THAT CERTAIN FEELING

Men feel it before,
and more acutely,
then women,
I think.
Athletes male
or female,
feel it first, followed
by artists
& skilled
laborers (though
I'm not sure
about the artists
& skilled laborers part).
It happens
before you're aware
of it happening:
you know what you want to do,
you can see it,
but you just can't do it,
anymore:
you see an opening
but can't take it;
you see a punch coming
but can't duck it
or slip it.
There's a kind of rust
on your reflex; your body
is a beat behind
the rhythm section.

The first time (or two,
or three) it happens
you'll reject it; you'll resort
to bullshitting yourself
& believe it,
(but not really),
you'll say:
just one of those days,
stop fucking around,
get more rest,
go on a diet,
get into the weight room,
shut-off distractions--
friends, family, hangers-on,
--stop chasing
skirts, concentrate--
& that might work...
for a bit.
But where once your youth was
has now looked
& found
greener pastures.

I'm well passed
my prime; I make
what I make
by skill & wits,
a reluctant intelligence,
a stubborn neurosis,
& guts, all enfolding me,
embalming me into
a state of grace.
Like today:
I saw these young beauties
walk by. I knew what I wanted
to do
to each
& every
one of them,
but cannot do a thing. How unfortunate
for all of us.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

SWOLLEN EGO & EMPTY POCKETS

Story of my life. Which just got published, on Smashwords. JUNK SICK: CONFESSIONS OF AN UNCONTROLLED DIABETIC. I'd thought a few months previously that it was going to be published by a prestigious publishing house here in NYC until the shit hit the fan and my agent called and said, sorry, ain't gonna happen. Shit, I thought, been writing for forty years, had some success with small press' in the late 60's, early 70's, and had been working on the memoir nearly 25 years. She told me to hold tight and work on the novel I began six months ago. Damn, I might be dead by that time. My body began to betray me at 11 when I got diabetes and held fast through 45 years of junk, booze, assorted pills, love affairs, jobs, a marriage and near homelessness. Lemme try to see if there's another way.
Artists are a strange breed: either they're sucking your blood or sucking your cock. Drunks and junkies live on the edges as well: grandiose doormats. I felt pretty good getting some air with the book and like a goddamn moron going into this mind numbing job six days a week, 10-12 hours a day, trying to pay my rent. I guess I need the tension.
I'll do what I can to keep this blog humming, but writing for me is not a day to day thing. Sometimes I want to stay in bed or scratch my ass and not work. In fact, each day I don't have to work is some kind of victory for me. So if I miss a few days you know am either taking it easy or stringing up a noose, or up on a cross, or escaping into an easy delusion. But hold fast, and I'll try to do the same.
The following links are to my memoir and interview. The third link is to a piece I read in The New York Times today. It made me ashamed to call myself an artist.

http://smashwords.com/books/view/715
Interview : http://blog.smashwords.com

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/01/arts/design/01sont.html