BOTTOM OF THE NINTH

and the deuces were wild:
two on,
two strikes,
two outs,
and down two runs.

Savage, I heard,
grab some wood.
A slimy wad of brown chaw
mixed with lung phelgm
landed a heartbeat
from my cleated feet.
I didn't have to look up
to know it was the little runt's discharge,
my manager, a hardball lifer
and proud delinquent ducking
his 3 x's & tit sucking brood
not to mention a city
that had started to turn against him
after his last seeya next year tunes.

Once, he had loved me.

Once, I had loved him,
until my body turned
against both of us:
injuries one year
followed by more injuries
on top of old injuries the next.
Then it was deception,
followed by illusion,
followed by delusion,
followed by the wooden pine
of an open-air coffin.
Finally, we nurtured
a permitted hatred
for those who died
just when needed the most.
Savage, he spat,
do somethin.

I grabbed my stick
and sauntered into
the on-deck circle
as if I owned it.
I wore no gloves--
I was old school.
There was a smattering of applause
amid the boo's & groans.
Fuckem, I said to myself,
they know shit.
I pawed the dirt
in the batter's box
staking out my claim
and watched the catcher
and pitcher discuss
the elements of conquest.
I thought I saw a smirk
on both their faces.
Fuckem too, I muttered.
His first pitch pushed me back,
& his second knocked me down.
Then he laid in two sliders
on the black, impossible
to hit even with a broom.
I stepped from the box,
dusted my hands with dirt,
& steadied myself.
I saw the ball
leave his hand,
red stitches swirling in the sun
as big as the cape must appear to the bull;
a fucking off speed curveball
coming right in to my fucking wheelhouse.
The bat tightened
in my finger's grip, forearms pulsed
with concentrated strength pushing
my veins like elevated highways
from the world's embrace,
shoulders flexed,
eyes fixed on the globe spinning my way,
my body tensed & tingly.

But I couldn't pull the fucking trigger.
I couldn't get the fucking bat to move.
I couldn't fucking do it anymore.

Later, that night,
when my wife slid into bed
next to me, next to my turncoat body
to comfort me I knew
a blowjob was mine for the asking.
And sexy she still was;
and loving she still was;
her magic had not worn out
after all these years
of working the territory.
Her breasts,
so round & perfect,
begged me to use them;
her cunt, waxed
& perfumed opened
its petals spread moist
& glistening...
but I was assigned
to the bench,
my playing days
in the old US of A
offically over.

Baby, I said to her,
how does Japan grab ya?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

VD

They have fucked
their country silly,
and they've used
no protection,
but it's we
who drip
from syphilis,
gonorrhea,
genital herpes
and all manner
of yeast infections.
Pus is in
our drinking water,
puke is in the air.
Penicillan is useless
against this strain
of virus; only words
as guns or cannons
will staunch the flow
of bullshit.
Vladimir & Donald,
cocksmen for our age,
living in our bloodstream
for far too long,
has rendered us blind
and truly
insane.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

TAKING A LEAK IN URINALS MADE OF PYRITE

All men peek
at urinals
at men
who stand
next to them
surreptitiously
checking size.
Their eyes
on a swivel
as mine were
the other evening.
O, my,
I said
to myself:
Trump,
on my right,
had a dick
like a wrinkled spigot;
Vlad had the head
of a marble.
I turned
to my left,
I turned
to my right
& zipped up
slowly.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

THE LOVE SONG OF DONALD J. TRUMP

Let us go then
you & I
as the country is chained
around a megalomaniac's thigh
like sheep
about to be
buggered.

Let us go
through flaccid streets
under silken sheets
of puffed bravado
and stubby fingered falsetto
to where madmen wait
sucking an empty space
like prunes within a vacated bowel.

In the room the blowhards come & go
Tickling each other's assholes.

There will be time, there will be time
to grow a dick
and fornicate
with a stranger tonight...
or each other's mate
even when their there...or ain't.

No, I am not Nikita
nor was meant to be,
am a jester and a saint
but would not hesitate
to drop a shoe
upon his pate.

We have lingered too long
celibate and lick the salt
upon the state.
So roll up
your sleeves and part your hair
and wonder how our fine creatures
only sit and stare.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

VD ENTERPRISES

I don't mind
that Vladimir
& Donald divvy up
the world
as if they were cutting
into a ripe cunt begging
for their mouths;
I don't mind
that Stalingrad
& Gettysburg
& millions
of dead stumps
sticking in
the flushed earth
are fronts
for dick-waving
& flag fawning.
I don't even mind
that their walnuts
are patted with powders
as they suckle
from enormous breasts
through endless nights.

No, I don't mind.

What I do mind
is that neither one
of those motherfuckers
have started
a poetry magazine.
I, too, have
priorities.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

RUSSIAN PRELUDES & NOCTURNES

I found our grandeur
in a Karaoke bar
on the lower east side:
Putin was singing
Pussy Riot--
quite good actually
--while Trump
was taking a shave.
Wait til I finish,
Vladimir said,
then slit it.
(He was always
a cold
sonofabitch).

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016