CALLING DR. FREUD

Vell, it's obvious, no?
He is trying to replicate
his greatest success,
his only success:
The Apprentice.
All his other business'
went into the shithole, no?:
Airline, Steaks, Water,
A Charity, A University,
A Football Team, Buildings, even Casinos (where
only the most incompetent
can't make a dollar)--Poof! Gone!
Only his Daddy's money
(and that was very stinky money, too),
bailed him out until other Daddys
allowed him only to keep his name
while they made the shit.

But The Apprentice, ah, The Apprentice,
that was his. He could be his boorish,
stupid stumbling self & still rule
the little office where syncophants went
to grovel to the mushroom capped cock
underneath a desk of make believe.
It is there, in the safey
of his home, he wants people--
and now cities & states--
to slug it out.
He wants people
to beg
before he hires.
He wants bodies
to contort,
to agonize.
He wants to see
all the states
all the cities
who betrayed him
turn on each other
in a feeding frenzy
for money, for equipment,
for a breath;
he wants those cities & states
to bring those trucks,
those iceboxes,
so he can see
in real time
with his racoon eyes
the dead carted out
to wait to be planted.
He loves this;
it's what he lives for.

Today, on this Friday, March 27th, afternoon,
he's already started to primp himself--
plastic hair, orange flesh--
for his daily fix:
a "news" conference
where his mouth--
looking more like a turkey's asshole--
will emit today's droppings:
small hard pellets of shit.
He will stand above the fray
& select the reporters he deigns to favor
with more lies
knowing full well
the havoc
& death
he stokes.

All this talk,
all this handwringing,
& all this breastbeating &
all these acts of courage,
is for naught.
He is
his one & only firament light
that he navigates by;
he is the only star
in this show.
He cannot
& will not
give that up.

There is only one word
for this disease, my friends;
one word that captures
a pathology for which
there is no escape--
that word
must be
love.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

ONE FOR KOBE

I never liked the prick.
He was the proverbial dagger
in my heart, sticking it in,
and twisting, enjoying
how I bled out;
an assassin
killing this stupid Knick's heart
of mine
over
& over
& over
again.

But sometimes death
is a beautiful thing
to watch
even when its yours.
His Black Mamba wrist
flicking out
those jumpers
mesmerized flight
while you suffered
a death
from a thousand cuts.

Yet I have no explanation
for how I write this,
far exceeding
my expiration date,
being as heedless as I was
& as reckless as I am
to the dictates of the flesh
which houses me, thirty-two years
his senior with enough chronic illness
to slay most any man.
To think it's the writing of this poem
or the few more that come after
is even too much for my skewered heart
to believe--even though my fingers took flight
as they danced about the keys
in a rhythmic synch with those ballarinas
of thought pirouetting
inside my head.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

SEX IS SUICIDE

if you happen to be male
and weigh less than a lightbulb
and a little red Kaluta
in the thrall of early September
when they rock 'n roll
on their search & destroy mission
with every Kalutaette as they can
for up to 14 hours at a time,
fucking their brains out
as they were known to say,
using sperm stored since summer's end
& depleting huge amounts of testosterone & corticosteroids
in their best imitation of Chinese rabbits
until their guts become ulcerated
& explode:
Cause of Death: Exhaustion.

But they died happy:
No after-sex phone calls,
No deciding on a name for the kids
& no need to support them or the ol' lady;
no in-laws to visit on Sunday
when traffic is the heaviest,
no listening to office betrayals
or how Nipsy or Bipsy or Tipsy
fucked up at school,
and no thought,
should things go south,
of alimony to shoulder--
just exhaustion,
that blissful after-sex sense
of oblivion, of coming
& going all
in the same stroke--something
most men
would die for.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

BOB DYLAN

is going to die
someday,
but I hope I go
first--this way
I won't have to die
twice.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

