COMING CLEAN ABOUT WOODSTOCK

Fifty years ago
I had everything
I wanted: Eileen
was in my basement bed,
a half ounce of coke
was an armsreach away
in my nearby drawer,
a few fat buds
of Katmandu reefer,
a smell as pungent
as wet earth,
waited to be rolled,
my '68 Porsche
was parked outside,
& my parents,
who supported my manias,
were nowhere to be found,
God bless them.
An FM underground
was carrying the concert live,
but alla that
wasn't enough
for Eileen. (I realize now
that some women
want the real
to be really real.)
"Let's get into that cool short of yours,
we could be up there in a few hours," she said.
"Fuck that. It's a fucking madhouse up there, baby," I countered,
"let's do another line, smoke some of this beautiful bud, fuck around--
hell, we'll believe we're there--without the slop."
"C'mon, Savage,
I'll give you the best head
you ever got in the mud," she laughed.
"It's too late, baby, we'd never get near the place;
the fucking interstate is backed-up,
they're closin 95 & 17, no fucking way, baby."
"C'mon, Savage,
you lived up there--you know
all those backroads & shit
--we'll make it"...
"We can make it down here--
it's clean, air-conditioned,
we got all we need & we got showers &"...
"Oh, Savage,
I'm gonna split--
if I can get there
I'm gonna get there.

And get there
she got.

But I didn't know that
until 14 years later
when I ran into her
in Miami Beach.
She was a waitress
in a Jewish outpost of pastrami
& heart attacks and was a little beaten-up
around the edges, but
still sexy as all Hell.
I tried to get her
to fuck me that night.
I knew she wanted to,
but wouldn't that night...
or ever again. Music,
back in the day,
was principled,
& apparantly,
so was she.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019