PERFECT

to think you lying
on some Brazilian beach
fucking a young man
in the heat,
his dick as engorged
as a donkey's,
while Tanto Tempo
plays in the background
while here,
my tortoise shelled
appendage shrivels further
inside me with every
breeze that blows
the Siberian air
under and through
my armor and plunges
the zero in my bone
down into Hell.

I watch your toes
curl in the sand
to a samba moon
& listen
to all the ways
you say, "Daddy"
to those sons
who struggle
to understand.
I will tell you
that pleasures
will be denied
outside my presence,
but my presence
will be in every absence
you will sense
in every face
not mine,
in every voice
not familiar
and in every corner
turned with
expectation &
disappointment.
Each kiss
a confirmation
of dryness;
each thrust,
a rebuke
of motive.

I'm branded
into your hide
as if you were a cow
who could only give
your milk
to one farmer;
I'm in those secret
places which punishes
language. But
do not despair,
mi amore
for I speak
in many tongues,
too.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

A HIATUS

For B.L. mainly

I'm going to try and take a little break from posting in order to finish the novel I'm working on. I'm close, but need to take the energy I use for this, and put it into that. And while it's true that the poem and the novel are one, still, I find that working on one can water down the other. I would think that three to six months sounds about right.

I'm going to leave you with a quote by a friend, Jamieson, and her husband, Simon.

"To love is to give what one does not have and to receive that over which one has no power. To love is to freely negate the stubbornness that is the self and to live in loyalty to an affirmation that can dissolve like morning mist with the first experience of betrayal."
--Simon Critchley and Jamieson Webster--
"Stay, Illusion"