MY DREAMS HAVE CHANGED THEIR CLOTHES

I dream now
of living within a Xanex,
big as a cloud,
rolling above my landscape
as I float
from dusk to dawn
battling those forces
that wants to pin me
against the ropes
& bring me back to earth;
or sometimes I'm strolling
in the park, amidst a blizzsrd
of heroin dissolving
on my tongue, taking in
the wonderment of nature
& man married
in an architecture of need;
a Mt. Kilamanjaro of reefer,
buds as big as your fist,
in their rainbow splendor
sits outside my back door.
waiting for my pleasures,
my forays into the wild...
steeling myself,
like a Kamikazie pilot,
into the wind...

then,
behind Venetian Blinds
of fear, I'd have an Uzi,
semi-autos wiht scopes,
hunting rifles, pistols,
grenades, IED's, bazookas,
flame throwers, Bowie knives,
blackjacks, brass knuckles,
& I'd wait...& plan...& wait
as these Saturday night invaders,
these revelers from the sticks,
who had crossed over bridges,
gone through tunnels,
traveled from corn fields,
or desert oil wells,
their voices skunky drunken loud,
girlish puberty, whiny, rageful,
slinging curses
as if they've driven trucks,
at boys playing men
and I'd shoot the vowels out of their teeth,
gnash the consonents from their throats,
dilate then extinguish the light
from their pupils,
and granade their dumpster's maw...
I'd watch while their dumb lips
pushed out a wince
while their backbones cracked,
vertebrea crumbled, heart exploded,
hear their screams singing an aria
of disbelief leading
to a god-awful quiet...

As you can plainly see,
I've gotten better.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

IN THE PRIVACY

of my apartment
I find myself
weeping a lot.
I hear about veterans
committing suicide
for stuff their bloated
bellies can't keep down;
I see dogs abandoned
and caged and shivering
and naked beyond their understanding;
I see mothers weeping
from a sidewalk ricochet;
I watch a foreign paraplegic
grasp a diploma and future
between two of her working fingers;
I read a young woman's grasp
of a tilting and incomprehensible world.

I've been a defensive man.
Quick to anger
& quicker to judge.
I've tried to play
it safe and found
no safety in that.
There is some kind of muscle
memory of heroism; maybe
I'm Greek and have absorbed
some ancient blood myths.
I don't know.
But the world has bloomed
despite thoughts of cruelty.
I've seen shapes
seemingly unimpressive
impress most of all.
I'm an old dog
learning how
to become
young.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

THERE YOU WERE

For J.

stuck
between two copies
of "Changes"
my first publication,
1967. They were yellow
with age, darkened
by NYC's sand-like grime,
musty smelling, brittle,
but not your pages
of poetry. They
leapt & kissed
& fondled memories hot
with the quivering pulse
of desire, erasing
four decades
in two breaths.

Who sez you can't read
& dance
at the same time? You
were my black orchid,
my narcissistic muse.
You were my narcotic...
and necrotic.
You were everything
I thought a disturbed poet
should aspire to
and be with: delicate,
beautiful, brilliant,
reckless...& married.
You found me
when you could
& found time
when you couldn't. How
your upper body would twist
around the gear shift
as I drove
and stammered
about poetry
while you
were actually
writing it.

"Heroin" and "Misty Roses"
informed us and highways
we tumbled down had no exits.
Our belief in a sorcerer's alchemy
made us ripe for our own lies.
Still, I would not change
nor exchange a minute
of what we were then
for another peaceful minute
of what I am now.
I have to believe
you feel the same.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

THERE ARE FEW THINGS MORE SATISFYING

than a good
bowel movement
especially
at a certain age.
In fact,
it's one of the few things
to look forward to.

What else
do the young
need to know?

I suppose,
though,
that as long
as they can
blow out
the candles
a hearty
"fuck you"
is in
that breath
as well.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

I MISS

the spongy
sea-soaked
boardwalk.
I miss the white
Converse sneakers
that walked it.
I miss the taste
of warm gin
drunk on the moist sand
holding the hand
of a young girl
anticipating
the first kiss.
I miss double features
on a wet Saturday
afternoon for a quarter
and hot buttered popcorn
and bonbons
and Milk Duds
sticking between teeth.
I miss my top teeth.
I miss my four toes.
I miss her titties
so soft and powdered
by Johnson&Johnson
and I miss being scared
I'd break them.
I miss the first time
I punched my father
& frightened him.
I miss the absence
of memory.
I miss all the bookmarks,
in all the pages,
and all the expectation
that welcomed me
and disinvited the world.
I miss the stupidity
of youth--your youth,
my youth, our youth.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015