SMALL MERCY CRAVINGS IN THIS THE YEAR OF OUR LORD, 2020

The year slow walked itself,
carrying Ragedy Anne dolls
& busted six-shooters, past
the planned nursery
graveyard, generally pleased
with its yearly output.
God inhaled deeply
then pushed his last breath
of the day, a breath suffused
with a tincture of musk
& fine Thailand opium,
into one tiny nostril of need
after the next, checking off
names while keeping abreast
of how each spinal cord
infused itself with
just the right amount of memory
for their aborted trip to record.

A nurse moved from basket to basket
whispering cures while the maddened buzz
of flies smacked themselves upon windows
looking for the first sign of an eyelid
threatening to close. But the eye,
as God surely knew, was there as sentry
not scout and the laboratory,
once the place of advances now recorded
only the retreat of desires.

Here, God is the trickster.
Death, arrives early
& often, blessing
with a first & last good kiss,
relief from walking a road
strewn with the tricks of April
& her fruitless folly.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

HEY GOD, WHY DO YOU STILL ITCH IN THOSE PLACES HARD FOR ME TO SCRATCH? AND WHILE WE'RE AT IT, LET'S GET SOMETHING TO EAT

I'm an old fuck. Simple.
Supposed to be wise? Nah.
Supposed to be cool? Nah.
All things that ancients
are said to be, I'm not.
Now, I'm just a nervous wreck,
have to do more
with less.

You'd think
having gone
through a hundred Thanksgivings
with a hundred poisoned arrows
sticking from the breasts of turkeys,
and a hundred Christmas'
using my balls for sleigh bells,
I'd stop asking, "why?"
But you'd be wrong.

Another one of life's suckers
sitting on the edge of my bed
balancing a tit in one hand,
and a ringer in the other.
I hide in the darkness
between dreams watching the frost
weeping on the gravediggers muddy boots.

My weatherman is Lear.
Unlike Rasknolikove,
I've done nothing wrong,
yet want to be punished.
I'm one of few remaining
hip white men: Mulligan
playing with Monk; singing harmony
with Jerry Lawson & The Persuasions;
thinking if I could sing like Roi
onto the white page I could escape
a bleached & bland topography.

And so, here I am,
sitting on the edge of the world
as we threaten to once again
blow it up, but that doesn't
bother me; that has never bothered me;
a recalcitrant fool
is my calling card,
no matter the age.
No,
it's all the people I've loved
who parade by & drift away
when I want to grab & hold.

But I'm an old fuck
with arthritic fingers
juiced with memories
and confusion.

Listen, hon,
I'll have the fries with that
and don't forget the hot sauce, please,
and if you can double bag it
I'd appreciate it--I've got a long way
to go. And
here's a little bit extra,
for you. Thanks...(Usually,
that works.)

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

GOD SPEAKS

through Charlie,
a sniggering fat
humpbacked bell ringer
ringing in death
reborn in April's breath
breathing life into flowers,
a mauling of Johnny's beauty,
in a tangle of slippery truths,
whose roots are thorns
pricking fingers of shame.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

GOD WAS STUDYING

the indestructability
of matter
when he made
the cunt;
it was as close
as He came.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

GOD TAKES THE STAND

Do you, God,
swear to the tell the truth,
the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth,
so help you (...) God?

I DO..
and
(chuckling)
i don't.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

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

WE WAZ ROBBED

Your parents robbed ya;
your teachers robbed ya;
God robbed ya;
you bounced
against walls,
slid down pipes;
tied to hissing radiators;
you ate
empty plates;
your stomach filled
with air; your heart swelled
with dread;
they diddled your privates;
told you about good boys
& good girls & chugged
a fifth
or fucked
a neighbor
or gave you a wafer
& wine breathed hope
of a heaven
so far from your daily hell
it might as well have been
a Saturday cartoon.

And then a warning
not to tell
even yourself
because all you do
is lie anyway.
Now
go out
& play.

I will vote
tomorrow
for any party
I'm not
invited
to
be
in.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

GETTING A DAY'S PARDON

In the forties
last week; colder times
are ahead
but not today:
seventy-five
& climbing
as if God
granted you
a conjugal visit
with his sun.
(He be doin
some mad
pimpin.)

