Thursday, July 30, 2020


memory fattens the spinal cord
where six plays with sixty
as if they were friends;
as if they could be anything more
than taunts down windy corridors
towards obsolescence.

It requires a backbone
dipped in brine
to make clean the letters
caught between teeth;
who knew the greed of infants
would swirl now around
a wizened & gristled mouth
with the stump of a sentence
caught in the throat
as I try to announce,
loudly, on the birth
of my ways.

It is here
in the cave
of cravings
where you hear
a nurse mention
cures, but this
is no time
to test theories.
You will have to do
whatever is available
for now, advancing
in the dark
toward desire. Hurt
is part of it, as is
the buzz of flies.
You do not smell
beginnings here,
only a charnel house
of a life
yet to be lived.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

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