HANDS-UP, MOTHERFUCKER!

I was in
deep shit.
Walled
in the placenta
of doom.
Just whispers
carried
by a tube.
No crazed Latinos
signing on the sides
of trains. No one
protesting. This
was God's turf,
His zip code.
Her cord
kept me
stoned
enough
while I heard
her fight
with a cock
& all her other
demons
as she schitzed along
on her busted wires--

--until those Klieg lights
& Arctic cold fucked me
beyond belief. I stood
naked in that prison yard
of cold steel instruments
& rubber gloves
& wondered: where
did the time go & why
it didn't take me
with it? How blood reasons
before the brain computes
and how
I was really
nowhere.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016