddle- up, kids,
he belched,
we'll grab a few tacos
at that stand we hit
a few years back...
And don't forget
the presents. This country
is beginning to get
on my nerves.

No one is there
to hear the trains.

No one can see the sky
behind a moon
full of blood.

What kindness
to be got stands
idle and waiting
for a person
to drive the sled.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

WHAT A CONUNDRUM!

The Pope
invited me to Rome.
Donny
begged me to come to Mar-a-Lago.
Who,
I asked myself,
should I dis--
The child of God, or
the father of God?
Instead,
I babysat
Jay Z's kids
figuring:
hip hop artists
need a break, too.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

JESUS IS LOOKING

to being born
& I'm looking
for a whore
on Canal Street
so I won't die
in this godforsaken world
in an unforgiving town
on the outskirts
of mental illness
& "there's a medication
for that."

Heard they moved uptown,
an old alkie said
in front of the mission
on Lafayette. Ain't no action here,
except for old fucks
like us.

Where uptown? I inquired.

How the hell should I know?
Do I look like I'm mobile
with money and care
if I ever get a stiff dick again?

I needed a bowl
of wonton soup;
the wind
was picking up,
the temperature dropping,
and I was lost
in thought and
old remedies.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

MY ARTHRITIC FINGERS,

caked with age,
will try
to unwrap your gift.
Be patient
with me.
It's not
infirmity,
but only
a savoring
of the moment
so long
in coming;
I do
so love
attention.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

#METOO SANTA, YOU PRICK, #METOO

Santa was on the run.
He'd just come offa a two week drunk
& just about made it
from his skid row pad
to his yearly department store hustle
without vomiting
when a five year old tugboat
pounced on his swollen knee.
Sweat began to drip
into Santa's beard.
He twitched & the tug
blew the whistle
not knowing Santa had the DT's
thought he was diddling her.

He took his sorry ass
to The Salvation Army
where he froze his ass off
swinging a bell like Quasimodo,
ho ho hoing
until he thanked some 14th street tootsie
who tossed a quarter in his jar, "hey,
thanks baby," & was told to take a hike.

Santa needed a drink bad
& convinced Mrs. Claus to front him a buck
& help hook up those imbecile reindeer to the sled
thinking he'd get a jump on the 24th & off he went.
Little did he know that all the chimneys
on the Upper West Side were greased.
He slid down the first one like his balls were on his back.
A bear trap's teeth was a kiss from his scrotum.
He looked into the candlelit darkness;
a hundred little eyes were ablaze
with revenge & madness; they started throwing Barbie Dolls
with teensy weensy dildos in their little fingers;
Ken dolls with contraception devices in their fists;
Cook books, nursing school brochures; panties
& training bras. It was the lesbo Village Of the Damned;
it was partisan politics; it was America; it was
Christmas.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

TAKE WHAT YOU WANT, GOD IS DEAD AND HIS MOM WENT SHOPPING

The world will soon explode
from grief.
Young black & white girls
expose fecal tunnels of love
on CraigsList for cheap
tradeoffs of minimum wage
allowing the breath
of truck drivers
& university professors
to reach into their innards
& steal what never was:
youth & possibilities.
Russia is mad
with memories
& China with rice futures;
India keeps trying to grow
deserts of food
& the Congo beats drums
of failures & fortunes.
A crippled falcon
cannot be seen or heard
as the circles grow wider
above Christmas sales
& Hallmark bromides.

Our guts get pulled out
struggling with biology
as our little experiment
is unraveling.
Our only meal
is eating pussy
or sucking cock--
damn the nutrients.
Money & pleasure
should be the faces
on bills of exchange:
Caligula, Nero,
Mick Jagger.

Mom will be back
soon...unless
she gets trampled
in the rush
to be first
when the store
opens. She wants
an X-Box.
She's determined
not to lose
another son
that has yet
to be
conceived.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

CHRIST IN THE WINGS PREPARING FOR HIS ENTRANCE

ACT 1

SCENE 1:

A cold rain
is falling.

He's pacing
back & forth,
muttering
to himself.

If being born
is worth it,
tell him
to dress warm
and not to forget
to take his umbrella.
We know
how easily
He catches cold.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

ROMANCE

To spend Christmas Eve
at Nathan's
in Coney Island
eating a hot dog,
while the rain
whips up mischief
& magic
is about as romantic
as it gets.

It will be an empty
shelter for a few
figures huddled
in an embrace
of whispers,
mustard biting
their lips, ketchup
staining their french fried fingers.

A clatter
of trains
at the end
of their lines
huffing
into terminals
as useless as prayers
offered up to love
proffered for the sea
slapping against the darkness
a few steps from civilization.

