INDEPENDENCE DAY, 2020

The pre-ejaculate of July 4th
sits sourly in America's stomach.
So many celebrations spurned;
so many festivities silenced;
so many B-B-Q's rotting meat
in the backyards of illusions.

The renegade mask
hides no Will Smiths
riding in, despite odds
or reason, to cure
& save us.

Our "We're # 1" finger
is stuck up our own ass,
cavorting with the end
products of yours
& this culture's
madness. While Tonto,
granite faced & wise,
stops riding shotgun
& moves off to a land
not yet discovered.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

FREE

not from the monthly
menstrual cycle
of bills bleeding
me to death--
Sicilian rent,
Cable's stick-up
without a gun,
Con Ed's
air-conditioned nightmare
of need running
through tubing of oxygen masks;
not from this cage
of skin
where microbes dance
& diseases sing
their own special tunes,
& a war of instincts rage
against an overdrawn bank account
of hormones, enzymes, & synapses.

But let me not be so personal
& selfish
on this day
of all days
when celebration
fouls the air
& sits in mouths
like embers
& ash.
Think of the heron
& the tit mouse,
majestic & trivial,
bound in a joint pursuit
chained to the freedom
of survival,
and granted
by a god
they know nothing
about.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

THE HEAT IS ON

There will be coat hangers
in the B-B-Q
roasting inside the wombs
of newly minted teenagers
come this July 4th;
black bodies smoking
across lunch couners
of shame; queers
hustling white-haired
Senate tourists on docks
fetid with the scum
of dreams tipped overboard
lapping its splintered spew
against faggot piers
of politics.

I'd invest
in condoms
if I could
get a hardon--
which I can't.

I would watch
the fireworks
if I could
get inside
a cannon.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

STAR SPANGLED BANNER UNFURLED

"Ladies & Gentlemen,
will you please rise
while we celebrate
our nation's colors.
Singing our National Anthem
are Charlie Patton, Sun House,
Robert
Johnson, Sonny Boy
Williamson, John Lee
Hooker & Elmore
James--all in, showered,
& cleaned-up from a hot day
in the fields, and members
of the Parchment Farm
Boys Choir; givem
a nice warm round
of applause.

(Those wanting to go
to the bathroom,
this
would be a good time
to do so...
And remember:
tipping,
while encouraged,
is optional)."

Batter-up.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

INDEPENDENCE DAY...OF SORTS

I miss
my toes &
my teeth--
the top ones;
I miss
the boardwalk
in Coney Island,
sea-soaked
& spongy
to the young beat
of canvas sneakers;
I miss
the fireworks
on Tuesday
& the cherry,
pineapple,
chocolate
or lemon ices
in thin paper
dixie-cups
dripping
sticky
onto my tongue
& face
& hands;
I miss
my first
furtive kiss
on the sand
underneath
the dark wood,
& the first feel
of tit
soft
powdered
titillating
& taboo
to young fingers;
I miss my father
letting go
of the bicycle seat
of my new Schwinn
two-wheeler;
I miss his arms
allowing me
to swim & swim
away; I miss
the first time
I punched him
& meant to hurt him;
I miss the first taste
of warm gin
& the first shot
of dope
no matter
how sick
I got; I miss sharkskin
pants & double features
& Nathan franks
for 25 cents
& riots
in the bars
of Brooklyn;
I miss the first sweets
from the breasts
of factories; I miss
the firsts of loves
& hates & spirals
upward
& downward & in
& out &...

but most of all
I miss the absence
of memory.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

MY GIRL, BETTY, & INDEPENDENCE DAY

The Betty Poems

I'm glad
that my girl
is a pain in the ass.
I'm sure
that I give her the same pain
in her ass as well.

I'm free
of nearly every
addiction
except her.
I'm a slave
who wants to stay
on this plantation
of crazy love
and I hope
I haunt
each and every breath
she takes.

Who'd want to be free
when this feels
so fuckin good?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013