LIBIDOBESETZUNG WHILE ON A CAROUSEL OF SHIT

Your pussy rides
the middle horse,
the horse
that rears up,
while death sits still
at your side
behind you
& in front.
I cannot
get past them
& think:
I really
don't want to.
For where would I be
if I weren't digging
a grave with you
or without you,
inside you
or pushing
against the steel
of your heart?
I know now
what happens
after a man finds
a cunt that fits--
he waits
like a child
for the brass ring
to come 'round again
while the grave beckons
my name to be written--
like breath
on a mirror.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

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

IN MEMORIAM REDUX

Tom Petty
& 58 other poor fucks
bought it
the other day.
No memo was sent.
No warning.
No admonition.
No nothing.

Today,
when you go
to your mailbox
& find nothing
you'll understand
life
is nothing else
if not fragile
& quixotic.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

INTERVIEWING THE DEAD

Were you happy?
Happy with the way
you exited?
Did you bow?
Was it clean
or messy?
Were there bells and rings and beeps aplenty? Did you eat forbidden fruit? Did you fish in streams of Goldenrod? And safety? Were you cuffed and led to a hangman's noose or was it coaxed into a vein better than a 100 proof? Were there memories of love gone wrong or gone right into love gone wrong or were you loveless and alone as when you greeted the world as naked and stupid and numb with fright as you were descending the stair as you were thrashing about and pulling your hair and trying to come to grips with the air?

Write.

Tell me
how you wish
to go.

I'll do my best.

No promises though.

The line forms
to the right.

Take
a number.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

AN OLD FASHIONED BARE KNUCKLES FISTFIGHT

with death
I've been having
from an early age.
I now look forward
to that minute's rest
between rounds.
He grins at me
& I grin back.
I know
he will take me
out
eventually
but not before
I bloody him some more.
Yes,
he will get me,
but when he does
there'll be much less
of me
to take.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

WHAT WOULD BE THE CRIME

if you loved me?
What would you lose
if you lost yourself?
What would you give up
if you gave up
defending against
your ghosts?

I, too,
am a loner
who craves
a lover
when I want; I, too,
am a howling maw
of misery
& trouble; I, too,
am skilled
at the art
& pleasures
of self-flagellation.

One day
we'll meet
on a border
of heaven & hell
& skip
between the two.
We'll have plenty
to laugh about--
our stinginess
with ourselves
being just one
of our follies.
Maybe the next time
we die we will
have really listened
to Hank
and choose to allow
what we love
to kill us.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

CRAZY FUCKING GENES

Some of us
have noticed death
early on; that's not
necessarily
a bad thing.
We've lived
a life
almost
as a high-wire act
and was lucky
there were nets
of all kinds
to catch
our hearts
in its hands.

I pushed
& pleaded
on the accelerator.
I dared God
to get me
out
when I wanted
to get out
but he left me
to suck on the tit
of other mortals
who've been there
before me.
Yes,
people around me
died
unexpectedly
yet their deaths
were abstract
while mine
gave me
a kind
of buoyancy.

Now, however,
I notice death
everyday
in my steps
& in my breath.
I take notice
of those who exit
& why. Some
are younger
& some are older
but mostly
they're my age.
Some I've listened to
or watched; some
have even given me
pleasures. I note
their passing
& record their ages:
O, she was sixty-seven--I got her
by a year; he was fifty-nine
& seemed to be healthy, was
an athlete and I have him
by a decade; huh? seventy-three--
I have four or five more years to go.
It's stupid, I know,
to try
& figure it out. Let it
just unfold, I tell myself.
It can't be explained.
Chalk it up
to crazy fucking genes
& leave it go at that,
but I can't
do it--
somebody had to write
this poem.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

ALL WE REALLY WANT TO DO

is make it
back home.
It could be
bleak there, too,
but you're alone,
gratefully
alone.
Perhaps,
there are fewer dreams
resting on a razor's
bubble, perhaps
they're holding on
for dear life
which is no longer
so dear,
but all of the other signposts
telling you
of how insignificant
you are
are out
there
littering
the eyes
of others;
there's only death
outside that door
& you can dance
with yourself,
inside
the way
it always
was
as you let
the music take hold,
and give yourself
a twirl--
for a few hours
anyway.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

A GEOMETRY OF INNOCENCE

A saxophone carves
out space for lips,
eyes, and a curling
ease of make-believe;
monkeys take care
while grooming themselves
& those they love;
a train whistle
signals lost loves
& strangers in their midst.

