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

SOMEWHERE TODAY

a little boy will be running
from a death grip
of a father's hands
and a little girl
from his cock.
Somewhere today
that little boy
will begin to marry
his mother
over and over again
and that little girl
will bend
to the black heel
of a German boot.
Our task,
& our terror,
is to unravel
the dream.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

RUSSIA HAS NOT BEEN KIND

to its artists.
Never has.
But being kind
to artists
is not necessarily
a good thing--
just ask Americans
who get killed
by the fawning over
fame that this country
spits up.
Still,
had I born born
on the vodka tundra,
I would have been
in a gulag
or two
by now
--if I'd stayed alive.
And while that might
have been good
for my art
& the folks
I've fucked-over,
there were a few girls
& women who would have
grown old & died
without my charms
& many good graces
a laugh can provide.

I've gotten emails
from all over the world,
but not from The Red Square--
where a lot of my readers live.
For the sake of the gods
don't write me,
keep breathing,
keep reading,
keep writing,
keep painting,
keep dancing,
keep singing,
& most of all:
keep fucking
everybody
except
(only a little bit),
yourself.
And that,
my comrades,
will make me,
very
very
happy.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

THE NUTCRACKER

Tonight,
I was on the phone
pushing Nutcracker tickets
to Philadelphia mothers
& fathers & grandmothers
grandfathers & uncles,
aunts, nieces, & those
who remember
or want
to remember
what it was
to be five
& frivolous
& wondrous
&, most importantly,
unencumbered
by adults
& their
bullshit.

I can remember
once asking my ol' man
to take me to see
The Nutcracker.
He took me by my little hand
and led me into his bedroom
where my mom
was in one of her darker moods.
There she is, he said.
Little did I know,
I got a front row
seat.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

MY KIND OF WOMAN

A young mother
holding colored balloons
in one hand
& two skateboards
with the other,
came out of her apartment building
with two screaming toddlers
tugging on her shorts. It was hot
here in NYC.
And she was quite upset.
One blond haired daughter
grabbed a board
from a fist
& skated away: "wee wee wee."
The other,
the more petulant
& whiny
& pretty
of the two,
pouted, & didn't want
to go nowhere
except back up
into her mother's arms.
NO, her mother said.
SCREAMS issued forth.
NO, she said again.
The little darling
stamped her little foot.
Do what you want,
the mother spat.
The kid kept tugging
& wrapped herself
around mom's thighs.
Follow your sister,
mom exhorted.
The pretty, blond haired, colored ribboned curled coiffed kid
began slapping
at any part of mom's torso she could get to.

I lit a cigarette.
Lovely,
I said
to myself.
I'll probably
be dating her in twenty years--
maybe sooner.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

A GIFT TO MYSELF ON MOTHER'S DAY

I was in mortal terror
of my mother.
Each time I turned
the key
to get into my home
my fingers shook:
I didn't know
what awaited me,
or who she'd be.
She was quick
to anger,
fast with her hands,
and liked to slap
the shit out of us;
or riled up my father enough
so he would do it. He,
I later realized,
was afraid of her, too.

I looked
for consistency
in other people
& other lovers
& either left
before they did,
made sure they
would leave or
didn't love them enough
to care either way.
My fears I could control,
but usually failed,
their fears
never registered.
Obviously,
I was in the wrong
life. The only consistent thing
I found in humans
was its cruelty
to other humans
and I already
hated myself
enough.

The one constant I found
was writing,
but then something
needed to be stilled
(at least a little),
to do that.
Booze&dope
helped.
The advertising was mostly
true: one was usually eighty-six proof
and the other usually did
what it was supposed to do--
fuck the hassle in getting it.
Now,
luckily,
the writing
is enough.

Not too long ago
I bought one of those
Life Alert buttons
for my mom; I put it
in her coffin.
I told them to program
my number first. Should she
ever come back
to what we call "life"
I want to be
the first
to know.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

A NIGHT IN THE HEIGHTS--

My Cubano friend
got a pass
from the shelter
she lives in
to visit her son
for his birthday
& stay overnight.
She has to
get permission
to do those things.
He was about
to turn ten.
She was nervous
about seeing him
and more nervous
about seeing her mom.
Almost a year
had gone by.
She had asked me
a week ago if I could go
with her and after some reluctance
I said, "yes." I've never really
enjoyed meeting a woman's child
and even liked less meeting their folks.

I knew I didn't have to,
but felt stupid
not bringing a present
for the kid. She had told me
that out of his school
he'd been selected
to go to baseball camp
for the summer.
I thought it was good for him
to get out of the dirt&grime&concrete
of Neuva York & smell some grass
& sweet air for a month & bought him
a baseball mitt, hardball, & oil
to work the leather.

The kid's look
was less than welcoming
when he saw me standing
with his mom.
I can't blame him;
he's probably seen many men
standing with his mom,
none of them any good.
Her mom did her best
to hide her displeasure,
but failed.
I could fade an evening,
I thought, and walked
inside. There was a smell
of death there. Her mom
had cancer & couldn't hide
that either.

Still, she cooked chuletas
with red peppers&onions, rice&beans
& plantains, and once the awkwardness
was replaced with the symbols
of love, the air
lifted. Mother/daughter spoke
in a language I didn't know while
her son spoke to his mom in language
I did know.
I took the kid aside when the women talked
and gave him the present; his eyes widened
as only ten year old eyes can & I began
showing him how to loosen the leather by
messaging the oil into it, working and reworking
the give and finally putting the ball into its center,
tying a string tightly around the middle and putting it
under his mattress that night. He listened
as only ten year old ballplayers can.

Grandmothers & great grandmothers
are the guts of this nation,
of this world. It's been steadily
downhill for the past forty years.
Freud was right:
if we don't work out ours and societies neurosis,
the string will slowly unravel for the next
& the next & the next. The fabric
just gets weaker. Cycles
have consequences.

Occasionally,
I peaked at my Cubano squeeze
while she talked with her mom,
both were animated, silent,
demonstrative, waving hands
& arms, shifting positions,
& crying all together, separately,
throughout.
She knew I knew
about medical shit
and asked me over.
I listened
& talked some
& tried to be hopeful,
but realistic. The old lady
was not going to make it
far. I think she respected me
for not sugar coating
what she knew in her heart,
but daughters are another
matter.
It got late,
the kid went to bed,
but not before
hugging me
then burying his head
against his mother's flesh,
kissing her & his grandmother
& saying goodnight.
Alexis walked me out
and we had a few cigarettes
together & spoke.
She needed to get out
of the shelter
& take care
of her own. Enough
time had gone by, enough pain
had been administered, enough people
had been brutalized.
Easy enough
to say,
I know.
When you've been pimped
in some hotel room in Philly
since you turned fifteen,
it's a Herculean task,
but not impossible. No,
not impossible.

She returned to her family
for the night & I walked
the streets of Washington Heights
until I found the bus
to take me all the way downtown.
(Fuck the subways & I didn't give a damn
about time.)
I smoked a few more cigarettes
waiting for the bus amidst the bustle
of a Latino community. I felt
more at home there than I ever felt
on Park Avenue, the upper East or West side,
or most other places. I rested my head
against the glass
and just drifted
as the bus lazily
made its way to the Village.

There are a few people
you want to root for.
There are a few things
you want to think about,
and feel
for as long
as you need to--this being
one of them.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014