THE CHEEKS OF HER ASS APPEARS

an inch below
her short
shorts.
It's supposed
to enchant or
entice; it's supposed
to be sexy, but this
escapes me.
I'm unusual,
I admit.
I'm attracted
to scars
& scowls;
the turn
of ankle
or phrase;
a Dada depression
or suicidal
surrealism.

I like my women dressed.
What happens later,
behind the curtain
is Greek
to me.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

BEING ALIVE

at sixty-nine
makes as much sense
as a deaf & dumb
ventriloquist,
a fountain hidden
in a urinal,
a virgin
giving her lover
skid chains;
a circus
of syringes,
earthworms
who get up
& beg; waves
cresting beneath
the skin.

Sense
& nonsense,
everything
& nothing.
I've been
a heedless
& sometimes headless
man, attuned to only
my heart's trumpet.

Like tonight:
a good-natured whore
helped me bridge
consciousness.
She promoted this semicolon
of calm
that allowed this poem
to write itself
before I test my blood
& take a shot for Hagan-Daz.

Seventy awaits.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016