ONE FOR KOBE

I never liked the prick.
He was the proverbial dagger
in my heart, sticking it in,
and twisting, enjoying
how I bled out;
an assassin
killing this stupid Knick's heart
of mine
over
& over
& over
again.

But sometimes death
is a beautiful thing
to watch
even when its yours.
His Black Mamba wrist
flicking out
those jumpers
mesmerized flight
while you suffered
a death
from a thousand cuts.

Yet I have no explanation
for how I write this,
far exceeding
my expiration date,
being as heedless as I was
& as reckless as I am
to the dictates of the flesh
which houses me, thirty-two years
his senior with enough chronic illness
to slay most any man.
To think it's the writing of this poem
or the few more that come after
is even too much for my skewered heart
to believe--even though my fingers took flight
as they danced about the keys
in a rhythmic synch with those ballarinas
of thought pirouetting
inside my head.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

THIS THEY KNOW:

For Jason D.

there's always
always always
a game on.
It's a "lock."
They sit back
and gorge
and kill
with impunity:
The NRA strafes you,
insurance companies
bet on suicides;
Big Pharma loads you up
with what kills you
& cures you
& blackouts you;
hospitals divide you
in sections until your heart
can't recognize your balls;
they mangle deer & refuse
to adopt doe';
they encourage the anguished,
the impoverished, the fenced-in,
locked-in locked-up locked down
to believe in miracles
like they're winning tonight,
beating the spread,
going against all odds
because The Knicks are getting 5 tonight
and playing in The Garden against lowly Sacremento
and the Sixers are plus one against Boston at home,
and Sugar Ray is fighting Sugar Free while Sugar's pussy is open to the winner;
and, hey, first pitch is tomorrow and ya never know...

Tonight you have a dinner, a six pack,
and a game--that you know. You know
your bosses prick is back in his pants
and you're back in your crib...safe
at home. The rest of the world
can go and fuck itself--as it
usually does. But first
a message from our sponsor.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

THE POPE DOES NYC

For an old guy
he sure does get around:
He's gonna do Vespers
at St. Pats, kick some ass
at The UN, graze in Central Park,
pray at Ground Zero, & say Mass
at MSG--who does he think he is?
Diana Ross? Elvis? Sinatra?
Stevie Wonder?
Simon & Garfunkel!?
He ain't even
The Grateful Dead
or Joe Louis
or the god-awful Knicks!
So what he's sincere?
So what he's "authentic?"
So what it's him that's the real radical
of our times?
preaching mercy?
understanding?
dialogue?
He's fucked-up the buses, messed-up
the trains, made going to
and coming from work
fucking miserable, a nightmare,
a day of futility.
Damn...

Let us
pray.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015