EVERY NIGHT IS DOPE NIGHT

Edgar waits
pen in hand
for his little girls
to visit
bringing
China White.
He sits
next to
a raven colored
sax player
who's trying
not to vomit.

He scribbles
between the cramps.
They hope
they trickle in
before the second set.
Everything's green
in this bucket
of blood
saloon.

Outside
it's snowing.
A white carpet
lays between
uptown &
downtown
on the south side
of heaven,
one stop
from Hell.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

THE ART OF FALLING IN LOVE

A circus catch
in Hell;
Marlon Brando crossing
the river Styx;
Bogart riddled
not with bullets
but cancer
a non-filtered
hanging
from a lip looking
for a short skirt
at a boxing match.
Today we walk
to a dance
not knowing
who's playing.

We had the luck
of Beckett
lying
in a dung-heap
of prayer.
But
we are well-equipped
for this ride:
you have a few stories
and I have Bach's cello
in my pocket.

Tonight
I'm making a stew
from Proust's neck bone;
and if you'd be so kind
to put his gizzards
in that blender
we can dine
in style.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016