FORT KNOX, CHRISTMAS EVE, & MOM

Ft. Knox
was easier to heist
than was my mother's passion.
Her cunt defied
global warming,
& her heart was tighter
than a frog's ass--
and that's waterproof!
She was so cold
that at the dinner table,
(if & when she made dinner),
we wore gloves.

You might be thinking
this is a strange poem
to be writing Christmas Eve--
on any "Eve" for that matter.
But to those,
who've never been in a madhouse,
or behind a wire
in a police cruiser or lock-up,
or who've stood on a line
hoping to be medicated,
or a cop-line
hoping to be medicated,
or in a hospital bed
hoping to be medicated,
to those & for those
I reply:
good luck to you
& may the bordom
be kept at bay
from the wolves
that at midnight howl
& prance
under a blood red moon.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

USE WHAT YOU GOT; USE EVERY ITTY-BITTY THING GOD GAVE YOU OR THE DEVIL SOLD YOU; USE YOURSELF UP

1.

Use it like a gun
or a pocket mirror;
use it like a hairy fist,
or a set of fast thumbs.
Use it
as if your mother is hiding
inside you,
clocking your action,
judging, finger pointing,
wagging her stupid floppy tongue
cursing your infidelity.
Your memories
are simply oiled up
& begging to be caught.
Catch them.
Let the wind
drive them into your bones.
And let your bones rattle
and scatter in God's celestial crap-game.

2.

Make love to your disease--
if you're lucky enough to have one;
it pleases the gods
who thought it wise
to grant you a gift.
Embrace
its confines,
lick the edges
where, as all fugitive lovers know,
lies the sweetness of evanesence.
Your disease
will make you a better liar,
a better fabulist,
a better spinner of tales;
in short, a better artist.

3.

Winter has leaned early
into your crib
and froze your sap.

4.

I am
an old bull elephant
in must...

5.

Since I was a young boy
the fears have come
with regularity; I hold
an empty can of Coke
in one hand
& a Lucky in the other.
Neurosis drips
over the side of the bed
& pools in the can
with the ashes.
They are all useless
except as instruments
like music.
I have sung
the sad meat of my bones
and now gnaw the gristle.

I'll take some hot sauce with that...
make it to go.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

HALLOWEEN

My mother
dresses me
as myself;
I'm confused enough,
she tells me.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

PACK YOUR SHIT

You've got
six months
to live.

Non-negotiable.

No,
this is not
Hemingway.

No,
this is not
art.

Yes,
this is
cancer.

(mommy)

(Mommy)

(MOMMY).

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

IF I GOT YOU

so wrong,
why
are you
right
here?

A mistake
of nature?
Hardly,
my dear;
rather
a melding
of illness'.
Call it
Mother
Nature
limiting
the destruction.

I kinda like that.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

A MAN'S WOMAN

There's a woman
who said
she's going
to take care of me.
She told me not
to worry; to leave
everything
in her most capable hands.
It was,
I thought,
a very fortuitous
thing. What's
your name?
I asked.
You can call me,
Mother, she replied.
Mother? interesting,
I said, mother what?
Nature, she added,
but just "mom"
will do.
Yes, I thought,
why waste time?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

TIGHT: "THE ARTIST AND HIS MOTHER"

For Arshile Gorky

No matter
how much
you twist
& squirm,
no one,
not you,
not me,
no one
is gettin by
momma.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015