RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES

It doesn't come 'round often,
and it doesn't last long,
but when it does
it's something
truly magical;
a gift
from the gods
given to only
two humans
at a time.
It arrives
as mothers push
baby strollers
with their new born
safely inside;
the babies are dizzy
with new, dazzled
by surprise
in each beat,
every note
hitting
a new nerve,
their heads bouncing
this way
and that,
to
and fro,
up
and down,
grinning
and dribbling
down a toothless mouth;
their joy
bubbling over
their chariot.
You can hear
laughing,
humming,
songs of lyrics
yet defined,
so much better
than letters
locked
upon letters,
so inadequate,
so incomplete.
Their eyes
big and hungry
with next,
seek the face
pushing them
and who mimics
and mirrors
every inarticulate
sound and gesture.
As mad as they are
with discovery
with possibility,
the air dancing
upon their skin,
light tickling
their nose,
laughinglaughinglaughing
at the circus
unfolding
constantly
knowing nothing
outside their bond
between them;
knowing nothing
except each other
and the stupid silly world
as it parts
to let them
through.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

PORN TODAY, MIGHT BE GONE TOMORROW

I've decided
to take myself
out
on a cheap date:
no prep,
no talk,
no regret,
and little
expense.

I'll squeeze it
in
between
the words,
if the words
ever stop.

Freedom.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

MAKING ROOM FOR THE DEAD

for my birthday;
I have a little bit more
than a week
to prepare:
get some books and papers
off the floor,
the couch,
a broken down rocker
near my window
that can be used
in a pinch.
The yellowed tiles
near the tub
need to be scrubbed
from the ash
I flicked there;
in fact,
I should make the joint
safe for food:
get the grease
and the dust
and the rinds
of dreams
out the door
and down
to the pails
outside.
Also,
I need to throw out
the fucking deadbeats
that are currently squatting.
I allow them to take
up far too much space
ordinarily,
but now,
for my birthday,
I've got to boot them
in the ass
if I haveta.

The dead
rarely announce themselves
and sometimes get here
a day or two early.
They really get fucked up
if they have no place to hang
their hat.
But it is mostly me
who loses
if there's not enough room:
they remind me
how lucky I am
to still be jousting
with the words;
to still be fucking
with death
and all its cousins.

I would think
that after what I've done
to some of them
they wouldn't show,
but they do.
At first I was somewhat
embarrassed, chagrined,
felt awkward, creepy,
but they just sat
and explained;
they held
no grudges,
and wanted
nothing
from me.
They just wanted me to know
they were still here
and hoped my ears
had become attuned
to listen
and my head
and heart
and gut
better able to absorb
and integrate.

When this first started
only one or two
showed up. But now,
turning sixty-five
I expect quite a crowd.
The ones I've loved,
even partially,
I look forward to;
the ones I've fucked over,
not so much.
I wish I had a choice,
but I don't.
I offered once
to put the ones I've fucked over
in a hotel,
but they wouldn't hear of it.
Some of them even stood
the whole day
to be near me.
So be it.
I've learned
at my age
you have to pick
your battles
carefully.
I know
I'll get bloodied up,
but it will also give me
some words to play with;
damn the vanity.

Hank said,
that sometimes the best thing
a writer does
is simply
write.
The rest of the time
is mostly ugly
for him
and for those
who cross
his path.

Excuse me
while I get
a mop and broom.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

VETERANS OF DIFFERENT WARS

My father,
an Army vet,
fought in the Philippines.
He tried to teach me
Morse Code; I was able to learn
how to tap out "help."
He knew
I would need some.
Mostly,
from him.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

REALITY IS HARD TO MEASURE

They say I'm sixty-four,
almost sixty-five. But that
is only what they say. Which part
are they talking about? The reality
is much harder to measure.
We've tried to draw lines,
impose definition,
trying to simplify
matters.
It's all been futile.

