A YEAR AGO TO THE DAY

I felt so goddamned good
I was riddled with guilt.
Don't ask me why
that was,
it just was.
And so
I didn't want to do anything,
(lest I jinx it),
until this strange mood
of feeling good
evaporated,
went away,
sucked up,
by my more natural stream
of venom
& recriminations;
until the vileness
of pleasntries
were denied
an easy passport
into my bloodstream
of doubt--
where all good poems live;
until I felt
normal again.

It figures
that today
was the day
I came across
whatever this is--
& will post it
against my better judgement
because, once again,
I'm feeling good
despite this topsy-turvy world
we're spinning on.
But soon
I will be unable
to call my shots:
eight ball, corner pocket...
Ya see,
see what I mean?
Simple, eh?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

I AM OF TWO MINDS...

often times more.
My laser sharp focus
& perception
gives way
to the jangly route
of interpretations
& judgements.
My translators
are certain
of their acumen;
each are convinced
of their skills
in decoding
history's symbols
& signposts.
My mushy brain
becomes a Wellsian mirrored
ping-pong table
played by masters
of irrefutable logic
& evidence.

Senses impress,
the rest impresses
upon me.
She loves me...
but why
does she love me?
You can see
how flummoxed
I can get
at such obviousness.

I'm in the market
for a tourniquet
for executive functions
of all kinds.
I've heard that Amazon
will deliver it
to my door.
But how to pay for it
is still an open question.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

A GREAT POEM HIDES

in the thumb
of a hitchhiker,
or the greed of a Queen
bumblebee; it's
a dollar found
hugging a sock
underneath
a torn pocket
of a barfly
after last call
is called.

It could by a map's mistake,
or the dried out tit
of a riverbed. Perhaps,
the first or
the last word
of a tortured phrase,
or a sentence
outliving a period.

The gods
are wise.
They know
that this
could be
a great poem,
but that's
up to you.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017