THE BIG STRAINER

mashes & grinds & sifts
delectables & edibles & insufferable
into a bite sized baby's maw
easily absorbed easily digested
easily jettisoned & disregarded
allowing the barest visage, a ghost
of experience to cling to linger
in chambers lost or
barricaded.

Spaghetti or worms.
Necrosis or penecillin.
"A Swell" or swine.
Blue or blue is up
for grabs.

How sure we are
that our filter
isn't clogged &
& fogged & fucked
beyond reason.

How what we see
is what we see.
I am The Bible
as I read
the word
around me.

Once upon a time
we strained our precious pot
to separate the seeds & stems
from the merciful leaf;
it was our church
of ritual.
We prided
the sacrements.
We gently rubbed
and watched the colored grass
fall and pool in a mound below.
Stickiness and colors predicted
our religion & reward.
That was when I had friends
who were young & brilliant.

The pot is stronger now:
Culled & cultivated
by experts
& marketed in shops; it's
techno nature. A marriage
marred by intrusion: lights,
irrigation. Season-less.
We've let men
& machines
infect
what's left
of imagination.
We've let them
strain
even our
dreams.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

"DEFORMITY" AS ART

Mirrors were not kind
to me: distortion
stalked my senses:
too fat,
too small,
too ugly.
But then
the obverse:
too handsome,
too smart,
too quick.
Balance
mocked my every step,
every twist,
every turn. And there
were many of each.

I had no real affinity
for anything
having to do
with life or
making a living:
mechanical,
cerebral,
political,
being one
or many, a cog
in the nightmare.
"Work" and me
were not friends.
I did not get on well
with others.
I was fluid, though,
at fantasy.

It was remarkable,
in this Charles Laughton of a life,
when my arrogance
and defenses were
kept at bay,
that so many women
loved me.
They deceived me
in wanting
to stay alive
a little longer:
so many whispers,
so many promises,
so many confidences
that turned ugly pain
and self-abnegation
into words
into an art
of deformity
that soothed
and glued the divided
self from self.

This last one,
though, loved
me in a different way:
deformed as well,
but as a lioness.
Female. A deeper
distortion. Without
an outlet. Imprisoned
by her body,
in her body,
she escaped only
by implosion.
She has a bottomless
distrust of humans.
And still
has to go
into the jungles
of civilization
& stalk the food
& cook it
& feed the children
who wait for her
while being
the same creature
who possesses
no valance
no firm
footing
in this brick
& mortar life.

I am glad
I am older
then her, nearer
the grave.
I will not have
to think of her
nearly as long
as she will think
of me.

"Art,"
like this poem,
is often times
not beautiful.
Our spirits
nearly extinguished
saw
the forms.
And the music
we made--even
the notes
that were
off
--leading up
to this poem
were beautiful.
I've never heard them
sung this way before.
I would believe
they're sung once
by the gods
and then
are gone.

I have nothing,
my dear,
& I want to share it
all with you.
If someone makes you
a better offer--
take it.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014