IT WOULD BE SILLY

One For the Old Geezers

to try
& lie
to you
now.
You know
I'll try.
I know
I'll try.
I promise
to resist.

Some
have noticed
a diminishment
of poems
of late.
Some
have even
inquired.
No,
I tell them,
it's the gods
that destroy
& make men mad,
not I. I am ready
I assure them
and am merely
waiting like any
good Christian
to receive
what is given.
I tell them,
take heart,
I still want to fuck
every woman I see,
& more importantly,
they want to still fuck me.
(I'm sure they know,
as I do,
that's only half true).
Yes, I still imagine
nipples naked with need
of varying length
& sweetness & color;
yes, I still taste
different heated nectars of emissions.

And the words still come
but slower; better,
perhaps, but slower.
And memories perfect
in their lies, pile up
on runways waiting
for this infernal fog to lift
but stubbornly clings
to the sides of wings preventing
full flight:
fully in control of exceleration,
the Porsche obeying my instincts,
leaning into a corner at fifty,
a magician's inner stroke
of light's genius;
the proper word to light
the inner demons of a cueball
& bank life's mystery & madness--
a sweet narcissism
of self-serving
excellence.

There will be
more poems,
good & bad
after this;
how many
is not for me
to say.
I'm sure
"slowing down"
is an "art"
too, but one
I haven't
mastered
yet.
I've been too busy
trying to work
on it.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

C'est Le Guerre

A million lips & words
& fingers & smells
& false starts;
a hundred thousand zippers
pulled
up & down
a half million times
with hairs caught
in steel teeth &
two million pimples
popped a half billion
fumbling & rumblings
& phones falling out
of their cradles
by silence & midnight
forays into forests
of motives & maybe
a urinary infection
or two beside a pregnancy
& cold linoleum abortions
decided in extremis...

& now
little
laughs,
but
safety.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

WE WAZ ROBBED

Your parents robbed ya;
your teachers robbed ya;
God robbed ya;
you bounced
against walls,
slid down pipes;
tied to hissing radiators;
you ate
empty plates;
your stomach filled
with air; your heart swelled
with dread;
they diddled your privates;
told you about good boys
& good girls & chugged
a fifth
or fucked
a neighbor
or gave you a wafer
& wine breathed hope
of a heaven
so far from your daily hell
it might as well have been
a Saturday cartoon.

And then a warning
not to tell
even yourself
because all you do
is lie anyway.
Now
go out
& play.

I will vote
tomorrow
for any party
I'm not
invited
to
be
in.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

SOMEBODY HAD TO LIVE THIS LIFE

Were you gonna do it?
Were you?
Or you?
Or you?
No
you weren't.
It was up to me
to draw
to an inside straight
& get my parents
& get their crazy lineage
& language & cultivate their
sperm & eggs & zygote & shit
& get waylaid, side swiped
with a naive but monstrous
sentimental emotional stupidity
nurturing a sugar fear,
a people fear a crowd fear, a fear
of self & sustainability
in a home of sickness & sustenance.

Raise your hand
if you want diabetes & dope,
institutions & dangling
from the puppet strings
of failure.

I didn't think so.

But how about
if I threw in Bird
& Billie
& Bach
& Beethoven
& Bukowski?
And I'm not even
out of the"B's" yet.
How about Beckett
& bowling
& black beauties,
& Brahms?

How about Coeds
from Harvard
& Bennington
who play
the piano
& know your
secrets better
than you do?
How about Coney Island
when it was Coney Island?

Nobody becomes
who they are
until they live
who they are.
And if they
don't do it
who the fuck
will?

Like you
reading this
now. What
will you do?
Stand pat
or make
a move?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

THANK THE GODS

The Betty Poems

for knowing more
than us.
Had they given us
more money
or less sense;
had we less
desperation,
a smidgen less
hunger; had sex
not meant
escape;
had imperatives
not been handcuffed
to illness
and age;
had not a "fuck-you"
attitude tethered
to childhood disease
and family crucifixion;
had we treated ourselves
kinder with love
given from love;
had we been born
right handed
or left brained;
had the grass
not been greener
on the other side;
had the horses
not been swifter
under other's saddles;
had the fears
we nurtured
shared instead of coveted;
had the bodies
we abhorred
and refused to live in
been as beautiful
as our brains
which we did
and prized well beyond
their worth;
had we lived nearer
to each other
and able to walk
around the block
and into what
we thought
was heaven
it would have been hell.
One of us
would have called the cops
or an ambulance;
we would have killed
each other
and ourselves
because we had to.
Instead,
the gods,
for whatever reason,
pulled
the right strings
for the right puppets;
they made us dance
and gave themselves
a laugh and gave us:
"this." "This"
which cannot be named;
"this" which summons
more of "this."
"This" indestructible
and endless "this."
"This" is "that"
which we gave
each other.
"This" is a poem
to you. "That"
is you reading
it.
And that
is enough
thank
the gods.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014