I will have worked
a half day, trying
to unlock the gates
swinging against the souls
smashed against odds
they inherited. I've come
from the same asylum
and wrap myself in our disease.

Another frank? I ask.
My hands grip a bill
& I fish it out.
We are a long way from heaven,
but a very long way from hell.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

A CHRISTMAS ADMONITION

Waking up
from the deep
recesses
of sleep,
merciful sleep,
only to find
the poisoned presence
of the person
you fucked
the night before
is the mind's horror
of Christmas' past.
We would be wise
to remember
the stove;
the stove
is still hot,
politics
is still
a whore's game
and nothing changes
except
the will
to change.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

SHOOTING DOPE ON CHRISTMAS EVE

was so romantic
back in the day;
even the dealers
were especially nice
& generous: the bags
were fatter
& stronger
as if baby Jesus
was in the teaspoon.

The year was 1969
and I was a poet,
a philosopher,
a rogue, a
bullshit artist.
My courage
lasted til the veil
lifted every four hours
or so. By that time
we were sleeping: she
all soft and soapy;
me somewhere else
buying time
between rounds.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

THERE MUST BE LIFE

on some other fucking planet;
there must be some chick
who doesn't know me or
doesn't know my shit or
doesn't speak english
and doesn't give a damn
about Christmas
or New Years
and who gives
less of a fuck
about age
or infirmities
or gallantry
(whatever the fuck that means)
or has beetle-like opinions
gleaned from girlfriends
worse off than her
or relatives worse off than them
or children (real
or imagined).

I gotta get with Kepler
and a telescope
and make this happen
while things are still possible,
while I'm still possible
before I grow
into a complete asshole
while a tit like crab
crawls towards me
and the game
works on.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

MOTHS & FLAMES

http://bit.ly/1NZ3eMZ

My in-box
is a tinderbox
of maybes.
And I come
from a long line
of seekers:
Catullus & Shelley
& Byron & all those
rowboat suicides
have made my pebbled path
no easier to traverse,
but fun to follow.

Words have lit
the back alleys
of madness
& another has
found me
behind those
choreographed characters
at my age
now.

In this heat
we look toward
Christmas.
I'll begin
to prepare
my lair
now...

Jingle Bells.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

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

THERE WERE VAMPIRES

sucking out
the rest of their lives
as they stood in line
at the Bowery Mission.
Their gums swollen & red
& receding into the back
of their skulls;
their teeth broken
looking like rusted serrated knives
of benign tastes
and neutered utility.
The drool
flowed from their black holes
and pooled on their chests.
They huddled and waited
for blood: sixty nine cents
worth of Port. Aged. Wise.
Indifferent to the crosses
hung for the holiday season.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

TONIGHT I HUNT

turkeys. A month
from now, reindeer
& clowns
in red suits.
It's come to that.
I believe
in America &
the American way:
you eat
what you kill--
first you
then me--
and always make time
for commercials.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

I'M CLOSING IN

on two hundred pages
and figure I'm a little more
than half way done.
I also know
where it's going,
though I have no idea
of how
it's going
to get
there.
I could say,
I'm confused,
but that's not true;
confusion
is just
my normal state
that no one word
describes, it's part
of me.
I'll take that
anytime.
The word gods
have been
very very
good to me;
they always
have.
It's a Christmas gift
and New Year harbinger
of allowing me to do
what I do best:
play with myself.

I'm bloated
with words; rabbit
pregnant pushing
out poems
& paragraphs
& pages.
But
there is
a cost.
If you fuck
with those gods
you fuck with losing
what those gods have granted.
You believe
that there will always
be another girlfriend,
but there might not be
another poem
about her. History
has told you that.

I have no intention
of returning the gift
that fits so well
& feels so good.
Words of cashmere
and silk; words
that taste good;
words that linger
like the glow
around the bulb
after you turn-off
the light.

And I am a junkie
on that kind of run.
I've got enough
dope for tonight
& a wake-up shot
in the morning.
What else
is there
for a junkie
to know?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

MIDNIGHT MASS

I'm not into
baby Jesus,
or mangers,
or wise men,
three kings,
four queens,
a jack of hearts or
an inside straight.
I have no reason
to pretend
except for
my usual
superstitions.
The woman
I'm seeing
differs; she'd like
me to go with her
& her family
tomorrow; a small
request
she believes.
And I believe
that Santa
took a dump
down my chimney.

I'm a selfish man.
And my previous
love affair
did nothing
to restore my faith
or expand my borders.
If anything
they shrank.
And my last poem
did not endear me
to her either.

I'd like a little
ease, but ease
has never been
easy. This time
of year is a live grenade
of lies. Silent Night
does not need
my voice.

One way
or another
I'll be up
on a cross
tomorrow.
Preferably
alone.
What is
is.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014