The Betty Poems
for putting a spark
into a part of my heart
I'd thought long ago
extinguished...
But it never did ignite.
Another
will be the recipient
of the flame
which she knew
how to fan
and I
had no choice
but to allow her to.
It is not fair,
I know,
and little comfort,
even cruel
to read.
Sometimes
being a good writer
is a poor excuse
for being a prick
of a human being.
Norman Savage,
Greenwich Village, 2013
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Saturday, March 9, 2013
NOT MY TYPICAL SATURDAY
The Betty Poems
I am
a creature of habit
usually: up early
with a hearty, oh shit,
to start the day:
brush teeth,
put up coffee,
shower,
coffee--a sip, a cigarette--
read the papers,
another coffee,
another cigarette,
then another of both,
get dressed,
gather the weeks dirt:
work, frustration, a little less
hope and throw them
all in a laundry bag
to take them downstairs
where they will be washed
by America's new class
of exploitation and shaky
documentation.
It's just about 12:00,
high noon. And like Gary Cooper
I just walk
across the street
to a showdown
with the bad guys,
the killers,
only, unlike Coop,
it's a showdown
with myself,
on the page--for
I am the killer
and I am the hunted,
having already made a lifetime
of enemies, I need to wait
for no one.
I do not walk
into a saloon,
but a tea parlor.
I don't ask
for a shot of red-eye,
but for a Carolina Honey--
medium size and hot.
I take it to a table
as far away
from another human
as I can find,
and take out the book
I'm currently using
to defend myself with,
and a notebook.
I read awhile,
then scratch
against the silence;
read some more,
think about the scratches
and the scars
that disappear
for a second and the armies,
now frozen,
somewhere in my head's battlefields,
standing still
and slugging it out.
I'll work it
for as long as I can,
then shop for dinner;
stop and get the momentary
illusion of something clean
in my hands again
and return to my lair....
But not this Saturday.
This Saturday
I had Grace Kelly in my bed
perfumed and primed;
love had found its way
through doors
I no longer had keys for;
her eyes saw
what I tried to bury;
her mouth and fingers and hands and teeth and tongue and breasts and legs and ankles and cunt
found me and allowed me and welcomed me
home and I opened
to her and with her and for her
and as we spent each other
more was deposited and Friday
became Saturday
and I didn't think
(thank the gods)
about laundry
and tea
and food
and composing
because I was composing
and being composed;
because I was being sung
and singing
and it was so beautiful
as to be unreal,
but it was real
(I swear)
and it was real again
the next day
and the day after that
and, at this point,
that is all
I know
for sure.
I must remember
to take
a breath.
And so do you.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013
I am
a creature of habit
usually: up early
with a hearty, oh shit,
to start the day:
brush teeth,
put up coffee,
shower,
coffee--a sip, a cigarette--
read the papers,
another coffee,
another cigarette,
then another of both,
get dressed,
gather the weeks dirt:
work, frustration, a little less
hope and throw them
all in a laundry bag
to take them downstairs
where they will be washed
by America's new class
of exploitation and shaky
documentation.
It's just about 12:00,
high noon. And like Gary Cooper
I just walk
across the street
to a showdown
with the bad guys,
the killers,
only, unlike Coop,
it's a showdown
with myself,
on the page--for
I am the killer
and I am the hunted,
having already made a lifetime
of enemies, I need to wait
for no one.
I do not walk
into a saloon,
but a tea parlor.
I don't ask
for a shot of red-eye,
but for a Carolina Honey--
medium size and hot.
I take it to a table
as far away
from another human
as I can find,
and take out the book
I'm currently using
to defend myself with,
and a notebook.
I read awhile,
then scratch
against the silence;
read some more,
think about the scratches
and the scars
that disappear
for a second and the armies,
now frozen,
somewhere in my head's battlefields,
standing still
and slugging it out.
