SOFT FUEL

is the touch of a woman
on my skin. They shatter darkness
inside my soul
& stretch
what cannot be
into a homeostasis
of hope.
How often have they
injected a casual touch
into a crowning validation;
how they allow me
to preen or crow
without pretense or prevarication.
They have lent me
courage with a glance
& stemmed the fears
of a heart gone mad
from reality.
Sometimes,
I wish to go inside them
& sleep, nestled,
curled up,
in their natural bed
of curlicues
& mysteries.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

SLAVE BLUES SERVED ON A THANKSGIVING SLAB

She absorbed
my breath
& odors
on a 270 pound frame;
she withstood
grunts
& false starts.
She felt the drip
of foul Vodka sweat
& a thick spaghetti strand
of mouth drool
pooling around her nipple.
Somewhere
far off
Sonny Boy sang
the blues
of men; his harp
pumped blood red
trapped
by women
of color
by instinct;
she, too,
trapped
by young deliveries
& aborted safety
finds America
in God's trust
& open-school nights.
Everyday,
another stranger's flesh,
everyday,
the same dinner;
everyday,
a cold,
a missing tooth;
everyday,
a cheap cologne;
everyday,
a budget
breaks: speeding ticket,
toothache, a discharge.
I finally finish,
pull out
& fish
for green slime
in a pocket that hangs
with shame
over the chair.
Here, pleasure, thanks.
She tucks it
next to the pocket knife
& pepper spray.
Anytime, she says,
just call, you're
fun. I better run.
Have a good holiday.
You, too.
Sonny sang Bird.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

EVEN ME, A MOST UNGRATEFUL KNUCKLE-DRAGGER, WOULD GIVE THANKS

if it were quick--
like turning off
a light switch.
I don't like to wait.
And I don't like mess.
I would give
three or four years
of my time here
for that.
(Like anything else
it's negotiable...

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

BEFORE THERE WAS SORROW

For Diane

there was only
The Bible
and prediction.
Before love
like a sugar glass
shattered & pooled
like the ripples
of an illusion
there was only
an oral tale
told by a blind oracle.

I was living,
they told me,
in high cotton:
59th & CPS.
A diploma
in one hand,
a syringe
in the other.
And you,
my dear,
was the price
of admission.

It will be nice
to see you again
even though
we can't touch
through veils
of history.
It's enough
to remember
the shadows
your body left
& the strong coffee
burning my tongue
in the morning.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

A THANKSGIVING FOR MONGRELS

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGb5IweiYG8

A genius in the blood
both vile and rabid,
bit the country's
flesh and inflicted
a pure poison that runs
through arteries and veins
pulsating coast to coast.

The car is driven
by hunger. Beauty
is in marriage,
alchemy is fertile
& febrile &
forbidding.

It's Peggy Lee
aching. While
Captain Smith
& Pocahontas nutty
as kittens,
discover other,
more sacred lands
to explore.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

TONIGHT I HUNT

turkeys. A month
from now, reindeer
& clowns
in red suits.
It's come to that.
I believe
in America &
the American way:
you eat
what you kill--
first you
then me--
and always make time
for commercials.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

NATURE

I'm a loner
by nature,
no matter
how much
I secretly
(I think)
crave
company.

I've been asked
what I'm doing
Thanksgiving?
To each
I've replied:
I'm busy.
I'm not
busy.
I'm busy
trying
to be busy:
take myself
to a movie;
cook lamb stew;
stay alive
for a bit longer.
How I do that
is how I've done it
for sixty eight years:
bob & weave, avoid
being hit
too hard,
& playing
with my typer's keys.

So far
so good.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

THANKS FOR GIVING

For j.

me
married women
whose husbands
are dead
or might as well be.
Thanks for giving
them
ancient bohemian hearts
and well-springs
of curiosity.
Thanks for giving
us
chemical erections
to boost passion
and education.
Thanks for giving
Chinatown
instead of turkey.
Thanks for giving
trusting Indians.
And thanks for giving
me
a country
that tolerated
me
and made my life
a jumbled mess
of transgressions
and forgiveness.

Tomorrow
is there
to mold
and to
fabricate.
But tonight,
tonight is for
deep reflection
and above all else
laughter.

The wing
is yours.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

THANKS---GIVING

The Betty Poems

My girl
is up high;
my balls sag
around my ankles--
bugs can play
ping-pong with em
for all the good
they're doin me
now, although
my boss loves
to squeeze em
too; he's known
for that: more sadistic
as our pain threshold
increases. Things
have just worked out
that way.
What should have been
gone through
early
has been saved
for later
waiting
patiently
while I dreamt
of escapes
and believed
I fooled em.

Still,
I would not trade
those murdered hours
for a punch card,
would not sacrifice
a martyred minute
for placemats,
silverware,
drapes or
throw pillows.
I know how stupid
that sounds, how
unreasonable,
and how it strips
self-pity from the bone.
But I've never desired
to fuck a Puritan;
never was attracted to bonnets,
and manners, and God
knows what else
inside the layers
of lace.
I've never known honesty
except my own kind,
skewered, I know,
made up, I admit,
second by second
in a loving embrace
with those less mad
or a touch madder.
Perhaps,
I simply
could do
nothing
else
given
the starting
gate?

Yet,
it all led
to the girl
up high
north
of the border
and whether
I will still
be grateful
next year around
this time
is not
for me to know. But
I do say thanks
to her now
for giving me
a reason
to say
thanks
today.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013