Saturday, September 29, 2012


I've decided
to take myself
on a cheap date:
no prep,
no talk,
no regret,
and little

I'll squeeze it
the words,
if the words
ever stop.


Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

Friday, September 28, 2012


for my birthday;
I have a little bit more
than a week
to prepare:
get some books and papers
off the floor,
the couch,
a broken down rocker
near my window
that can be used
in a pinch.
The yellowed tiles
near the tub
need to be scrubbed
from the ash
I flicked there;
in fact,
I should make the joint
safe for food:
get the grease
and the dust
and the rinds
of dreams
out the door
and down
to the pails
I need to throw out
the fucking deadbeats
that are currently squatting.
I allow them to take
up far too much space
but now,
for my birthday,
I've got to boot them
in the ass
if I haveta.

The dead
rarely announce themselves
and sometimes get here
a day or two early.
They really get fucked up
if they have no place to hang
their hat.
But it is mostly me
who loses
if there's not enough room:
they remind me
how lucky I am
to still be jousting
with the words;
to still be fucking
with death
and all its cousins.

I would think
that after what I've done
to some of them
they wouldn't show,
but they do.
At first I was somewhat
embarrassed, chagrined,
felt awkward, creepy,
but they just sat
and explained;
they held
no grudges,
and wanted
from me.
They just wanted me to know
they were still here
and hoped my ears
had become attuned
to listen
and my head
and heart
and gut
better able to absorb
and integrate.

When this first started
only one or two
showed up. But now,
turning sixty-five
I expect quite a crowd.
The ones I've loved,
even partially,
I look forward to;
the ones I've fucked over,
not so much.
I wish I had a choice,
but I don't.
I offered once
to put the ones I've fucked over
in a hotel,
but they wouldn't hear of it.
Some of them even stood
the whole day
to be near me.
So be it.
I've learned
at my age
you have to pick
your battles
I know
I'll get bloodied up,
but it will also give me
some words to play with;
damn the vanity.

Hank said,
that sometimes the best thing
a writer does
is simply
The rest of the time
is mostly ugly
for him
and for those
who cross
his path.

Excuse me
while I get
a mop and broom.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012