I'll work it
for as long as I can,
then shop for dinner;
stop and get the momentary
illusion of something clean
in my hands again
and return to my lair....
But not this Saturday.
This Saturday
I had Grace Kelly in my bed
perfumed and primed;
love had found its way
through doors
I no longer had keys for;
her eyes saw
what I tried to bury;
her mouth and fingers and hands and teeth and tongue and breasts and legs and ankles and cunt
found me and allowed me and welcomed me
home and I opened
to her and with her and for her
and as we spent each other
more was deposited and Friday
became Saturday
and I didn't think
(thank the gods)
about laundry
and tea
and food
and composing
because I was composing
and being composed;
because I was being sung
and singing
and it was so beautiful
as to be unreal,
but it was real
(I swear)
and it was real again
the next day
and the day after that
and, at this point,
that is all
I know
for sure.
I must remember
to take
a breath.
And so do you.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013
Friday, March 8, 2013
LOOKING FOR AN ADULT
The Betty Poems
We had tumbled
into each other
from different parts
of the globe,
beaten up
and weary
from a life
filled with disappointments
and betrayals--
both self
inflicted
and flesh
induced.
And after six days
at first
of Jimi Hendrix "Fire" sex
it stayed still
while moving on
to the ache
of the burnished cello
longings of Sinatra,
vulnerable, finally
and still hungry,
she told me,
I love you.
However,
at this stage
of my life
I'm looking for an adult.
I'm not that,
I said,
of that
I'm certain.
She laughed
and we tumbled
some more.
Norman Savage,
Greenwich Village, 2013
We had tumbled
into each other
from different parts
of the globe,
beaten up
and weary
from a life
filled with disappointments
and betrayals--
both self
inflicted
and flesh
induced.
And after six days
at first
of Jimi Hendrix "Fire" sex
it stayed still
while moving on
to the ache
of the burnished cello
longings of Sinatra,
vulnerable, finally
and still hungry,
she told me,
I love you.
However,
at this stage
of my life
I'm looking for an adult.
I'm not that,
I said,
of that
I'm certain.
She laughed
and we tumbled
some more.
Norman Savage,
Greenwich Village, 2013
Saturday, February 16, 2013
THE EXISTENTIAL LOVEBIRDS
The Betty Poems
Honey,
he said,
move in with me,
live with me,
love me
inside and out.
Sweetie,
she replied,
I do love you,
I love you so much
I ache,
I want to,
I will.
Somewhere
a train whistle blew
in the dawn's wind;
each other's flesh
spread over a hill;
you could hear
their bones laugh
while a chinaman
ironed the last shirt
of the day.
They dressed
in each other's quiet.
Perhaps they could be happy
without being miserable.
But that was left
for another time
another day.
Then, bundled up,
they left
for dinner.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013
Honey,
he said,
move in with me,
live with me,
love me
inside and out.
Sweetie,
she replied,
I do love you,
I love you so much
I ache,
I want to,
I will.
Somewhere
a train whistle blew
in the dawn's wind;
each other's flesh
spread over a hill;
you could hear
their bones laugh
while a chinaman
ironed the last shirt
of the day.
They dressed
in each other's quiet.
Perhaps they could be happy
without being miserable.
But that was left
for another time
another day.
Then, bundled up,
they left
for dinner.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013
Monday, February 11, 2013
IT WOULDN'T SURPRISE ME
one bit,
given all the speculation
now that the Pope is gonna call
it quits, if a young boy
very well-hung
gets the gig.
Why beat around
the bush?
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013
given all the speculation
now that the Pope is gonna call
it quits, if a young boy
very well-hung
gets the gig.
Why beat around
the bush?
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013
Sunday, February 3, 2013
TAKING A WALK
Get the fuck off your ass,
I said to myself,
that's all the fuck you do,
I continued,
sit on your ass
all fucking day at work,
all fucking night at home,
and complain:
about your weight,
about your lungs,
while twisting
the arms
of old ladies
to buy your shit,
by day,
or to fall in love
with your bullshit
at night--
daisy-chaining words
to assholes and elbows.
