ONE FOR KOBE

I never liked the prick.
He was the proverbial dagger
in my heart, sticking it in,
and twisting, enjoying
how I bled out;
an assassin
killing this stupid Knick's heart
of mine
over
& over
& over
again.

But sometimes death
is a beautiful thing
to watch
even when its yours.
His Black Mamba wrist
flicking out
those jumpers
mesmerized flight
while you suffered
a death
from a thousand cuts.

Yet I have no explanation
for how I write this,
far exceeding
my expiration date,
being as heedless as I was
& as reckless as I am
to the dictates of the flesh
which houses me, thirty-two years
his senior with enough chronic illness
to slay most any man.
To think it's the writing of this poem
or the few more that come after
is even too much for my skewered heart
to believe--even though my fingers took flight
as they danced about the keys
in a rhythmic synch with those ballarinas
of thought pirouetting
inside my head.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

THE THIN SKIN OF A CONNOISSEUR

The first thing I did,
besides looking for exit signs,
when interviewing a potential lover
in her pad
was note her books--if any
--and/or riff through her albums
& rate them.
Depending on my find,
I'd consider how long
this affaire de coeur,
flirtation,
dalliance, or
just plain old
hanky-panky
would last.
The find--if any--
would provide me
points of entry;
it helped compute
her shelf life.
I can't say
I was picky.
Any poetry books
beside Rod McKuen,
would keep me reading;
any stylist,
beside Kate Smith,
had me listening.
Eager I was
to plumb the depths
of her disease,
while constructing a nexus
of meeting points
& be-bop hymns.
I needed to know
if she was a Hallmark card
or someone who demanded
no distraction
or an LP of endless consideration.
I thought I knew
my way around this life
and what was worth
my time and
what wasn't.
Don't you?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

BATTER UP!

All my life
I've either
been anxiously
early or
disastrously
late.
But I've managed
to foul off
pitch after pitch
while staying alive
in the batter's box.
A few times
I've even connected
with the fat
of the bat driving
the ball deep
into the outfield
only to see it
go foul
by inches.
Yes,
it was frustrating.
But no,
I was not defeated.
I'm still alive
taking my hacks,
biding my time
for when he makes
a mistake.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

PACK YOUR SHIT

You've got
six months
to live.

Non-negotiable.

No,
this is not
Hemingway.

No,
this is not
art.

Yes,
this is
cancer.

(mommy)

(Mommy)

(MOMMY).

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

MEDITATION

The only drawback
in this life
is that
it gets in the way
of living.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

DON'T FUCK WITH ME

Today I read
that they now
can edit/fix/fuck with
whatever is diseased
by altering some genes
in the womb.

Don't.

The world
would die
if this poem
was stillborn.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

"LOADED"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-NwKZ9ZsgGA

Been listening
since new years
forty-seven years ago;
I was twenty-two &
loaded myself: my guns
were loaded; my body
was loaded; the times
were loaded & The Velvets
were loaded. I thought
I was dangerous I thought
I'd change literature I thought
I'd fuck endless women through endless nights and take endless drugs through endless dreams and thread my way through this endless life and bend this life to my will...
nothing bent
except me.

I still listen
to "Loaded,"
but now straight
as a steel rod
without its steel sister;
my gun
shot blanks
and life
was my master
while I
was its
masturbator.

Here, have
a listen.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

IF YOU LIVE LONG ENOUGH

it all comes back:
skinny ties,
berets,
goatees,
unfiltered cigarettes,
jazz,
existentialism...
all that stuff:
"Pour soi,"
"En soi,"
"Hell is other people,"
"condemned to be free"...
you know,
RESPONSIBILITY
FOR YOUR OWN ACTIONS kind of shit.
(And maybe another world war,
and devastation death rubble
and bread lines soup lines Maginot Lines
and despots dictators demigods de facto
and foolishness & fucking
and more than a Guernica abstract
and bad teeth & misery so thick
you won't be able to piss
without a bishop or rabbi
to direct the stream.

