AS THE WORLD TURNS

These sixty four years
that marched unflinchingly
around and through me
were often enough times
cruel and mindless,
but often beautiful
(lovely, even),
have settled easily
like a cat or a dog
resting at my feet.
The jails and institutions,
nuthouses and hospitals
as bad as they were,
had their moments
of solace, sometimes reprieve
from the madness
that scorched the inside
of my skin.
Even the worst of times
have gone too quickly,
for each defeat
showed victory
no matter how dim,
ordinary,
or of no lasting
consequence.
Each love was better
than no love;
every hate
had power,
persistence,
and a sublime
pleasure;
and each pleasure
no matter how destructive
gave the pure dream
language, and a gambler's
hope.

I have liked most of you better
than I let on,
and loved some better
than they thought I should;
the pirate sees treasure
at a ship's mast
before the deck
is boarded or crossed.

Tonight, at midnight,
while hundreds of thousands,
asshole to elbow,
wait to celebrate
in Times Square,
I'll have the covers pulled
up to my neck.
I'll know it's over
when I hear
car horns,
screams,
whistles,
as my fellow humans
divide themselves
from themselves.
I've never understood much
of their joy or hope or faith,
but this far
I've made it; more
I can't say.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011

BLUE CHRISTMAS

One of the problems
with being
me
this time
of year
is:
I've perfected
all this bullshit
without
many people
to tell it to.

Of course,
that's one
of the benefits,
too.

Listening
to Etta James
singing,
Someone To Watch
Over Me,
tears you
up
as you think
of her
lying
tethered
to some wires and tubes
snaking
this way and that
blind and demented
weaving herself
into the darkness
you'd like
someone
to know
what the fuck
you're talking about.

But fuck it--
I'll go to Chinatown
and dine among
big families
seated uncomfortably
between crying babies
and mothers
and grandparents
and aunts
and uncles
without pretending
I'm slant eyed
and single.
I don't believe
in illusions
for me
or
you.

I've always been
a fool.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011

SHE LOVES ME, HE LOVES ME NOT

Women are girls
and men are boys
in matters of the heart.
Each walk down the street
clutching their cell phones
as if they were mirrors
of worth;
each ring,
every silence,
all text,
confirming
size
and suspicion.
They cannot believe love
nor its absence;
each past moment
trails them
from bed
to bathroom
to bar
to boardroom
and back
again.
It's as if they mainline
affection;
each dose
needing
need
to be quicker,
stronger,
last longer
than before.
Only the poet knows
for love to last
it must be lost
lest it lose
its otherness
and deny you
you losing yours.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011

SANTA'S SYPHILIS

unfortunately,
has grounded him.
It's been tracked
to a lone chimney
somewhere
within the borders
of North America.
Apparently,
this chimney
was decrepit
from constant use,
or not subject
to regular inspection.
No matter--
needless to say
a regular diet
of painful
and constant
penicillin intervention
is necessary.

It goes without saying
that the bottom 99
point 5 percent
of this population is,
once again, fucked
and forgotten.

C'est la guerre,
C'est la vie.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011

VARIATIONS ON A TUNE FOR THOSE IN CONSTANT SORROW

(Sung to "When You're Smiling")

When yer creatin,
When yer creatin,
The whole world slinks from view;
When yer creatin,
When yer creatin,
The sun sometimes comes peepin thru,

But when yer stewin,
It brings on the pain;
Quit yer stewin
Be anti-social again.

Cause when yer creatin,
When yer creatin,
The whole world leaves you too.

Thank you
Thank you
Thank you...

(don't ask...

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011

PARENTS--

who can imagine them
doin it?
I, certainly,
wouldn't want to go
on that kind of limb.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011

KNOCK KNOCK

(Don't
answer
it.
Don't.
I'm tellin ya,
don't.
It could be loud
like a sonic boom
or as quiet as an ant
pissing on cotton;
it could be frantic
or like someone on their knees
praying
or rolling the dice
or breathing
heavily
from the climb
or sincere
like Clinton
or persuasive
like your last lover,
just don't
respond. Pretend
you're not there
and maybe
you'll make it
to see
another day,
a different
opening
open.
That might be
all you'll need
but probably not.

The knock
finds you.
Even if you stay
in bed
covers up
to your chin
it slides
next to you.
It could be
a white cell,
a renegade
looking
for a home;
your gums
could bleed,
your teeth
ache, your prostate
swell your uterus
drops, your muscles
atrophy.
No. Get up.
Tie your laces.
And if they don't snap,
go out.
Look both ways.
For cars and trucks and busses
and trains and people and dogs
and messengers and crazy Chinese
delivery bikers. Step over
cracks and avoid the pits.
Sit at one of those wonderful garden spots
in NYC outside and have a relaxing ten dollar
coffee or exotic tea concoction lost
in the exhaust fumes and diseased microbes
from inside the landfill of your neighbor's body.

And just when you thought
you made it,
just when the ten dollar tea
breaks your tongue's sweat,
a black sedan
seating five turbans
opens its curbside windows
to make a mistake
that won't be found out
for hours.)

Whatever it is
it's looking for you,
coming
on little cat's paws,
all
the
time.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011