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