OP EN A LL N I G H T

Trying to find sleep
has kept me awake--funny
how these things work...
or don't.
I even tried to stop looking
thinking I'd outfox him; not
a chance.
I watched night after night
the furiously blinking
of colored neon
go off kilter & dance
the dance of St. Vitus.
And other times
I watched myself
and felt gut-punched
like seeing a Hopper painting.

I've believed misery & tragedy
will find you
no matter what you do.
Still, I've barricadded myself
in here for the past month
while that lustful virus
feasted on other hosts
less susceptible than I am.
I've got all the chronic conditions
that the little bugger could hope for.
Once inside, it would make short work of me.

You can learn
about yourself
at any age.
Recently, I'd boast
to all my doctors
& my few friends,
that I'd had a good life:
many scenes, many lovers,
many poems, high highs
& low lows--enough
to expect in this go round.
I was ready.
But now I feel the wisdom
of Auden in his, Musee Des Beaux Arts.
Old men cling passionately to life,
while unexpectedly the young go...
because I don't want to go
anywhere. I have more to read
& more to write. I want
another hot fudge sundae
and the smile of a woman
who sees something
I didn't think was showing.

And so I will watch
the little crack
underneath my door
or my windows
for any sign
of invasion.
I will not go easily;
I'll try to hide
behind the door
sneak up on it,
and knock that motherfucker
out.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

EASTER, 2017

Christ rose,
opened his eyes,
looked around,
& went back
to being dead.
Fuck this,
he said,
& rolled over
to find
the cold side
of the pillow.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

SUNDAY SNAKES

from Saturday's bowels,
like it's supposed to flush
six days of shit away
with one of rest
& respite.

What crap!

Please,
lemme sleep,
a little
longer.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

BREAKING THE SURFACE--FROM: THE TROUBLE WITH DREAMS

CHAPTER VIII

(The broken blocks of concrete, from where they came I didn’t know, had these rusted, spiral looking, pipes coming out of them. They lay either just past the lip of the ocean or, during high tide, ten to thirty yards in the water. The wind and ice laced rain scratched my face. I walked along the circumference of the ridge above the ocean, looking down at the rocks, some huge and some not so, busted up tin cans, rusted by the sea, and in one place the frame of a car, its steel the color of burnt orange, lying there in the water, half submerged. Sometimes, just the hood would be visible, other times you could see the water inside as high as the topmost part of the windshield, and at other times you could make out the grill, though it was impossible to name the make of the car. What’s in the trunk, I used to wonder: a body, weapons, a cache of gold, a valise filled with water logged bills? Have they looked? Has anyone looked? I scampered down the rocks, my sneakers slipping and sliding off the greenish black and slimy seaweed, holding the uppermost rock with one hand and getting a hold on the one lower until I could safely jump off one and onto the beach. My feet sunk into the wet sand. It felt good. My ankles and legs, so young and giving, cushioned the jump and gave me a feeling of exhilaration while lifting off and flying in the air, landing precisely where I wanted to. I wiped the rain from my eyes and face and walked along the beach like an explorer warrior, ready to conquer a new land.)

Blood pressure and bedpans, beeps and bright-eyed interns, brought me back from the deep. Some new doctor was telling these kids about my case in the language doctor’s use, like I wasn’t in the room. It gave me the chance to look at the calves of this young Japanese intern. She wore a skirt that ended at her knees, a white shirt which was tucked into her waistband, and the obligatory white jacket with pens, notebooks and papers sticking out of every pocket. Her jet black hair shimmered and framed a face that could have been a mix of Asian and Caucasian, but her mom was definitely Asian. She was altogether beautiful. I knew what was up above those knees and didn’t mind that when she turned to look at me she knew what I was thinking of. Cautiously, she smiled.
“Doctor,” I called over to her.
All heads turned toward me.
“The pretty doctor is the one I want to speak to. I’d like to ask her something.”
She looked over to her superior for approval. He smiled and nodded his head. She walked over to my bedside and in her best beside manner said, “What would you like to ask me?”
“Doctor, why is there this pain in my heart where love should be?”
Her smile radiated out toward me, but she quickly tamped it down. “I really couldn’t answer that,” she began, “but I think, given enough time, it will fill again.”
“Can you promise me that?” I asked playfully.
“The only thing I can promise is that we will do our best to make sure you have a chance at having that happen.”
“Would you come back and talk to me about it? I’m lonely as hell in here.”
“Not too lonely by the looks of all these flowers.”
“Flowers without roots.”
She laughed despite herself. “I’ll try. I have to go now.” She turned to leave.
“Doctor,” I whispered, “I’d really like to speak to someone who laughs like you.”
Her walk hesitated for a beat, but only a beat, before she was with her group again and gone. Dr. Murakami-Roth was on her name tag. It seemed like a good combination to me, but I knew she wouldn’t come back again, and not because she didn’t want to.

pages 71-72

© 2015 Norman Savage

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

TAKING A SHAVE

at two forty five
in the morning
is a wondrous thing.
You're alone,
but being alone
just makes sense
as the razor glides
easily; the motion
fifty years in the
crafting; the strokes
gentle and assured.

A beautiful thing
to grow old
when so much life
has been lived
through the broken centuries
of empires & loves
and the battles
of the common
and commonplace.

There's a steady tick
of rain against
the streaked windows
lit by lampposts.
A Mile's ballad
is filtered
through his Harmon's mute.
My hazel eyes sparkle
as I race from legs
& thighs, fingers
& nails touching me,
clawing me sometimes
bringing as much laughter
as pain
like toothaches
& abstractions.

A beautiful thing
to grow old
& still care
how you appear
to the female;
how you're the cock's crow
amid a mostly bland
and unappetizing fare.

If I could choose
I would have shot
pool like Luther
or Willie or Fats
& hustled for a living,
instead I wrote
and am happy enough
with that.
Now there's a softness
to that; an easy truce
with myself, an understanding
of workings and a balance
we know nothing of.

A beautiful thing
to grow old
& still get
letters from those
who responded
to words arranged
on a page. They believe
you have something to offer--
& maybe you have.

I lie down,
my face smooth
as a baby,
and allow thoughts
to come
& go.
I will not murder
these thoughts
tonight, but let them
co-exist side by side
drifting lazily
into each other
adjusting the picture
as I adjust my pillows
& my arms & my legs
& let time & sleep
have their say.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

THOUGHTS BEFORE TURNING IN

The concrete holds
all the pain
of Rome.
No deed
goes unnoticed.
We are the military
disguised as doves.
As the anger of artists
are like farts
in a blizzard,
while white hot cauldrons
of hatred
are mistaken
for crucifixes
& pageants.
The night
sleeps peacefully
while your bones
& mine
stir.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014