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

ASSHOLES & OPINIONS

are man's common denominator--
that's all we have:
song & dance men
who are Nobel Laureates,
bus drivers & whores,
professors
of communication,
bricklayers, privates
& generals,
the Dalai Lama & The Pope,
pimps and the talking heads
on endless TV shows throwing-up
opinions & angles & breakdowns
& break-ups & stats that stink
like frog farts and fermented
bromides. Our hearts are coal mines
of sin.
We knew Hillary
was wrong, full of shit;
we knew she just mouthed the words
of the socialist Jew...and we let her.
We knew Donald
was an anti-semitic racist cocksucker
who's nature was to gyp & lie & destroy
every tit he couldn't suck, but at least
he wasn't her--that was our out pitch.

We knew that it was not possible
that Rachel & Lawrence & the Chris'
had never heard the word "pussy" before.
We knew that their surety spelled doom.
We knew that the locker room
was our bedroom
and boardroom.
We knew that artists
and entertainers
and agents
and the corner magicians
are either sucking your blood
or sucking your cock.
Their purity,
their sanctimoniousness
made me retch.
We know doctors
who shouldn't be practicing,
lawyers who should be locked-up,
teachers who should be strung-up
yet do nothing, say nothing.

Poor people
have always been fucked.
But this time their assholes leaked opinions
and it cost them
nothing.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016