(And
I could be wrong.

(But
I'm not
am I?

(And you don't think so
either,
do you?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

THE ROOFTOPS

have blisters,
fever blisters,
from the fish bowl's cauldrons
beneath their skin.
Conflict
is the pond scum
we live in.
It's the thing
that keeps us
treading water.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

LIFE

The laughing dice
and the bored stickmen
wait
for the next
shooter.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

ALL WE REALLY WANT TO DO

is make it
back home.
It could be
bleak there, too,
but you're alone,
gratefully
alone.
Perhaps,
there are fewer dreams
resting on a razor's
bubble, perhaps
they're holding on
for dear life
which is no longer
so dear,
but all of the other signposts
telling you
of how insignificant
you are
are out
there
littering
the eyes
of others;
there's only death
outside that door
& you can dance
with yourself,
inside
the way
it always
was
as you let
the music take hold,
and give yourself
a twirl--
for a few hours
anyway.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

LETTING THE GAME

come to you
is something I do
more and more
these days.
I've put in
the work.
The poem seems
to assert itself
without self-
mutilation
or too much
affect.
I've become
an old fuck
that a few
young women
want to fuck
around with.
They're beautiful
& smart & do not
take me
too seriously
though they enjoy
my stories, my rants,
and my cynicism
which make them laugh.
I am the bone
of a Brontosaurus
they toss around.
They don't mind
my half
a hard-on
half the time,
& a slowness
of foot.
They've accompanied me
to doctors & have made me
dinner. It is more
than enough.
The few I'm still close with
understand that parents
& teachers, religious leaders
& politicians do nothing
except destroy; that pain
is endless
& love hides
in all the obvious places
if one is willing to read
the cards.

It's taken me
quite awhile
to learn
the simplest
of things:
money is piss
and the sparrow
immortal.
Courage
is more important
for our most frightened
and fucked-over;
and getting across freeways
blindfolded without a scratch
is more than just
dumb luck.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

THE GRACE OF THE GODS

The Gods gave me
a chronic illness
when eleven, before
I knew what a chronic illness
was. It scared the shit
outta me,
but fifty-six years later
I know
they also provided me
an ability to fuck with it,
and around it.
They gave me
a good ear,
a good eye,
& a mind
as jumbled
as the New York underground
to make sense
of the senseless.
They never gave me
patience, rationality,
stability; or the make-up
to work continuously
at one thing. It figures
I've little money,
little savings,
few coins of commerce,
except hope's pyrite:
getting discovered
by those who are able
to do something about it.
They've bestowed,
so far,
an unlimited supply
of words
and women
at the right time,
in the right place,
who treated me better
than I deserved.
More
than I deserved.
As if "deserve"
has anything
to do
with any
of us.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

IT TALKS

to me
in rhymes
and talks to me
in unmetered sentences;
it talks to me
through spider's webs
and the screams
of caught flies.
It moans
from basements
and balcony ledges.
It's on the breath
of women
and my last
boss who let me
go.
It talks to me
from children
just learning
how to ride
two-wheelers;
and whispers
from their cut faces
and broken bones
after their first spill.
Sidewalks
talk to me
weary from the worn heels
of weary men or
the hard stiletto step
of hard women.
It talks to me
from jails,
from madhouses,
from university towers,
from burnt and gutted cars,
from the yachts and Rolls Royces
of mannered and dainty gentry
and the slobbering lunatics
inside the lofts
of artists.
It talks to me from trees
and clouds
and birds
and fish.
It speaks from lemons
and honey; it springs
from circus arcs
and pilgrim's steps.
It talks through inquisitions
and boredom and the tricks
of hummingbirds.
It does not weep
or laugh; it does not allow
or deny; it just
is: Coming, coming,
coming soon
to a theater near you:
Mr. & Mrs. Death
appearing
nightly.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village 2009-2013