LETTING THE GAME

come to you
is something I do
more and more
these days.
I've put in
the work.
The poem seems
to assert itself
without self-
mutilation
or too much
affect.
I've become
an old fuck
that a few
young women
want to fuck
around with.
They're beautiful
& smart & do not
take me
too seriously
though they enjoy
my stories, my rants,
and my cynicism
which make them laugh.
I am the bone
of a Brontosaurus
they toss around.
They don't mind
my half
a hard-on
half the time,
& a slowness
of foot.
They've accompanied me
to doctors & have made me
dinner. It is more
than enough.
The few I'm still close with
understand that parents
& teachers, religious leaders
& politicians do nothing
except destroy; that pain
is endless
& love hides
in all the obvious places
if one is willing to read
the cards.

It's taken me
quite awhile
to learn
the simplest
of things:
money is piss
and the sparrow
immortal.
Courage
is more important
for our most frightened
and fucked-over;
and getting across freeways
blindfolded without a scratch
is more than just
dumb luck.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

A GEOMETRY OF INNOCENCE

A saxophone carves
out space for lips,
eyes, and a curling
ease of make-believe;
monkeys take care
while grooming themselves
& those they love;
a train whistle
signals lost loves
& strangers in their midst.

Death
has more patience
than a cat
and waits
in shadows
& sunlight.

There are no
"last calls."

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

THE GRACE OF THE GODS

The Gods gave me
a chronic illness
when eleven, before
I knew what a chronic illness
was. It scared the shit
outta me,
but fifty-six years later
I know
they also provided me
an ability to fuck with it,
and around it.
They gave me
a good ear,
a good eye,
& a mind
as jumbled
as the New York underground
to make sense
of the senseless.
They never gave me
patience, rationality,
stability; or the make-up
to work continuously
at one thing. It figures
I've little money,
little savings,
few coins of commerce,
except hope's pyrite:
getting discovered
by those who are able
to do something about it.
They've bestowed,
so far,
an unlimited supply
of words
and women
at the right time,
in the right place,
who treated me better
than I deserved.
More
than I deserved.
As if "deserve"
has anything
to do
with any
of us.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

OPEN WIDE

Sitting in my dentist's office
waiting
for new choppers I have time
to kill; I'm excellent
at that after all
the practice I've had.
Though now,
I must say,
"time" is paying
me back. Unfortunately,
for him,
there's less and less
of me to kill.
But
the sonofabith
still finds
more of me
to work with.

I've brought a book,
but my concentration
is not there
for that.
The dentist
& dentist offices
freak me out--too much
real pain
produces
too much
logic.

I look out
the square pane
of glass
on the 16th floor
overlooking what
used to be
the garment district
in New York City.
I can see ten
water towers on top
of fifty buildings,
a shadow of a big sign
for Max the Furrier,
no better quality,
no better price, the red bricks
smeared with black city grime
supporting massive air-conditioning units
cooling bleached blondes
dancing on the poles below.
The sidewalk gum
that sticks to my shoe's soul
tells me more
than all the coral reefs
and rain forests.
The Aborigines
and Yanomami
would interest me
if I were Levi-Straus,
but I'm not.
Instead,
I've watched Jewish
& Italian families
break bread
on Sundays
& knew
the quiet hatred
hardening between
the slices.
It told me more
than The Grand Canyon
& polar icecaps
& a million books
on psychology,
economics,
& making yourself
attractive.

I was lucky
to find a decent
dentist who takes
Medicaid after my denture
snapped.
Hell, I wore the damn thing
for fifteen years. I'm like that
with most of my stuff. My underwear
has to turn into spores
before I let it blow away.
My fellow patients
are all on the dole
as well.
We're all comfortable
with the game: I'll take
as much as I can; my dentist
will bill for as much as he can;
his landlord will get as much as he can.
What else can you possibly learn
from nature?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

ELEGY FOR A MUTT

For Fe

The best of us
are mutts--
a littleathis,
a littleathat
--mercifully fucking
each other
past any
resemblances.
Sure,
we grow up thinking
about belonging
to one tribe
or another,
but the real juice,
the real jazz,
is belonging
to all of it.

Mutts
are more beautiful,
and smarter
in & out
of the classroom
than those souls
who've been ironed
stiff
& starched.
Bleached out
of the little blood
they had
to begin with.

Dogs, of course,
are not human--
(thank the gods)
--they're better.
Perhaps,
not as wise
as cats,
but not
as judgmental either.
All they know
is fidelity
& how
to listen
to their senses.

One must learn
from them. They
should train
us
in how to love.
For instance:
those who love you
truly
never leave;
they've only gotten
to where you're going
first,
& are simply waiting
for you
to catch-up
once
again.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

RUBY, MY DEAR

Monk,
solo,
sweet
& lovely,
spare,
but rhythmic,
&, O,
so
gentle.

Not many
women,
nor men,
are like
that--Praise
the Lord.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

MORE BIG FEET & BIGFOOT

Fats Waller, Pops,
guitars, Dylan, Dave
Van Ronk, Washington Square,
the Village, reefer madness,
and young kids still
curious, still a beautiful
inversion of what
is to come.

The thirst
for passion
endless.

To submit
is to die
slowly
& lose
the best parts
of yourself.
Those who do
welcome
to hell.
Those who don't,
welcome--you don't
have to knock, just
come in.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/124523698@N04/sets/72157645039270746/

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014