MUSTARD SEEDS

Nobody's fault,
really; it's in
the mustard seed
I suspect.
We're given
our rations
before entry
& can only eat
from that plate
or tin can.
It is
a war
of sorts,
all the time,
and we act,
or not,
accordingly.
Angry?
of course.
Bitter?
sometimes.
The rules,
if any,
are none.
To advise
or suggest
alternatives
cannot be
avoided.
They can
only be
brokered
by chance
& chances
taken.

Old age
has softened
me like
a fine Brie--
allowed to run
& gain
a slow
knowledge
of urgency.
I would hold grudges
like a wizened Jew
with Alzheimer's,
forgetting
everything
else.

But not now.
No longer
does it make sense
or matter.
By the time
the jury decides
& is polled
it's over.
Then,
and only then,
is it time
to shed
a little
ink.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

SO STUPID IT MAKES PERFECT SENSE

There was Seymour
and now Robin. Before
those two gents
there was David,
Ernie, Sylvia, Anne,
John & John and,
I'm sure other
John's; & please
don't forget Vinny,
Dino, Marilyn, Amy,
and many lost fools,
like myself, who couldn't
find their way home
with a map.

It has always been
a hard life; work,
love, bread, adulation,
has little to do
with it; it's just
fucking hard.
You can turn over
the rocks & discover
a new enzyme, a new hormone,
a new molecule, insanities
lurking around the corners
of your birth, teachers
with bad breath & dandruff,
mustard sandwiches & Draino chasers,
and would be no closer in discerning
the link and linkages
of how you view yourself
or the world.

Tonight,
if you're not knotting
a rope or loading a shotgun,
if you're not shivering
in your closet more afraid
of the light than the dark;
if there's a pop tart
or a pancake or a cup
of black coffee for
tomorrow morning or
a slice of almost green bologna
for tonight's fare...
that is enough, it is enough
to turn on your radio
& blast yourself away
& into a space
that gives you space
and that will be
good enough--it has
to be.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

NO MAS

If I have to take a knee,
I will; or not get off
the stool between rounds;
instead of my manager,
I will throw in the towel;
I will raise my hands
& surrender;
I will admit
that it's stronger
than even me;
tougher;
smarter;
more experienced,
focused,
and inexhaustible.

I've held onto it
grimly, like rosary beads
in a death-grip;
misery was like
a religion,
a calling
for me.
It sounded
its trumpets
& danced
in a game
that was rigged
from the beginning.
Amazing,
how much energy
I burned fueling
my anger--I could have
knocked-out the suns
of every solar system
seen
or not.
I carried it
like a rat
gnawing at
my pocket.

I did this
not for hours,
or days or months
or years,
but for decades.
What a waste
it's been--
like pissing
down your own leg:
nobody knows it--
except yourself.

I will leave death
little enough.
But no longer
will I be stingy
with myself:
pleasures,
all pleasures
that doesn't stink
of artificiality
will be courted.
I wish to punish
no one,
especially
myself.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014