NOTHING MUCH HAS CHANGED...

except the gray hairs
around my balls &
the wrinkled spigot
that serves
as my dick.
But my brain
still gets as hard
as Chinese algebra.
And so I'm taken
by surprise
when folks my age
smile & say hello
as they pass me
reading or smoking
a cigarette or both
while I sit
on a stoop
in the shade
on a beautiful brownstone perch
in Greenwich Village.

The young ones
without a crease
or a care pass
as if I didn't exist...
& I don't...
for them.
Sometimes a "father thing"
glides by and I get a look
but little more.
But the old ones & I
exchange a smile, even banter
a bit--how's the book; it's hot;
nice weather; live here long--
small talk that connects us.
They think they have nothing to fear
and I don't try to dissuade them.
They are not in a rush,
but I am...I've always been
in a rush and more times
than not
have blown past the money.
Most feel no danger
coming off of me...I hope
they're wrong.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

EXISTENIALISM--A MOST BITTER PILL

Sick
& alone
ain't so bad--
when young
but on the south side
of sixty
it fuckin sucks.

Wake up
& realize
nobody
gives a shit
about your fever,
your stomach,
your head or
your heart.
Nobody
to bring you
a compress,
a cup of tea
or spoonful
of forgetting,
or even
an aspirin.
Your ass
is exposed.
You've arrived
at the Stillwell Avenue's
terminal
of the soul.

Have a good
day.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

BOUNCED AROUND

You don't know
what you're getting
into: an icebox
or cauldron.
You don't know
how the cord
you've come from
tightens
once it's
cut.
How unfortunate
not to have skins
like the rhino
or the freedom
of a fish.
Instead,
we're at the mercy,
(for such
an ungodly time),
of lunatics
who've been mothered
by other lunatics.
They're drunk
or broke or
broken or
both; they scream
& curse
& fondle
their charges.
They abandon
or ignore
or shame
because
they can.
And those
are the lucky ones.
They haven't been
bounced against walls,
or tied to their beds
for days or weeks.
They haven't been
pissed on
or touched
or fondled
or fucked.
But none
are really
lucky.
Early on
they believe
the truth
of the lie:
their fault
for the fights
or the coldness
or the ravings
of drunks; their fault
the world tilts
& slides
& slips
underneath
them.

I never really wanted kids;
I always knew
I was too fucked-up
in all the ways
that matter
to them; consistency
for one. I'm no hero.
Today I saw a few
newly minted diabetics:
nine and fourteen.
No family,
but too much family:
drunk and addled
and miffed that a
disease demanded more attention
than they did.
The kids were quiet,
but inside, their bodies
churned: their eyes
sensitive, ears receptive
to every and any
jungle sound. They will
have to develop
a better nose
for deceit
& truth
if they are to survive. And that
could take
a lifetime.

Coming home
the train
was empty
considering
the hour; perhaps
the rain and wind
kept the animals
in their cages.
I sat alone
in a corner
and let the underground
rock me. It felt good.
I'd been through
what those kids
were going through
now: the diabetes,
the blame,
the shame,
the wanting to fix
the unfixable. They will,
I knew, waste
a lot of time.
I didn't want
to get off the train
and passed my stop.
I'd eat out tonight.
And then write,
what turned out,
to be this poem.
Not very good,
I admit,
but I really
don't give
a fuck.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

PARANOIA IS PROJECTED AS POISON, BUT IT TASTES SO FUCKING GOOD

I got a bum left ear.
A week ago it just blew out.
Just like that:
one second stereo,
next mono.
Fuck,
I said,
what now?
I'm sixty-six
and say that
most every morning
tying my laces,
but it's mostly
bullshit.
I would like to think
I'm ready
for death;
it's these small fucking increments
that give me trouble.

