FORT KNOX, CHRISTMAS EVE, & MOM

Ft. Knox
was easier to heist
than was my mother's passion.
Her cunt defied
global warming,
& her heart was tighter
than a frog's ass--
and that's waterproof!
She was so cold
that at the dinner table,
(if & when she made dinner),
we wore gloves.

You might be thinking
this is a strange poem
to be writing Christmas Eve--
on any "Eve" for that matter.
But to those,
who've never been in a madhouse,
or behind a wire
in a police cruiser or lock-up,
or who've stood on a line
hoping to be medicated,
or a cop-line
hoping to be medicated,
or in a hospital bed
hoping to be medicated,
to those & for those
I reply:
good luck to you
& may the bordom
be kept at bay
from the wolves
that at midnight howl
& prance
under a blood red moon.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

SHE HAUNTS MY HEART

and patrols my borders;
she stands guard
in corridors & chambers
where Cherry Blossoms
& bloodied moons
are whipped by frenzy
into an ignorance
of desire.

Enslaved
only to her own
paranoia, the poison laced
with a mother's love,
she sets tripwires
for the naive
& firing squads
for the masters of war.

Today
is like a truce
between troglodytes
birthed from a traumatic narcissism:
one who is very comfortable being home;
and the other
unable to move--both
very much in love.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019