After dinner,
I concluded,
you're gonna walk.
I was sixty-five.
Diabetes and smoking
and boozing had already
done its damage:
a blood blockade
to my pump and pistons.
The only things I could do
to halt the knocking
of Mr. & Mrs. Death
on my front door
was putting down the smokes
and kicking out the jams.
The last was eating "right."
But that I'd do later,
I reasoned.
You don't want to do
too much
too soon.
And so,
after eating
a pound and a half rib-eye,
baked potato
with butter/sour cream/chives,
and creamed spinach,
I had coffee
and New York cheesecake
for dessert.
I finished the last
of the coffee
with a Lucky, my last Lucky
I resolved, while Brian Williams
told me what I already knew:
winter had wrapped its arms
around the northeast
in a death grip.
I rubbed my Buddha belly
placed my two hands firmly
on the arms of the chair
and hoisted myself
up from the table.
I cleaned the dishes
and grabbed my hat, wool scarf,
coat, and sheepskin lined gloves.
Brian said something
about Chinese hacking
which I couldn't give a fuck about,
but this time found interesting.
I halted, but didn't stop.
I was determined
to live
a few extra years.
It was about ten steps
to my front door.
I made six of em
before I opened
the doors
to my icebox.
I took out
two pints of Haagan-Dazs,
(it was nice to have the gloves on),
and put them on the counter
to soften.
I had to back up
two steps to do that.
The rest of the retreat
was easy.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013
I said to myself,
that's all the fuck you do,
I continued,
sit on your ass
all fucking day at work,
all fucking night at home,
and complain:
about your weight,
about your lungs,
while twisting
the arms
of old ladies
to buy your shit,
by day,
or to fall in love
with your bullshit
at night--
daisy-chaining words
to assholes and elbows.
After dinner,
I concluded,
you're gonna walk.
I was sixty-five.
Diabetes and smoking
and boozing had already
done its damage:
a blood blockade
to my pump and pistons.
The only things I could do
to halt the knocking
of Mr. & Mrs. Death
on my front door
was putting down the smokes
and kicking out the jams.
The last was eating "right."
But that I'd do later,
I reasoned.
You don't want to do
too much
too soon.
And so,
after eating
a pound and a half rib-eye,
baked potato
with butter/sour cream/chives,
and creamed spinach,
I had coffee
and New York cheesecake
for dessert.
I finished the last
of the coffee
with a Lucky, my last Lucky
I resolved, while Brian Williams
told me what I already knew:
winter had wrapped its arms
around the northeast
in a death grip.
I rubbed my Buddha belly
placed my two hands firmly
on the arms of the chair
and hoisted myself
up from the table.
I cleaned the dishes
and grabbed my hat, wool scarf,
coat, and sheepskin lined gloves.
Brian said something
about Chinese hacking
which I couldn't give a fuck about,
but this time found interesting.
I halted, but didn't stop.
I was determined
to live
a few extra years.
It was about ten steps
to my front door.
I made six of em
before I opened
the doors
to my icebox.
I took out
two pints of Haagan-Dazs,
(it was nice to have the gloves on),
and put them on the counter
to soften.
I had to back up
two steps to do that.
The rest of the retreat
was easy.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013
Sunday, January 6, 2013
YOU DON'T HAVETA EVEN MOVE
and it comes
ta ya;
finds ya;
uncovers ya:
feelings,
thoughts,
ideas,
inside the clothing
of letters
pirouetting
in your brain,
arranging themselves
(poorly or not)
into something
that seems
to make sense,
yet never really does.
After fucking
a million babes,
imbibing a million bottles,
shooting a million bags,
swallowing a million pills,
firedandhired and firedandhired again
from a million jobs,
and outlasting
world class pricks
of parents
by fading
their cruelty
masked by indifference
by being brokered
by millions of authors
and texts,
singers
songs
musicians
of magic,
and doctors
and dealers
shrink-wrapped
or pre-shrunk--
you no longer
have to do
a goddamn thing
to get invaded.