Sure,
things have broken apart;
yes,
I've been cracked-up,
been inside, done time,
busted, torn-up,
dazed, stupefied,
loony, stitched
together, re-wired,
with cat's guts
and party ribbons; and, yes,
most I've brought upon
myself and some
were bestowed from the gods
and a gene pool
of mongrels.
I've concerned myself less
with tomorrow
than today's immediacies,
but the ear
spooked me.
You see,
I'm in love,
for the first time,
I believe,
with a lady
as nutty
as me
above the border
of disorder
and she's been through
some shit, too.
The last thing she wants
is an old fuck
with more shit
than she has:
A body that requires
care and a mind
thinking he
deserves it.
For growing up sick
makes the body selfish
to its own needs,
narrows the brain
to go on
alone. And even though
you want to be loved,
you know that no one
loves
the sick.

I'm a trickster;
sleight of hand sharpie;
a magician; an artist
of bullshit. I've kissed
the lips I've wanted to kiss and
have allowed many lips to kiss mine:
my fears
permitted everything:
I've downshifted Porsche'
going into a 25 m.p.h. turn
doing 50, a cigarette burning
my cheek, hands easy on the wheel
and the inside of a soft thigh;
I've put my name on thousands
of poems, novels, stupid
with arrogance and some
originality as I committed
suicide slowly
with what I thought
was style,
but I was wrong.
I was really drinking
and shooting coward's blood
in large enough quantities
to avoid forgiveness
for life's imperfections.
How I lived
is more a testament to science
and doctors
and luck
than I want
to admit.

And now you.

And now this:
little white tumors
springing up
in my brain
like lily's
in the rain,
shutting off
hearing,
fucking with vision,
and balance, and whatever reason
I have left. What follows?
sloop drooling from my mouth?
pissing in my pajamas?
speaking in tongues?
My schized mother
angry because
I'm sick
and she
gave it
to me?
My father
depositing me
in a damaged can basket,
sold for a nickel?
a dime?
whatever you can get?

It's funny
the ways I've tried
to get rid
of my life.
Obviously,
I've failed.
And I'm glad.
If successful
I really
would have failed
by never knowing
you. I'd never know
what had caused me
to be so foolish
and reckless;
I never would have known
why I went on
when everything
was telling me
to stop.
I'd never know
that my ache
was your ache;
that what I thought
were my own whispers
were yours;
that my isolation
was locked
next to yours;
that my anger
was matched
with your defiance
and a bone china
fragility.
I'd never know
how holding
another's shit
was like cradling
muddy diamonds
and how there is no
embarrassment
in love. Only love
in its mess
and imperfections
is love
at all.
This frightens you
as I know it should.
You're tired
from the responsibilities
of your own body.
Your largess
is limited
to specific places
and times. You'd rather
keep love,
this kind of love,
at arms distance.
And you will.
Even though
you know
you shouldn't.
We all lose,
finally. That can't
be helped
no matter
how well we scheme,
plot and plan,
and rationalize,
or twist ourselves
into tight little knots.

Take heart,
my love.
Enough to know
we've had a year of it.
And though I'm sure
that other's have had it too,
I'm also sure
that we've never had it
quite like this--
up 'til now.
So let your Greek Gods dance
and I'll allow my Jewish God
to sit back and grin;
once in a great while
they get things
right.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

THE WARRANTY HAS EXPIRED

and you're the last owner
who's going to drive
this car.
It's not as fast:
cylinders clogged,
brakes worn,
upholstery faded--
somewhat torn--
(a spring
could stick
in your ass),
shoes need
a new set,
paint thinning,
headlights dimming,
but it still will,
I promise,
get you where
you're going.

What's that?

No, sorry,
it's simply rust.
They don't make
nuts anymore
for those screws.
Sorry.

What's that?

No, sorry,
that model
has been
discontinued.

What's that?
Why?
Doesn't seem
they're in much demand
anymore.
If you're able to maintain it,
for ten, maybe fifteen years,
it might be a "classic,"
and then
you'd be rich.

What?

Sorry, no,
I can't
guarantee it.

What?

Don't get angry
at me, honey.
Don't blame me;
blame the
manufacturer.
We have another model
over here.
Hey,
where ya going?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013