MISHA'S DANCE OF DEATH ON HIS OWN RUSSIAN SOIL

My age now,
Misha is,
nearer than further,
astride the grave,
a Beckett waltz
on his breath
he dances
in Brodsky's shadow.
How the old dowagers flock
toward the memory
of his beautiful body
and find only
decrepitude instead.

Almost forty-five years ago
in a loft on Chambers Street
I sat like a schoolchild
watching the clash of egos.
Cecil and Misha
(and poor little Heather
in a corner) cornered
by their art
trying to birth a marriage.

Our beginnings are our ends.
We know this,
but don't really know this,
until we see the flesh
hanging from the bone.

Twenty years ago
I saw Cecil at The Vanguard.
A solo performance.
It sounded like a late Beethoven sonata,
a summing up. Now Misha.
And now the dowagers
who no longer smile
at their memories.
"Art" never was
supposed to be
entertainment.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

GUILTY, YOUR HONOR

Yes,
I admit it:
I stole a Milky Way
from Mr. Schwartz's candy store
every chance I got;
Yes,
I pissed on the toilet seat
& didn't wipe it;
Yes,
I diddled Mary
in my closest
when my parents weren't home;
Yes,
I cheated off Joel's paper
on a Common Sense test;
Yes,
I pilfered my father's Chesterfields
& my mother's Benson & Hedges 100's;
Yes,
I lied to them
with regularity
having all our best interests
at heart;
Yes,
I told girls I loved them
& didn't call the next day,
or the day after;
Yes,
I hid;
Yes,
heroin saved my life;
Yes,
I believe
there's no god
except the one
that makes me
feel better;
Yes,
I laughed
it off;
Yes
I'm a fraud a phony a trickster
& a murderer
of time;
Yes...
But...
Your Honor,
I did what I did
with what I had
to do it with.
I do not ask
for justice,
only mercy, and
someone
to talk
to.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015