THE OLD SHELL GAME

I try to hide
the black queen
of consciousness
underneath distractions.
And so I switch
from MSNBC
to TCM,
from Max Von Sydow
to Brian Williams,
from an expensive custom fit suit
and elegant striped tie,
to the fundemental garb of knights,
a sword of defense & conquest at his hip.
Both of these searchers,
both of these truth tellers,
are weary
from the battle,
the constant onslaught
of plagues & pandemics
begun & christened by
presidents & kings addled
with power & paranoia.

Philosophers seek death--
that is their job.
They are paid a pittance
for their efforts.
Brian & Max are entertainers
paid to inquire about death,
but distract us & our death
in the offing. They
are very well paid
for seeking out God's hand
in the sky's excrement
we slosh around in.
What truth can be found
in this chessgame of extirpation.

I press the Spectrum clicker:
Brian asks reporters how to make sense
of our president's lies, deceits,
and calloused disregard for lives
left to lurch in the dark
for a toilet that was there a minute ago;
Max is Swedish, cooler, just moving his knight.
Brian probes, though he knows the dialogue;
Max attacks...or hides in the rough;
Brian juggles opinions; Max alights with doubts;
Brian must adhere to corportate time;
Max submits to Bergman's script & directions.
If it seemed weightier back then
it's not because of passion, each
being masters of their craft, but
the difference between black & white & color;
for home has always held less safety
then the queen would have you believe.

Still, I could opt out--
turn on Seinfeld
or Columbo or
a hundred other electric narcotics
the tube offers, a mere click away.
But they, too, have a beginning,
middle & end; they too
provide an easy lie. I know
this will end one day
only because I will end one day.
Someone else will be drowning
in this swill. Probably,
the waters will be murkier,
the air more fetid; a bag
of potato chips will be lighter
but cost the same; toilet paper
will be fatter but cost more
than the food for waste did; meat
will be caged, all fish farmed;
each will be xeroxed copies of each;
fruits & vegetables lab produced
to only look like their pictures.
And the big questions will be
no bigger than the small ones
and every one will be sure
where the queen is
and once again
they will be
taken, fleeced
and coming back
for more.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

PROPOSITIONED

She'd come over,
she told me,
and make me
feel good
for a hundred;
for two hundred
she'd make me
feel great;
and for five hundred
she'd offer
herself
served
up in whatever
way I liked.

"Over easy,"
I teased,
the yolk unbroken
and nestled
within white folds.
"You're the chef,"
she whispered,
showcasing one
of her ingredients.

I now needed
to remember
where the hell
I'd put
my utensils.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015