A COLLAGE OF GATHERING PERFECTIONS

Just rain,
at first--
not cars,
not trucks,
not sirens,
and not people--
just the rain
trying to get through
to me
outside my windows
on a slate-gray
Friday afternoon
piercing this hot/humid tedium
of July torture.
Monk is added
discovering new ways
to ponder old riddles.
I'm newly showered
& shampooed; I scrubed
my confines
protecting flesh & spirit
& now integrated
my morphine base
with cashews & raisins--
a treat for the sweet & salty
in all of us.
I lean back
& light a Lucky.
My body-molded desk chair
conforms to my bends.
A warm glow enters
with an opiate's forgiveness.
It seems I have a third eye
in the middle of my forehead
as Sonny joins Thelonious
& "I Want To Be Happy" plays--
yes, I want to be happy, too.
And I am happy
& what next
is now.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

COMING CLEAN

For Puma P. who midwifed this poem.

Stealing from a cancer patient
didn't take a lot of thought;
in fact,
it required no thinking:
here was the drug; and
here I was;
and I was alone
with all those morphine bottles
staring at me
and whispering:
take me, no,
take me, no,
what about me?
I took out my syringe-
an old glass & steel needle job--
& plunged it
into the heart
of the stopper.
She was an old woman,
ancient really,
her skin like yellowed papyrus,
gray tufts of hair
haphazard on her pillow.
Surely,
she was on her way
out.

Her nurse & her niece
(who was kind enough to bring me),
were in an outer room
discussing her care,
her end of life care, & here
I was just starting
my beginning of life care
in the year of our Lord, 1970,
a stone's throw from New Orleans,
in 100 degrees, 100% humidity summer,
& I needed to be cool,
to get straight, to buy myself
a few days to plan
for my future.
I'm sure, if I was able
to ask her, & if she was able
to respond, she'd be
more than happy to exchange
her comfort
for my safety.
No doubt she'd want
to buy me more time.

I still think
of that old lady
from time to time
looking down
from heaven
& seeing me
still busily
at work
turning out
poem after poem
after poem
knowing
what a wise investment
she made.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020For Puma P who mid-wifed this poem

EVERY DAY, A HOT, STEAMY, CONEY ISLAND SUMMER

A carousel of women
encircle my brain;
some demur & lovely
in their tease
& some fierce & subversive,
all locked for a moment
in a terrible beauty
& embrace
of my choosing
what to remember
and why
to remember it.
Eyes wide
with panic--
or is it fear
--proudly prancing
their manes dancing to deities
of visions sung loudly
proclaiming my birth
and my lies.

Yes,
my memories
oiled up
& waiting
to be caught
in this arcade,
this hothouse
of simulacrums

while my mother hides
inside the ride,
clocking my action,
judging,
finger pointing,
wagging her stiletto like tongue,
cursing my infidelities now,
then, and those to come
to term
leaving her free
to pull the levers
and adjust.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

SUMMER

has always
reminded me
of summer--
from the first jolt
of blistering 90+
my voice rises,
gets higher;
Beethoven's 128
becomes 18, a funeral dirge
changes into Frankie Lymon,
nipples signify
not mom,
but hope,
mystery & night
are my double helix;
a tough tattoo
sings do-wop
just because
it can.
Where else should my fingers go
if not across the expanse
of a bra strap
fumbling with hooks
& fever; what's more
exciting than learning
how to smoke
& French kiss
with your older cousin?
You drop dime after dime
on new sides: The Miracles,
Shirelles or Drifters.
What is more miraculous
than a pool ball banked
or a basketball kissing backboards
or the one/three pocket in an alley?

And what is more impossible
than imagining yourself
here...
now...
suddenly weighted,
arrived at what was
once your forest
of motives,
your dark wood,
only to find
you're really
nowhere?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

TOUCHING A TIT

was my goal,
my only goal,
for many many years.

Call me Ishmael
if you like,
or precocious,
but from the 5th grade
through most of high school,
that was way more important
than geometry unless
you consider that of innocence
& desire which I knew nothing about
but was drawn to constantly.
And it was not like I had steps. No.
Getting there was enough.
Under the bra was like discovering
a cure to adolescence; thinking
about the dark triangle of motives
was, well, unthinkable.

The goal
is still the same,
they still possess magic
& mystery;
only the tits
are attached
to different
torsos.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

BUS STOP BLUES

Sometimes
waiting for a bus
is enough
to send one
over the edge.
The sun hot
enough to fry
ovaries & gonads,
sweat pouring
into your underwear
as you watch
wheelchairs run over
walkers that topple
over legs splayed
over curbs holding
up the infirm the demented
the luckless, the loveless,
the broke dreamers,
the damned who only know
others just as damned.
And now
you know it,
too.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

THE BIG SLEEP

NYC
is one big
Venus Fly Trap.
Innocently,
you make a left,
or a right,
turn a corner
so to speak...
& your caught.
The traffic
so thick
you can't get
a flea's dick
between bumpers.
You're going to die,
my friend,
slowly.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015