Your own parade,
wheeling and dealing
through a muddied
and muddled landscape
will, like a magic lantern,
dance behind your eyes.
It's your very own Grand Guignol,
pinwheeling through your wreckage
turning your psychopathology
into an art.
There is alchemy
still, still
to be conjured, still
to be amazed.
After all the bridges
you thought burned
or purposely fractured,
there lives those
who give a shit
about your breath
that wraps a life
around your words.
Most of you
I've liked
more than I cared to admit;
but the miracle is not "like"
or "love"
but "desire"
now
toward the finish.
I've read that the best of days,
are sometimes the first,
sometimes the middle,
and even sometimes the last;
I wanted then to believe
but didn't.
Yet now,
being offered passion
by my Mexican love
at 65
is more precious
than it was for me
at 20.
There is less of me
to kill,
of course,
but more minutes yet
to conquer
and enjoy.
Those older fucks
who sit
breathing on my words
might be justifiably jealous
at the gods
who have graced me.
They must make
their own peace.
For it has taken me time,
a very long time,
to learn things
which were quite simple,
but eluded me
for so long,
like saying:
I love you,
without it being brokered
by a drink
a drug,
or distance.
That has been
the slowest in coming,
but the big
and stubborn ship
is turning
into port.
I must let the captain
navigate, while I
make sure
the furnace
is stoked
and fed.
I must discipline
the crew,
make passengers
feel welcome. Like them
I'm but a tourist,
but a tourist
who no longer
longs
for a home.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013
ta ya;
finds ya;
uncovers ya:
feelings,
thoughts,
ideas,
inside the clothing
of letters
pirouetting
in your brain,
arranging themselves
(poorly or not)
into something
that seems
to make sense,
yet never really does.
After fucking
a million babes,
imbibing a million bottles,
shooting a million bags,
swallowing a million pills,
firedandhired and firedandhired again
from a million jobs,
and outlasting
world class pricks
of parents
by fading
their cruelty
masked by indifference
by being brokered
by millions of authors
and texts,
singers
songs
musicians
of magic,
and doctors
and dealers
shrink-wrapped
or pre-shrunk--
you no longer
have to do
a goddamn thing
to get invaded.
Your own parade,
wheeling and dealing
through a muddied
and muddled landscape
will, like a magic lantern,
dance behind your eyes.
It's your very own Grand Guignol,
pinwheeling through your wreckage
turning your psychopathology
into an art.
There is alchemy
still, still
to be conjured, still
to be amazed.
After all the bridges
you thought burned
or purposely fractured,
there lives those
who give a shit
about your breath
that wraps a life
around your words.
Most of you
I've liked
more than I cared to admit;
but the miracle is not "like"
or "love"
but "desire"
now
toward the finish.
I've read that the best of days,
are sometimes the first,
sometimes the middle,
and even sometimes the last;
I wanted then to believe
but didn't.
Yet now,
being offered passion
by my Mexican love
at 65
is more precious
than it was for me
at 20.
There is less of me
to kill,
of course,
but more minutes yet
to conquer
and enjoy.
Those older fucks
who sit
breathing on my words
might be justifiably jealous
at the gods
who have graced me.
They must make
their own peace.
For it has taken me time,
a very long time,
to learn things
which were quite simple,
but eluded me
for so long,
like saying:
I love you,
without it being brokered
by a drink
a drug,
or distance.
That has been
the slowest in coming,
but the big
and stubborn ship
is turning
into port.
I must let the captain
navigate, while I
make sure
the furnace
is stoked
and fed.
I must discipline
the crew,
make passengers
feel welcome. Like them
I'm but a tourist,
but a tourist
who no longer
longs
for a home.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013
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