THE WATER BUG'S DRESS REHEARSAL

scuttered across
linoleum outside
my door
as I left for work
this morning.
It was an ugly fuck:
big & fat & black & brown
with whisper feelers
going this way & that
finding its way
into a kitchen
cabinet, water drain,
bathroom piss stained
shit stained soul stained
corner.
Goddamned motherfucker
as my sneaker clad
two hundred and sixty pound
frame found his beetle
back and stomped the shit outta him;
his liquids flew,
underneath his broken body,
flying to his sides puss green,
purple matted latched upon
the nearest wall's borders.
Bam: back broken, spleen exploded,
lungs busted-out, brain mashed,
eyes popped, ears filled with slime,
arms and legs shattered, asshole
popped. He was gone before
he knew
his name.

I lifted my leg--
just the way
I'd like to go
someday, as I went
to the trains
instead full
of mercy.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

SATURDAY NIGHT ON THE GERIATRIC EXPRESS

"I'm gonna get that limp lookin
sorry-assed piece of meat up...up...up,
yeh here me, up!"
She sounded like The Fifth Dimension.
"Here, take this," she said,
and pushed a few pills at me.
I took em.
It still might be a lot of work,
I cautioned.
"Work. Shit. That's what I live for:
Challenges!"
She was young. Energetic.
I was old. Nearly finished.
We made a funny couple.
The devil was in
both of us.
I might outlive
everybody
she whispered
when it was
over.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

TENDING MY GARDEN

on my little patch
of Hell:
A memorial
this morning
for Mr. Bamberg
who spent 15 years
in Green Haven
on a 25 to Life bid
lived for 6 months
with us
before pancreatic cancer
did what the streets couldn't:
take him out.
The staff
& his cousin was there.
It seems Mr. Bamberg
was real pleasant
to work with & his nephew
claimed he taught him
everything his dead parents couldn't:
except how to get out of his own zip code.
And then there were our tenants
who came our of their caves
for the free cake & coffee.

Then there are the live ones:

Ronny's on a cocaine binge;
his two hands as big as pillows
from I.V.ing his veins
and missing;
Little Paulie has an abscess
from shooting dope into dead highways;
Bent Over Paulie
who has a hump back
from scoliosis
& great nutrition, split
from his hospital bed
& was last seen hustling
roses down the avenue
of the dead
on 42 do-wop street; Eva
was issued a bench warrant;
& Marty began a gig--
his first one in ten years
since his 7 year bid
in Dannemora
and looked like a kid
when he came back
to tell me.
Some
might find that depressing.
Too bad
for them. They've never
missed a meal
or slept on a grate;
they never walked
down a street
that wasn't lit
for them.
But I've got
an easy two days
off that I'm going
to enjoy. Praise
the Lord.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

THEY GOT US BY THE BALLS

It begins Sunday
afternoon; the vise
turns slowly.
A pall descends
as the steel clamps
tighten. Suddenly,
your balls thump
into your chest
as your heart
and mind follows.
No amount of distraction:
football, basketball,
Downton Abby, 60 Minutes,
your partners needs,
your children's tantrums,
can withstand Monday's
assault: they pay us
just enough,
so you have to
show-up
for work
today.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

HELP WANTED:

For E.H.

DRUG ADDICT:
FLEXIBLE HOURS.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

SHIRLEY

There's this woman,
Shirley, at work
who puts down
one of those toilet seat covers
on her stained aqua clothed swivel chair
before she sits her ancient ass
on there and calls for donations
for the Democrats
to God knows where
on the evening shift.
Shirley has straw for hair,
windshield wipers for eyelashes,
and a mouth that has said her share of prayers
for a few lifetimes.
And she's polite,
both on the phone
and before she leaves.
Shirley always asks
if the person has a moment
to talk
or to live,
and is thoughtful enough
to remove the toilet seat cover
when she's about to go home
for the evening.
What she does,
and with whom she does it,
after she leaves
is anybody's
guess.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

HOT DAY IN AUGUST--JOB INTERVIEW--THE DEPARTURE LOUNGE--CHAPTER 4

4

That woman bites, I said to myself, leaving the building. I was to report Friday for “Orientation.” “Just bring your self and a pen,” Sludgeberg told me, and smiled, her teeth, white and capped, were blinding, “we’ll take care of the rest.”
The ankle height clouds of carbon monoxide from exhausts of garbage trucks and asshole farts, & ashen air was as bucolic as a mountain lake compared to Sludgeberg’s presence. I took a first deep breath in an hour. It felt as if I’d worked there for thirty years instead of being up there for thirty minutes and was finally enjoying my retirement as I revolved through the revolving door.
I was always real good at the interview; it was “work” that presented problems. If I ever found the sonofabitch who invented that four-lettered word, I’d kill him.