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

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

THE GIRLS OF SENEGAL

think I'm funny
when I flirt with them.
I'd have to be dead
not to--
that's how beautiful
they are;
the most precious fruit
in a supermarket
of extravagance.

They are lit
from the inside;
their blue/black skin
glows with the kind of light
many people, who are smart,
will read by.

You are not old mister,
no,no,no, Mamouda and Neeva sing,
we do not see age,
different in my country.
I come from a Kleenex culture,
I tell them, "Use once,
then throw away."
They laugh
and know
it's true.

I shop there
for many reasons:
it's closer
to my leaden
& lurching step;
the food is better;
the butcher slips
me a steak
& charges me
for chicken;
but it's the girls
who mean the most;
it's the girls
who tell me
not to worry;
it's the girls
who bring me food
when I'm sick
or miserable;
or out of sorts;
it's the girls
who bring me gifts
from their Senegalese village:
a painting, a bracelet,
a picture of their family.

And so I spend
what little money I have
to be loved
even now
at my age. I'm a poet
you see,
stupid, irrational
in regard
to things
lesser beings
think of as rational:
money,
health,
possessions.
If I did that,
I believe,
I'd waste
energy,
precious
energy.
Better to contemplate
love
and God,
and cherish
victories
no matter
how slight.
Somebody
has to
suffer
&
dance.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

LET US PRAY

Sunday always feels
like some kind of Psalm
at the end of some kind
of brutality.
It needs
not to be studied
in ways that imply
interest,
but fear.

I will resist
hurting myself
today. I will
take another
into my
confidence.
I will trust
the Lord
& lean
not into
my own
understanding.
I will allow
Him
to direct
my paths.

But first
I have to
pee...
then I'll see
what's what.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

EVERY TIME I MAKE PLANS

God punishes me,

whether

they work out

or not.

I've always
been good
for a few
laughs.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

PARIS--WHEN IT SIZZLES

500 people last night
thought they were about
to enjoy themselves.
They were about to eat,
have a cocktail, smoke
a little weed
or a Gauloises & listen
to some twisty music.
They were ready to move
their bodies or minds or
both; have a taste of
some hip Cambodian fare,
enjoy the evening air
and savor a few days
of not working.
Little did they know
there's a caliphate
that frowns on such
hedonism, such frivolous
displays of sin. That
couldn't give a fuck
about iPhone51S (X or Y or Z)
or Facebook Likes
or Dislikes or fools
who are loving
the wrong god.
Paris prided itself
at being
at the vanguard
of thought & now
must think
& think again
about what they
think about...
& where they go,
& who they go with,
& who goes with them.
There is a hunger
for something pure:
something without
the fucked-up footprint
of man:
pure heroin;
pure pleasure;
pure food;
pure devotion.
I say this:
all interpretations
of god
needs to be
beheaded.

Where
can I get
a drink?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

LITTLE DO WE KNOW--

we know so little.
We like to think
we're so expansive,
so all inclusive,
so all encompassing
and not so
full of shit.
Our nature
is to defy
nature
not because we can
but because we must--
not as smart as the slug,
the worm the simple
solitary unit.
We are not the end
but the end product
of this evolutionary
mambo. Less equipped
than our bettors
to groove with a music
of being
& being done to
by laws
we dance to, not with.

The Dolphin
should be the God
we worship
instead of eating--
a crime that will--
little do we know--
be punishable
by death...which
is coming
soon
to a theater
near you.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

SHOVELING SHIT AGAINST THE TIDE

There's something wrong
with me--of that
I have no doubt.
Still,
it's come
as revelation
that's really
rather commonsensical;
something
I'd sooner
not have
admitted.

One day
I woke up
& realized
my shit
stinks
to high heaven.

Now,
I can no longer pretend
why
angels weep
& the gods
turn
away--not
from disgust,
only
preservation.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

ALWAYS REMEMBER:

God, too,
was insane.
To think
us humans
could get
by
on what He
gave us...
Shit,
that's rich.

Pass the salt,
willya?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

THE POPE DOES RIO

His Holiness came
to the beaches
of Rio
and the favelas
too. He touched
us all,
especially me,
when he put his holy hand
on my sinner's head
while my daughter
gave a blowjob
in the other room
to a man
she doesn't
know, while
two of his friends
waited.

I felt
truly blessed.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

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