LET US PRAY

Sunday always feels
like some kind of Psalm
at the end of some kind
of brutality.
It needs
not to be studied
in ways that imply
interest,
but fear.

I will resist
hurting myself
today. I will
take another
into my
confidence.
I will trust
the Lord
& lean
not into
my own
understanding.
I will allow
Him
to direct
my paths.

But first
I have to
pee...
then I'll see
what's what.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

CAN I POSSIBLY BE

this old?
I don't think so
in spite of all
my body tells me.
I don't think
I am time
& time only--
though I carry
a King's baggage
like a Pullman Porter
in the Georgia summer
heat.
I would like to think
I fuck with time
as much as it
fucks with me:
I can be seven
when I want to,
hanging on a limb
from a garden snake;
or seventeen
& hanging by a thread;
but not the sixty-eight
I am just hanging
around waiting
for the curtains to part.
Only yesterday
my berry browned arms
swung from trees
& my hands held wood
carved to strike a hardball;
my fingers held a pen
meant to seduce
& buck-up a weakened bone.
I can see with clarity
all which came before,
but not a moment after
it all stops.
And where, I might ask,
do we go
then?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

DUTCH & MO

were old friends
from Brownsville
Brooklyn in the forties.
Both had failed
at life
from an early age:
they packed crates
& read
The Harvard Classics.
Each had that old school
sinewy thing happening
and now were stevedores
on the docks.
They worked
& whored
hard.
Dutch smoked Pall Malls
& Mo Camels.
Drank straight
whiskey. Slept
when they could.

One day
Dutch spied a chick
coming out of chic village brownstone.
Listen,
he said,
to Mo.
Ya see that chick?
No, where?
There.
There where?
There, there.
Mo wore those coke-bottle glasses
and had to squint through them.
No, where?
There you idiot, there. And spun Mo's shoulders around.
Yeah, yeah, OK. What about her?
Listen,
Dutch repeated. I want you to go over and bother her. I'll count three beats and go over and get ya off her...then I'll make off with the chick.
What the hell? Mo said. . Let's get a drink.
No, I like her. I really like her.
What are ya gonna do?
I'll throw a punch, you go down. Simple.
I don't know.
C'mon, Mo. C'mon.
OK, Ok.
Dutch watched as Mo went across the street and sidled up to her.
He saw her twist and squirm and try to get away from him but Mo blocked her.
Dutch walked across the street.
His blood bubbled.
He didn't pull the punch,
but hit Mo square in the mug.
Mo hit the ground
bounced up
& hit Dutch.
Dutch went down
bounced up
& hit Mo.
Then they grabbed each other
in a head-lock
& both went down.
The chick walked off.

She was stupid:
she was surrounded by love
and never saw it.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

"I'M DYING

to know
the ending.
This
is where
I came
in.
I've seen
this part.
Don't
be
a prick.
Stop
teasing
me.

I can't make
heads
or tails
out of it.
Why
He's kept me
in this crap
game
so long
is
a mystery.
It's
the first
thing
I'll ask Him."

"What do you think
he'll say?"

"Nothin,
that's what.
I don't think
he has
any fuckin answer
either."

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

LOVE DREAM #263

My eyes are glued
to the black tar
& cement
these days
when I walk:
afraid to trip
I look for cracks,
I look for fissures,
I look for danger.
I also look for coins
and bills and bags
of heroin--but that's
another story.
Today I was just looking
for the curb
as I crossed
University & 11th
and made
the steep climb;
this is NYC after all
& disasters & likeliness
are an old married couple.
I made the ascent
and picked up my eyes
in triumph & jubilation.

And there you were
boring those schizoid orbs of yours
into me
and smiling shyly
snug in your faded
fitted Canada Goose.
It took a moment
to take you in
and instead looked
for their hip arm patch
thinking it would tell me
what is authentic
& what is a knock-off.

Why are you so surprised?
you asked, you knew I'd be here.
Your right hand held onto
a shopping cart
as you followed
my eyes
with your own.
It's empty, Savage,
you know me: No food,
no clothing, no saviors,
no nothing,
just me. I would have
brought my dog,
but I can't.
He's dead
you know?
But maybe later. Maybe
I will later...
or maybe I'm through
with animals; they're much
too kind, you said, and smiled
a smile so rueful
it made my bones ache.

A few bums looked in the basket
but you shooed them away. A car
skidded to a stop. Its tires screeched,
a smell of rubber laced the air.
I might like New York, you said,
but maybe I won't; you know
how small town I am...
if I don't there are other places to go,
I have lots of money.
Can we go up to your place now? you asked.
Yes, we can, let's go home.
Not exactly, you said.
Not exactly, I echoed.
I knew, like you knew,
there was nothing up there either,
but it was a better nothing
than we had a moment ago.
I went to take your cart
and no resistance was offered.
When we crossed the street I didn't
look down--my self-consciousness
had the better of me
and stumbled once, twice,
but quickly righted the ship
and noticed:
I was able to breathe
again.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

I HAD A LONG TALK

with my conscience:
It was time
to break-up
we agreed
for the sake
of both of us.

We're not stupid.

We know
we're going
to be tempted
to reconcile,
to fuck each other
again;
one last fuck
for old time's sake.
We know
we're going to be
sorely tested.

But we know,
bottom line,
we ain't no good
for each other.

How we split
the kids
and the pad
is anybody's
guess.

And
that fuckin book
is mine.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

JUST LIVING IT OUT

is something
I can't do
easily: too
self-conscious
about everything
I'm not
doing.
You might think
I'm working
on this
poem
right now
but I'm not
really
doing
that
& that
only:
I'm not
making
money
or babies
or curing
cancer
or opening
an envelope
or trimming
my nails
or the fat
off my soul
or forging
a friendship
or killing
an objection
or designing
a rocket ship
or picking
a mushroom
or taking
a shower
or medication.

The beetle
is prophetic.
And the morning dew
cleanses all
sinners.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016