CRAZY FUCKING GENES

Some of us
have noticed death
early on; that's not
necessarily
a bad thing.
We've lived
a life
almost
as a high-wire act
and was lucky
there were nets
of all kinds
to catch
our hearts
in its hands.

I pushed
& pleaded
on the accelerator.
I dared God
to get me
out
when I wanted
to get out
but he left me
to suck on the tit
of other mortals
who've been there
before me.
Yes,
people around me
died
unexpectedly
yet their deaths
were abstract
while mine
gave me
a kind
of buoyancy.

Now, however,
I notice death
everyday
in my steps
& in my breath.
I take notice
of those who exit
& why. Some
are younger
& some are older
but mostly
they're my age.
Some I've listened to
or watched; some
have even given me
pleasures. I note
their passing
& record their ages:
O, she was sixty-seven--I got her
by a year; he was fifty-nine
& seemed to be healthy, was
an athlete and I have him
by a decade; huh? seventy-three--
I have four or five more years to go.
It's stupid, I know,
to try
& figure it out. Let it
just unfold, I tell myself.
It can't be explained.
Chalk it up
to crazy fucking genes
& leave it go at that,
but I can't
do it--
somebody had to write
this poem.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

I'VE ALWAYS SAT

near doors or
exit signs;
an easy escape
from myself
and other things
human.
A quick glance
is all I need
to survey
and size-up
the scene
and its inherent
hostility:
either too much
brains or brawn.
I love my neighbor,
of course,
with as much ardor
and abandon
as I love myself:
darkly,
skeptically,
imperfectly,
foolishly,
and capable
of anything.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2010-2013