WHAT WOULD THE OLD ONES SAY?

No, not the graybeards
that gave name to this merrygoround;
and, no, not the Old Masters
who took pain
and oil-slicked it
with words
& brushstrokes
& notes;
and not the ones
who casually rested
along the outlines
of my skin. No.
Not them.
The ones I think about
are those who've entered
when I was most vulnerable,
blood-jet love,
and had hearts
I clawed into
& tugged & ripped
& eaten--human love
at its most animalistic,
sheets etched
with blood & semen.

I believe
I gave
so little
& robbed
so much
god-awful
time worse
than betrayal
or sins
which sit
inside
a novel's spine,
that I wonder
what would they say
seeing me obey
the rigors
of mortality?

Ancient vulnerabilities
exposed. Humbleness
dictated by god's engine.
And although I'm still fighting
all this, I know that is not
a way to go.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

THE RUB-OUT

For Jimmy G.

Who knows
who did it?
or why?
All we know:
it was ordered
on high.

Maybe the gods knew
there was cancer,
or ALS, or a soft dick
at an early age
in his future
and he was so good,
so kind, so much above us,
that they wanted to spare him
the indignities?
Or maybe
he really was
a mean fuck,
a prick,
and busted-up women,
or a bastard son
who never could get
a sit-down with him
and they exacted
some kind of balance
we know
nothing of?

Maybe this,
maybe that--
who the fuck knows?
All we can know
is that it was done;
we don't know
who did it
or why.
We do know
it was done clean,
by a professional,
who did it quick
and left
no trace.
We also know
Jimmy G. will be missed,
but only for a little while,
then we'll forget
until the next big hit
is ordered.
But just think:
if a guy like him
could get whacked
out of the blue
none of us are safe.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013