COMING CLEAN

For Puma P. who midwifed this poem.

Stealing from a cancer patient
didn't take a lot of thought;
in fact,
it required no thinking:
here was the drug; and
here I was;
and I was alone
with all those morphine bottles
staring at me
and whispering:
take me, no,
take me, no,
what about me?
I took out my syringe-
an old glass & steel needle job--
& plunged it
into the heart
of the stopper.
She was an old woman,
ancient really,
her skin like yellowed papyrus,
gray tufts of hair
haphazard on her pillow.
Surely,
she was on her way
out.

Her nurse & her niece
(who was kind enough to bring me),
were in an outer room
discussing her care,
her end of life care, & here
I was just starting
my beginning of life care
in the year of our Lord, 1970,
a stone's throw from New Orleans,
in 100 degrees, 100% humidity summer,
& I needed to be cool,
to get straight, to buy myself
a few days to plan
for my future.
I'm sure, if I was able
to ask her, & if she was able
to respond, she'd be
more than happy to exchange
her comfort
for my safety.
No doubt she'd want
to buy me more time.

I still think
of that old lady
from time to time
looking down
from heaven
& seeing me
still busily
at work
turning out
poem after poem
after poem
knowing
what a wise investment
she made.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020For Puma P who mid-wifed this poem

STICKY-NOTES

for your brain
comes preinstalled
from the manufacture
at no extra cost
to you; some work
and some do not--
as to why
we don't know.
They're boxed
& layered
with general divisions
& sub-divisions
like: Family,
Lovers, Sex, Food,
Pleasures, Pain,
Betrayals and
Not Yet Named and some
are left blank
with possibility.

Today, it was cancer
& The Babe & his daughter's death
at the age of 102.
I never had cancer,
never knew The Babe
and didn't know his daughter,
but I did have diabetes
and thought a lot about,
and gravitated toward,
dying & death at 11
seemingly going forward.
The Times had Julia's demise
noted & all I had to do
was click on it & there I was
at 12 remembering
The Babe not able to eat
the white of a hard-boiled egg
without blood
gushing from his gums
& pain indenting his body
into a jolting question mark.
My note had many
traumatic question marks:
how was I going to die?
how messy would it be?
who would be there
to hold my hand
and get me
from this place
to the next?
I was able to see
the starched white nurses'
starched white uniforms,
smell the disinfectant,
taste the bile
of fear, and fear
each minute yet to come.

I read his bio
61 years ago,
but it stuck
somewhere
in the stack
under Health
maybe Dying
maybe both.

Breathing
after the first breath
is dangerous.
It should come
with instructions
or warnings--
but then again,
no. they shouldn't--
it's a crap shoot--
let's leave it
at that.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

PACK YOUR SHIT

You've got
six months
to live.

Non-negotiable.

No,
this is not
Hemingway.

No,
this is not
art.

Yes,
this is
cancer.

(mommy)

(Mommy)

(MOMMY).

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

PISSING YELLOW

For Felix & Felix's Mom

Felix is dying;
he has cancer:
inoperable.
His doctor,
as most doctors would
these days,
suggested to his mom
to get a second opinion
from an oncologist,
but did not offer
much hope.
They also discussed
other interventions:
diet, herbs, meditation,
laughter, and prayer.
I knew his mom
was a strong and willful woman
and would do
what she thought best.

I also knew
how this would effect her.
In her own private blizzard
of inconsistency,
Felix was her only constant;
a soft presence
who only knew
how to give,
and never took
what was not
offered.
He was there
through the hideous years
of a bad marriage
and never judged her;
he heard her words
and her silence
and listened
when nobody else
could hear her
or believe her.
He stood fast
when she crawled into bed
for a year. He smelled
her misery
and did not run
away from the odor.
He understood the pain,
the isolation,
the drugs and the drink
the just being able
to brush her teeth--if that--
and nothing more
for the day.
The world
might have abandoned her,
but not Felix.
Never.

Felix doesn't know
he's dying;
he doesn't feel pain
as pain,
or nausea
as nausea.
They're just part
of the whole deal
of being alive.
He only responds,
as we all do,
to love
and absence
of love.

I shouldn't have
intruded--
not at this time,
but I did.
I came anyway.
I had to come.
I needed her
to love me.
My insecurities
demanded it.
I was led to believe
she wanted me there,
but she didn't. She understands
Felix's love,
but not mine.
She understands Felix's pain,
but not mine.
And Felix was fine.
He was active, alert,
full of play and full of love.
Licks and kisses was all he gave
and caresses was all he wanted.
His piss was as yellow as the sun
on the white snow. His nose
black and wet; his desire
to go at cats and rats
and squirrels boundless.
He was just fine...
for now.
She looked at him
and his leavings
more often than she looked at me.
And I was jealous.
I was in pain
and she
was the only thing
that could make it go away
and she couldn't
or wouldn't
do that.

It's harder
for some of us,
isn't it,
to love humans
for very long.
Especially for those
of us who believe
in our secret places
we don't deserve love at all
from other humans.
Somehow
we got the feeling
that we're too ugly,
too damaged,
too mean,
too deranged,
too not good enough
to be good enough
for anyone
who believes differently.
We mistake kindness
for weakness;
we interpret everything
through the prism of ugliness
and suspect
or own suspicions.
Or, perhaps,
it's simply
revenge.
Revenge on the parent
who tyrannized
or revenge on yourself
who has dared to enjoy?
Or, perhaps,
it's everything
and nothing?
Maybe it's autistic
or maybe it's bi-polar?
Or the disease
of the day
or the hour?

Whatever it is
she's unable
to love
things on two legs.
I'd thought
that because I'm ready,
or think I'm ready,
she's ready.
How stupid
and selfish
is that?
I'm an egotist
and dreamer--
a lethal
combination.

Felix, for the present,
is doing just fine.
It's the two of us
who're fucked.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014