Somedays,
I feel near death;
many things
are broken
or have rusted out;
but I felt that at twenty
and thirty
and forty.
My constant companion
of fifty-five years
cries out
for compassion,
and I'm either lazy
or mean-spirited.
Diabetes will,
like my one plant,
fend for itself
for awhile. I'm
busy

sitting outside
at a cafe
across from my ghosts,
getting a lung full
of New York exhaust
I watch
the parade
of flesh.
Faces and breasts
and hips and tight
hot everything flit
by, uncreased
by experience
or common cares.
To them
I'm just an old calendar,
but I still try
to drink it in,
catch an eye knowing
a life can turn
on luck.
Once in awhile
a person older
than myself shuffles past,
using a cane, pushing a walker,
holding on
to an aide.
They fiercely concentrate
on their next movement.
But, for some reason,
they go on. Perhaps,
they like me
wanted to give up the fight
fifty, sixty, seventy years ago,
too, but were like me
a coward.
Instead, I pulled the covers up
to my neck,
or drank
or shot enough dope
to make a little space
for myself.
That's all you really need
you know? A little space.
Somewhere where
they can't get to you
for a beat; a space
to play in.
And I was lucky
to find over the years
those spaces
often enough
to frustrate the demons
and amuse the gods.
I remained confused,
confused and so very
teachable.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

A TIGRESS

My friend, Profane,
introduced me
to his cousin--
a beautiful young thing
--who lived in Brooklyn
when I drove him
out there to visit.
Her eyes were green
and backlit and
curious as she watched
and recorded my movements.
Soon, we were in my car,
headed for a hot dog
in Coney. Her body inched
closer to mine the more casual
and crazier I drove; punching it
up to seventy and eighty,
predicting the moves of others
as I weaved in and out
to freedom.

Being older,
and the expansive man I was,
full of insight
and bullshit
(and unemployed),
she visited me
in my crib
before she started work
or school,
or whatever she came to the city for.
She'd arrive,
undress
in the bathroom,
slip into something silken
with animal stripes
then quickly find
my most vulnerable spots
without hesitation
or speech.
She'd shower after,
dress, say good-bye
and leave. I followed
her sound until I heard
the click of the door
closing.

One day
she said:
soon you will grow tired
of this, too.
And left.
The needle
had already moved
toward empty
two weeks prior.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

UNDER THE HOOD

Every once in awhile
the female creature
walks by--maybe one
in ten thousand--
that had been made
by an artisan
of the gods.
Each are put together
by the poets
of aesthetics: giving the world
just one of them
to admire: Marilyn, Ingrid,
Grace, Halley, Liz, Sophia,
Audrey, Lena, like Bird and Bach,
Bee and Trane, Miles and Monk, Jackson
and Vinnie.
There is not just
one type; they can be pure
or mongrel, but somehow
in this game
of genetic roulette
the egg and semen conspired
to fall on the right number.

Other women,
who've always had
digitalized eyes
record the picture
and try to remain
aloof, but will spend
lavishly for their essence;
men, childishly, pretend
that money and success
can equal cock
think they can buy
into their presence;
and sometimes they can,
but usually find
they can only afford
a Tijuana whorehouse
and a two dollar penicillin shot
later.

I've spent a night
and sometimes a few years
in limited battle with some.
At first
it felt magical,
almost blessed,
to think you've been chosen,
not by them, but by them
and not for your charm
but for their inner
constellations.
Inside
the skin
you find shadows.
A cylinder is broken;
a piston won't pump;
it overheats
with neurosis
at a light;
it can't start
while parked;
it shimmies,
or pulls
to a side,
or is all over
the road.
It needs work
and you're broke.
The love making
is the love making
and that's fine
while the upholstery
still has that leather smell,
but the fights are still the fights
and they come even from the most sensual
of grills.

Still, it's nice
when you see one
and nicer still
when they pass.
I always make sure
to breathe deeply
and hold it
in.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012