WHERE DO YOU GO WHEN YOU GO WHEN YOU KNOW YOU HAVE NO PLACE TO GO

Those times when you know
you have to go but
do not know exactly
why you have to go
but go you have to
and go you will.


Those times when I become
a turtle drawing my legs
and neck into my space,
into a heroin enclave,
an armored shell & soft belly,
permitting the least amount of damage done
to an already compromised immune system.

Where do you go to breathe.
Where can you undress
down to the confines of your heart
and not be disgusted by its beat.
When will all those monstrous mirrors
tell the truth.
Where do you go when you go
to those unnamed & untamed regions
you know so well;
how naturally do you play
in Keat's sandbox
of negativity?

As for me
I go where safety waits,
though truth is fear's
first casualty.
Still, I would think,
(maybe hope),
it's a stone's throw
from yours;
close enough
for us to share
a shovel.
We cannot, alone,
dig a tunnel out,
but we sure as hell
can get closer
to one another
just by breathing.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

BECAUSE THERE IS SO MUCH BEAUTY

that only torture brings out,
I've made sure
to have stockpiled
enough pain annuities
to last a lifetime.
My memory bank
welcomes the lash
& the leash
of new subscribers,
but should I see
a masochistic downturn
I simply tune in
to my favorite stations
and taste the blood
of a finely aged betrayal.

Johnny Keats
waxing poetic
on a Grecian Urn
shook the Brooklyn
off its perch
and into the steely crabgrass
where the hanging-judge
and the lotus-eater
hold court.

To all those
who've hurt or crippled me,
I cannot thank you enough.
To all those
who've fooled or betrayed me,
my hat is off to you;
you have lived far past
your expiration date,
but torture me still.
You've birthed this poem
and those which came before
and those which come after.
It's a signless road,
but well-traveled.
I can find it in the dark.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

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