Death
has more patience
than a cat
and waits
in shadows
& sunlight.

There are no
"last calls."

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

NO MAS

If I have to take a knee,
I will; or not get off
the stool between rounds;
instead of my manager,
I will throw in the towel;
I will raise my hands
& surrender;
I will admit
that it's stronger
than even me;
tougher;
smarter;
more experienced,
focused,
and inexhaustible.

I've held onto it
grimly, like rosary beads
in a death-grip;
misery was like
a religion,
a calling
for me.
It sounded
its trumpets
& danced
in a game
that was rigged
from the beginning.
Amazing,
how much energy
I burned fueling
my anger--I could have
knocked-out the suns
of every solar system
seen
or not.
I carried it
like a rat
gnawing at
my pocket.

I did this
not for hours,
or days or months
or years,
but for decades.
What a waste
it's been--
like pissing
down your own leg:
nobody knows it--
except yourself.

I will leave death
little enough.
But no longer
will I be stingy
with myself:
pleasures,
all pleasures
that doesn't stink
of artificiality
will be courted.
I wish to punish
no one,
especially
myself.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

IT TALKS

to me
in rhymes
and talks to me
in unmetered sentences;
it talks to me
through spider's webs
and the screams
of caught flies.
It moans
from basements
and balcony ledges.
It's on the breath
of women
and my last
boss who let me
go.
It talks to me
from children
just learning
how to ride
two-wheelers;
and whispers
from their cut faces
and broken bones
after their first spill.
Sidewalks
talk to me
weary from the worn heels
of weary men or
the hard stiletto step
of hard women.
It talks to me
from jails,
from madhouses,
from university towers,
from burnt and gutted cars,
from the yachts and Rolls Royces
of mannered and dainty gentry
and the slobbering lunatics
inside the lofts
of artists.
It talks to me from trees
and clouds
and birds
and fish.
It speaks from lemons
and honey; it springs
from circus arcs
and pilgrim's steps.
It talks through inquisitions
and boredom and the tricks
of hummingbirds.
It does not weep
or laugh; it does not allow
or deny; it just
is: Coming, coming,
coming soon
to a theater near you:
Mr. & Mrs. Death
appearing
nightly.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village 2009-2013

J.D. SALINGER

is dead.
He never mattered
to me
when alive
and now
only matters
as impetus
for this poem
when dead.
"Catcher"
never did
"catch" me.
Never identified
with its hero
and found him
and the book
pretty boring:
A pretty boy
doing pretty things
and finding
a little ugliness
along the way.
Most of this life
is ugly
and my life
has been uglier
than that.
Only kindness
of any kind
is surprising.
I suppose
that sounds
pretty selfish
and stupid
and I suppose
it is.
But so
is art
and artists.
Particularly
artists
of any kind.
It's a very selfish
craft, indulged in
by selfish people
with a bloated
sense
of importance
far beyond
their worth.
I'll give him this though:
he struggled with the word
and I hope
someone else
will return the favor
to me
in kind.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2010

Fore-Play, Here-Say or Wish-Full Thinking

Longer and dryer
then a sealed empty jar
I wait
without sex
wishing perhaps
to die
with an erection
and without
a coming god.
He will never come
while I'm alive;
anything else
is fore-play,
here-say
or wish-full
thinking.

I came,
finally,
spilling
between her legs
wet and gleaming;
cursing
the daylight
and spent
the rest of my life
returning
like fucking is--
getting back in,
while getting back
at her.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1967