I walked, or I should say dodged, the billions of people who littered Fifth Avenue in this heat. I knew that around The Empire State were some cheap grits and interviews always made me hungry. I found a corner joint selling two dogs and a soda for a buck ninety-nine. A bargain. The sun bounced off the sidewalk and struck the corners of my eyes. Just being in mid-town was enough to set my teeth on edge, but being in mid-town around all those people who seemed to have a purpose, who seemed to know where they were going, sent shivers down my spine.
I bit down on this dog that had been on the grill so long it just snapped in half. The soda had no bubbles, had no bounce. And it was fucking warm.
Well, Heller, shit or get off the pot. Whatareyagonnado? It’s either sell a fuckin button or construct your little patch of safety: teach your fellow shelter dwellers about Black Art in the Sixties or help them write legal briefs. Sleep in your own bed, or on a mattress as thin as a dime? Wipe your ass with something soft or cardboard? What’s it gonna be?
Tour buses were double parked on Fifth and on 33rd, next to the Big Penis. I could see little Asian people with the mandated camera slung around their necks, marching in step; the men taking the lead, not knowing where the fuck they were going and the women, culturally behind, following quietly, self-effacing, but fearless. The tourists from Minnesota were the reverse: big, box like frames, fat meaty arms, swinging McDonald’s’s bags, the women taking charge of the men and sixteen fat kids bringing up the rear and their rear, not knowing where they’re going but determined to get there.

The bus stop at 33rd and Fifth looked like the MTA’s version of The Special Olympics: three wheelchairs with bodies crippled in various positions served as the runway for a suicide dash. The sun beat mercilessly down upon them. All looked non-plussed. When you have to get around town and “rapid transit” above ground was the least cruel, you better have patience. I thought about going over to them and pitch the button that could save their lives, but they’d have to be so kind not to die before Monday when I became officially part of Life Force’s family.
Upon further inspection, I didn’t know if they’d be interested: the big black guy, his fat hanging over the arm rests and bulging over the seat, wore a t-shirt and cut-off gloves with metal studs in them; the bleached straw-haired woman sported a tattoo on her right bicep: “Walking is for fags;” and the young girl with spiked red, chartreuse and blue hair was plugged into some music thrusting her arms at no one in particular. It didn’t seem like the right time to approach.
Three buses--the 2, 3, and 5--pulled up at the same time, and behind them were two more 3’s; so much for staggered scheduling. The first bus’ positioning made it all but impossible to get to the other buses who stopped in the middle of the street. The driver stopped, put the bus in park when he saw the wheelchair contingent, begrudgingly lifted the bar that separated him from them and told the other seniors in the handicapped seats they’d have to move. He lifted the plastic seats, went back to his controls, opened the doors, pushed a button and the ramp lowered. The wheelchairs rolled aboard. We stood and watched as the four other buses, nearly empty, made off down Fifth.
Another ten minutes and the driver tucked them in. A few of the older ones outside nearly dropped from heat stroke. Finally, the driver opened the doors for us. I followed the herd on board.
More embarrassed than I usually was, I put my “Handicapped” metro card into the slot. The ones crippled by birth or circumstances were a hard act to follow. Having four toes amputated could hardly be called “cripple” in my book--especially when it was essentially my manias that allowed that to happen--but it saved me a buck and a quarter and that was enough to muster through. I always thought the driver would call me on it, and I was ready to whip off my sneaker and show him the deformed foot, open the front of my shirt so he could see where the cabbage was done, even open up my cranium so he could check-out the three hamsters on a wheel chasing a dream, but in nearly thirty years not one driver gave a fuck let alone asked for proof.
I wiggled my way around the wheelchairs and those older fucks who refused to go to the back of the bus and tried to stake out an inch of space where another’s sweat wouldn’t make me want to retch and at the same time avoid the blasts of Arctic air freezing the damp hairs on my skin and shrinking my testicles. An impossible task. I stood as vertically as my body would allow and stared straight ahead.

pgs 12-14 of 539
© 2015 Norman Savage

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

ALEXIS

was half Cuban
and half African,
but all woman;
she was also
on the skids.
I'd see her
from time to time
when I came out
of my captivity
to have a smoke.
At first,
she came to me
& demanded one
then modified
her approach,
and I'd give her one
and, always the gentleman,
light it as well.
She always looked better
from a distance; a little long
in the tooth up close
and a little beaten-up
around the edges.
I found out she lived
in a city shelter
around the corner
and sometimes
performed acts of charity
with men
inside the subway entrance
on the corner.
She was smart
in the ways
that most women are:
she could size-up
a man
in seconds,
but instead
of thinking
in years
she measured
only minutes.

After a time,
we got friendly
enough, so that
a real coffee
& a danish
went with the cigarette,
but the other day
she had the sadsads.
I didn't have to ask.
"It's my fucking birthday,
she said,
not one fucking person
gives a shit if I'm alive
or dead...and I don't give a shit either."
I felt like that
once or twice myself.

"How old ya gonna be?"
"Fortyfuckingfive."
"I'm twenty years your senior."
"You don't look that, daddy?"
"Neurotics don't age...you got a dress?"
"I got a dress."
"You like Italian?"
"Yeah, I like Italian."
"You wanna eat Italian tonight?"
"You takin me out?"
"Why not? Everybody should have a birthday."
"Where?"
"An old Italian joint near my pad. Been there
for a hundred years; older sophisticated crowd--
we'll fit right in. How's eight?"
I scribbled down the address for her
and met her out front.
She cleaned herself up and looked good.
Real good.
She knew how to order, knew what she wanted,
knew how to sip wine and knew how to eat.
We were finishing up
with espresso
when she leaned in close
and said,
"I got something I need to tell you."
"Yeah, what's that?"
"My real name. It's..."

I thought that
was a start.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

WORK WEARY

Tried to play
spin-the-bottle
with my dick--
I got
nowhere.
What a drag
that was.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014