Saturday, December 31, 2016

2017 NEEDN'T HURRY ON MY ACCOUNT


Soon enough
I'll be shrunken
& bloodless...
or ash--
if I get lucky.
Better people than I
have made the journey.
I'm Ozymandias's
orphaned son
up to my balls
in sand: blank,
pitiless, lost
as I make my way
to the Bronx today
for a workshop
for jailbirds.

But at the stroke
of midnight
the raven will flutter
off Edgar's shoulder;
virginities will fall;
some will bleed,
others have bled,
amateurs will vomit
amid the horns, the revelers
the merry-makers; empires
will give themselves over
to shadows; girls will weep
& boys will whoop
their manhood to fathers
who are no longer there,
who followed their inner defaults:
money or fame or power.

And I'll be watching
it all play out.
I'll be with Ralph
& Alice & Norton & Trixie
in a Brooklyn tenement
in Bensonhurst.
Time does not age.
It clicks
endlessly.
Might as well
have a laugh.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

DRAGGING OUR FUTURES


through our pasts;
all the silt the dirt the mud
staining a whiteness lost
to memory
is not lost
for long:
the images the music the maybes
are on a loop
and what happens next
is filtered through
your own special
sieve--
much like the days
when you had to strain
marijuana: a clump of shit
into a strainer
and rub
leaving the stems & seeds
while the sticky leaf
fluttered to a newspaper page
on your lap.
You began to gauge the high
by how it smelled
how it looked
but didn't really know
nothing
until you lit the shit
and smoked it:
got a lung full,
held it,
nursed it,
let it out,
and waited.

2017 scares me,
but I gotta
roll it up
and wait.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Sunday, December 25, 2016

CHRISTMAS, 2016


There's a density
of spirits
in the spaces
between bodies.
A hand comes at me
across the table;
I don't know
whose it is,
but I take it.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Saturday, December 24, 2016

CHRIST IN THE WINGS PREPARING FOR HIS ENTRANCE


ACT 1

SCENE 1:

A cold rain
is falling.

He's pacing
back & forth,
muttering
to himself.

If being born
is worth it,
tell him
to dress warm
and not to forget
to take his umbrella.
We know
how easily
He catches cold.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Friday, December 23, 2016

ROMANCE


To spend Christmas Eve
at Nathan's
in Coney Island
eating a hot dog,
while the rain
whips up mischief
& magic
is about as romantic
as it gets.

It will be an empty
shelter for a few
figures huddled
in an embrace
of whispers,
mustard biting
their lips, ketchup
staining their french fried fingers.

A clatter
of trains
at the end
of their lines
huffing
into terminals
as useless as prayers
offered up to love
proffered for the sea
slapping against the darkness
a few steps from civilization.

I will have worked
a half day, trying
to unlock the gates
swinging against the souls
smashed against odds
they inherited. I've come
from the same asylum
and wrap myself in our disease.

Another frank? I ask.
My hands grip a bill
& I fish it out.
We are a long way from heaven,
but a very long way from hell.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Sunday, December 18, 2016

VD ENTERPRISES


I don't mind
that Vladimir
& Donald divvy up
the world
as if they were cutting
into a ripe cunt begging
for their mouths;
I don't mind
that Stalingrad
& Gettysburg
& millions
of dead stumps
sticking in
the flushed earth
are fronts
for dick-waving
& flag fawning.
I don't even mind
that their walnuts
are patted with powders
as they suckle
from enormous breasts
through endless nights.

No, I don't mind.

What I do mind
is that neither one
of those motherfuckers
have started
a poetry magazine.
I, too, have
priorities.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Saturday, December 17, 2016

A CHRISTMAS ADMONITION


Waking up
from the deep
recesses
of sleep,
merciful sleep,
only to find
the poisoned presence
of the person
you fucked
the night before
is the mind's horror
of Christmas' past.
We would be wise
to remember
the stove;
the stove
is still hot,
politics
is still
a whore's game
and nothing changes
except
the will
to change.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Sunday, December 11, 2016

MY GIRLFRIEND SAYS


I talk too much;
I give away
too many secrets.
They're just words,
I say; no one
gives much of a shit
one way or another.
Bullshit, she says,
if you get a once in a blue moon hardon
Russia knows, Spain knows,
the fucking Ukraine knows,
and God forbid if I ask you
to eat my pussy, well,
the whole goddamn world has to know
how good you are to me!
But baby, that's what a poet does:
Inspire.
O, shut the fuck up
and get down there.

You never argue
with a woman
gone mad
with desire.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Saturday, December 10, 2016

SHOOTING DOPE ON CHRISTMAS EVE


was so romantic
back in the day;
even the dealers
were especially nice
& generous: the bags
were fatter
& stronger
as if baby Jesus
was in the teaspoon.

The year was 1969
and I was a poet,
a philosopher,
a rogue, a
bullshit artist.
My courage
lasted til the veil
lifted every four hours
or so. By that time
we were sleeping: she
all soft and soapy;
me somewhere else
buying time
between rounds.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Thursday, December 8, 2016

TAKING YOUR TEMPERATURE


"ABOVE ALL, AVOID FALSEHOOD, EVERY KIND OF FALSEHOOD, ESPECIALLY FALSEHOOD TO YOURSELF, WATCH OVER YOUR OWN DECEITFULNESS AND LOOK INTO IT EVERY HOUR, EVERY MINUTE."
--Dostoyevsky

Fyodor!
What a pain in the ass you are!
Walking around with a rectal thermometer
between the cheeks
and sniffing it
every few seconds! Christ!
Ain't there any other way???

Sorry, nyet.

Shit, you're sorry. I'm sorry and
I gotta find a drugstore that's open.

Take your time. Take your time.
Not too many have ever been sold.
Not very many want to smell their smell
or
are even able to. (And don't forget
the Vaseline--treat yourself
kindly).

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Monday, December 5, 2016

INTERVIEWING THE DEAD


Were you happy?
Happy with the way
you exited?
Did you bow?
Was it clean
or messy?
Were there bells and rings and beeps aplenty? Did you eat forbidden fruit? Did you fish in streams of Goldenrod? And safety? Were you cuffed and led to a hangman's noose or was it coaxed into a vein better than a 100 proof? Were there memories of love gone wrong or gone right into love gone wrong or were you loveless and alone as when you greeted the world as naked and stupid and numb with fright as you were descending the stair as you were thrashing about and pulling your hair and trying to come to grips with the air?

Write.

Tell me
how you wish
to go.

I'll do my best.

No promises though.

The line forms
to the right.

Take
a number.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Friday, December 2, 2016

I WISH I WOULD DIE


in a car
cruising
at sixty
or seventy
on a perfectly fine
autumn day
smoking a Lucky
and drifting
just drifting
next to a body
of water
moody
& full
of swells
& lulls
listening
to Sonny's Moritat
and wondering
what's next
on the playlist.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

Thursday, December 1, 2016

THERE MUST BE LIFE


on some other fucking planet;
there must be some chick
who doesn't know me or
doesn't know my shit or
doesn't speak english
and doesn't give a damn
about Christmas
or New Years
and who gives
less of a fuck
about age
or infirmities
or gallantry
(whatever the fuck that means)
or has beetle-like opinions
gleaned from girlfriends
worse off than her
or relatives worse off than them
or children (real
or imagined).

I gotta get with Kepler
and a telescope
and make this happen
while things are still possible,
while I'm still possible
before I grow
into a complete asshole
while a tit like crab
crawls towards me
and the game
works on.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016