TRANSACTION/COPPING

followed the man
round
half lit
corner
(cymbals dancing
round his toes)
to do
business.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

I DON'T BELIEVE YOU

crash dive
bee hive
silver monkey
on my side.
bottle cap
inward map
ain't no use
in lookin back.
baby dead
queen red
all my thoughts
inside my head.

we went
and came
in the same motion.
was said to induce
desired response
and all that but (more

speeded into the ring
talked the hungry christians
to death/also
fiddled under nero's gown
with cute bow stroke.

wedding cake
on the lake
secret lies
inside the snake.

sting/zappo
(again)
this time
zappo/sting
this time
(again)
(again)
time this
time.

all roads lead to somewhere
rectally
said some roman
or other.
chords are best
put together silently
said a grecian urn.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

THE CONCRETE WOMB

bristling blindness;
black, empty
with light, off
my fingertips i reach
for sound. there is
none. there is only
the studded shot that suggests
moon-like desire.
milky spit rides
the cats' back. my fugitive shell treads
cautiously, but fleetingly,
forcing decisions
that deserve
more time.
zero degrees nurtures
the seed that grows
and dies in the same breath.

grass beginnings mark
where i once slept;
sweated out my perverted sleep,
rolled over to suck
the paralytic marrow.
gaining momentum
in a soft flight down
i saw the bird's broken leg
and jumped from her wing--
landing inside the wriggling worm,
i froze
and remained
still.

groaned through the yawning trap
door pushed from my wet landscape
agonizingly slow
towards the dry light
and fixed colors.
exiled
for all the times i failed
to grasp the liquid solitude.

we live lawlessly
within bounds.

i believe in our innocent
selfishness, and our intrinsic
denial. death takes a moment
to be born in any season; not only
flowers concede shortly but we too,
who numbly hold on
for however long
forever is.

we have no choice
but to be egoistic. we are planted
out of
and conceived into
our own image. eating the flesh
that housed me and, again, demanded
nothing. i rip the tissue
of my heritage and revel
in the delight of unknowing
destruction soon to come.

my house had no colors;
no shape in contour,
and no consciousness.
out of control and silent
i float inside my early
prison and am not pardoned
before my time is due.

inside, taciturnity spoke
reverse deliquation; artistically
virgin, yet possessing
all possibility; life dictates
curiosity. it is too late to hunger
for only vegetables--i have tasted meat
and my fathers' father and his
before that made a christ-like choice
and tongued the snakes' heart.
there is nothing left--
except chronic instantaneity
--there is everything to do
again, almost retroactively
we believe we are alive.
even the degenerate
gambler would not wager
on when the white bullet
shoots out and holds.

outside, the sticky water
subsides, and lets me go,
into the human glue.

i'm aware
of my silent partnership
with death; he could not do it
without me.
i know that, too well,
and am worse off for it.
there is only the crucifixion
remaining for, even a slight
suspicion. my safety was lost
when i entered. and all my fantasies
won't return me.

i'm lethally potent.
my son will be the same;
my narcissitic double
lives in the mysterious aperture
of rocks. purposely,
i delay the furious thumping
of the jack-hammer.

chance comes to play every night
with an assortment of faces
but the same command: Rub.
the phantom lady
rides on top. i deny
her presence and accept
her passionate elusiveness.
last evening i played with her promise,
but refuse to spill
another child tonight;
tomorrow is different.

my mouth forms the circle
while my eyes look
for the red protruding mark
that will protect me
from having to deal
with a role
that was not decided on
by me;
i want desperately
to be that role.
i know what i am
only because
of my first name.

i've waited
for direction
out, and must wait
for direction
in.
i've teased myself
with kirilov's conscience
but remain inside the clock
and outside the act.

i have come to believe
in the impotency
of gods and mirrors.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1967

THE QUESTION

You think
you're hip
& fast
& because
I smell you
I know
you're there.

I don't know nothin
of the kind.

I don't know why
your eyes
are hungry;
or why
your arm
looks like perferated paper
dotted red.

Come off it,
you say,
& fuck me.
Just a second,
I answer,
it's cookin.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

SAXIFRAGE

A code of valor--
we slay too many dragons
in quest for a fair maiden
that more often than not
stays in her ivory tower
far from the clutches
of a saintly suitor
who pants
far below
waiting
for her word
to climb.

an insipid hunter
waits
outside the coliseum
with hands clasped,
mouth watering
demanding a soul
for a Roman heart--
We are all gladiators
awaiting
a lion.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

EDGAR"S DILEMNA

"Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and Dim Night!"

Did it in the street tonight;
8th Street--of all places--a freak show
stretching from Coney Island
to the city's carnival where
Queen Gypsy read my eyes:
"Cumhere, honey; you lookin?"
(Of course I was,
but was disappointed
she didn't remember
our last embrace or,
maybe, just
my name.

Again, it was surprisingly good.

I sit here now, back
home, wet,
and loose. My crusted shell broken
with yoke dripping
on the page
finally
able to sift through my renitent head
and put some bullshit
down on paper
and regret
that that's what it takes--
a small stamp collector's bag.
It does, though, get me through
the night nicely,
with a packaged woman. Myself
a psychopathic hipster strung-out
on a perfectly synthetic discharge
that also
happens to be white.

A different mirror rests
in my eye throwing back
no reflection and
although it's dark
I see the gleam
from the tiger's eye that,
for a time, prevents further
inquisition. (I know
there's more brilliance in that blur.
And that fact
keeps me here.)

Pretty lady
take me home
and I promise
to amuse.
And promise
to be good--
just don't
ask me nothin
I'd have to lie about
or trick me
into being truthful.
We must keep turning,
without explaining, like
how this poem
got here.

Pretty lady
sitting cooly
with your head
bent
laughing
at my awkwardness.
I'd be aggressive
if I didn't want you
and wouldn't need
this bastard night
to believe I have you.
Somebody must know
I'm desperate.
Who can I sue
for fraud?

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1967

Two For the Price of One

THE MISUNDERSTANDING

she cursed him for the 2 cent tip;
it was all he had.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1966


BLOOMINDALE'S

faggots and beautiful women:
everybody feels safe.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

In Celebration of Spring, 2009

THE BASEBALL GAME

Venus de Milo
perched on my porch
waves me out.
"It was high, man!"
"You're out."
"High and outside!"
'You're out."
"Why you bitch I should kill you for that call!"
"Why don't you just break my legs this time,"
she whispered.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1967