TO EACH THEIR OWN PUZZLE

In the sometimes
frozen chatter
underneath midnight's
dripping bladder

efficiently spreading
another's honey oiled
madness of movement

onto a beaded cradle
I followed
footsteps
so easily cushioned

by last year's lies.

They wore their grins
and approbations
as easily as my female
bitch slurps her gruel.

Her pups slurping
her distended tit
biology like flowers
leaning into the sun.

It is spring here.
Buttons are opened.
The courts recessed.
Open preening
is a sport that few
do well at.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

POOR MELO

is at the end
of his career;
it was good,
but it's about over
and that is sad
for any spotlight
that once blinded
but now dims
& soon poof, gone.
What's almost
as bad
is La La
his love
has split,
poof, gone.
Though I really can't
blame her--
Oklahoma hasn't got
one nail salon
to its name.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

MOVE OVER MOM...MORE THAN A SOMEWHAT RANCID PLEA

some other women
want to fuck me
and you guard the gates
like you own me.

Don't be selfish,
let them
get under the covers
too. Big bed,
plenty of space
in my head
& yours.

You've had me
so long
& I've grown so old
there's not much danger
in you not going
into the dirt with me.

And they're so young
& so beautiful
& so foolish
& forgetfull
& eager
to please.
Yes, smaller breasts,
yes, gentile minds,
yes, making statements
with their pussies;
yes, from Senagal,
from the lower east side,
Jamaica, Princeton, jail,
but they know
my heart
& where it runs
along a long line
of blues singes.

I've sponged up
your neurosis
like it was milk.
Your shelf life
seems to be past.
So before
you curdle
and my belly bloats,
ease up,
& let up,
& please
move the hell over--
I've got someone
coming over.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

I WANT TO KNOW

your private moments
filled with nothing;
those times
when you are not thinking
at all,
when a hush hugs your brain,
when those mad wires
of misinformation are stilled
by natural rhythms;
when all we were
and all we are
and all we might be
calmly play
without importance
like a Beatle's lyric
out of Rubber Soul,
perhaps...
You might be moved
to treat yourself kindly,
to hold hands
with yourself
without begging
or bargaining.
You might arrive
on a hot chocolate morning
carrying yesterday's news
like marshmellows to dunk
and nibble on:
a colony of ants looking
for a new home,
Hannibal crossing 14th Street,
a tulip descending
upon a suitor's lips,
a tremble in the cleft
of a mountain;
maybe you've turned
the electronic hum
into a sleeping beast
or decided your first lover
was your best lover.
But nothing
is held
for very long
or seen for simply
being part of the tale.
We are simple stories
being told
to ourselves.
Each day
a different begining
and a different end.
With any luck,
if luck is anything at all,
we will find out
what we are
tomorrow.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

TAKE ME HOME

A first scent
of a rose petal's blush
on warm flesh
when ill;
the blood splatter
from love positioned
around the dinner table;
french toast nursed
by arthritic fingers
puffed with butter & cinammon;
fears running up & down
the broken vertebrea
of a family's spine;
nerves scattering
like mice
caught in a cat's eye;
a belly laugh
at our own imbecilities;
a warmth girding
all our failures;
and safety,
yes safety,
safety as each of us
walked a netless
wire.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

HOW CAN THAT BE?

One day
your dick
stands
at attention;
the next day
all you do
is touch
your zipper
and a bugler
blows, "Taps."
You've done nothing
except live;
there is punishment
enough
in that.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

THE LONGER I'VE LIVED

the more I realize
I've descended
from a long & noble line
of idiots, degenerates,
the sick & maimed & mad
& misbegotten; a proud & frugal
fellowship of ne'erdowells,
neandethals, cons & crooks,
brilliantly out of step, awry,
lamposts drunk
with a foul & yellow sheen.
Those who bit down hard
on mother's tit and never managed
to spit it out
almost sure
the milk not spoiled
but magical
& necessary
(for balance?)

I'm near the end of it,
I think, clawing
at the earth
that will have no choice
but to take me back
& give me
cover.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018