SWEETENED BY LIES

memory fattens the spinal cord
where six plays with sixty
as if they were friends;
as if they could be anything more
than taunts down windy corridors
towards obsolescence.

It requires a backbone
dipped in brine
to make clean the letters
caught between teeth;
who knew the greed of infants
would swirl now around
a wizened & gristled mouth
with the stump of a sentence
caught in the throat
as I try to announce,
loudly, on the birth
of my ways.

It is here
in the cave
of cravings
where you hear
a nurse mention
cures, but this
is no time
to test theories.
You will have to do
whatever is available
for now, advancing
in the dark
toward desire. Hurt
is part of it, as is
the buzz of flies.
You do not smell
beginnings here,
only a charnel house
of a life
yet to be lived.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

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

THE UPTAKE OF GOING DOWN

Rivers run
through the cracks on my mirror.
Black spaces between dreams
have been taken hostage
by reality's sideshows.
Once we wore baby powder,
and now we smell from time's stamp.
Not that it hasn't been fun;
playing hide 'n seek with myself
required courage
and the blessing
of stupidity; seeking
what I couldn't see; listening
for that half note
that made sense...
like the foreignness
of my family's dinner table
when I was too young
to understand what war was
let alone how
to negotiate a truce.

Flowers call to the sun,
but I'm no longer a flower.
Instead, I'm the petals falling
"with a dying grace," mocks my awkardness,
and "so softly as to not make a sound,"
rebukes my moans
as I prepare
for what might not be:
a dress rehearsal.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

JUST IN TIME FOR DINNER

I try to run my food consumption
like a good German runs his railroad:
ON TIME! Not just diabetes
nailed me to the cross,
but Ma & Pa whose world
didn't revolve around the sun,
but around a Lazy Susan.
But tonight, o boy,
tonight I was gonna feast...
Dine... Eat!...Grit-up! GO
FUCKING CRAZY!
I was sick at sticking
to strict diets & marginal fare--
not because of medical dictates,
but because my pockets were bare.
Tonight, they'll be no Heinz
baked beans/salami & eggs,
or Campbells Tomato slop
& Keebler Krackers crunched
on top like fake grated cheese;
and no peanut butter
& bullshit. No, not tonight.

Now, I ain't no fuckin chef,
but I can burn a little;
I can fry shit up
& make it happen
in the cast-iron skillet--
finish it off in the oven;
get that top char happening
& the bloody ooze
from the inside running
into that baked potato
slathered in butter
complemented by fresh
iceberg lettuce hearts,
Jersey tomato wedges
lapping up imported hazelnut
olive oil & Tuscany vinegar
& a hint of Dijon mustard.
O, man, gimme a glass
of Pelligrino with a lemon wedge
& call the undertaker--
I'm ready to go!

My man, Ramon,
cut me a one and half inch aged Ribeye
& I carefully culled the rest.
Exiting, I began to taste the dinner.
I started to salivate; drool
threatened to leak out a side of my mouth;
I made sure to swallow.

I prepared the salad & dressing,
heated the oven to 350 & inserted
one Idaho marvel which,
after 20 minutes took, cut open,
& spooned in an ungodly amount of butter
into its soul
& proceded to heat the skillet.
After dressing the Ribeye,
I flung a few drops of water
on the skillet--they popped,
& hissed; and when I lowered the red slab
of cow into the pan,
it sizzled.
The aroma of exceptional steak hitting
all the right senses.

Three minutes laer
I was sitting at my table,
watching the NBC evening world news with Lester Holt,
about to take a mouthful
of heaven...
when they came
relentlessly:
Hemorroids & rectal suppositories,
vaginal itches, penis carbuncles,
COPD & emphysema & breathing tubes,
toothless people talking out of their necks,
rasping gasping for a reason to live,
chair lifts, stair lifts, soul lifts,
menstration pads, piss pads, shit pads,
brain pads...Alzheimers leaking memories
and a thousand yard stare, Parkinsons
shakes, bi-polar, tri-polar, quasi-polar...
diabetes drugs--a new one an hour,
Pepto Bismal, diarrhea, and all manner
of discharges...
or just plain hanging on
by a fucking thread...all tied up
& made pretty by those beautiful & happy victims
by a beautiful red bow
around a Toyota for Christmas
with a Golden Retriever loving you up.
My balls went into a vacuum;
my butter curdled;
my steak stunk;
salad wilted;
Pelligrino flat & foul tasting.

I got off my ass & out.

The old Italian, Stromboli,
had the Yankee game on;
Judge coming to the plate.
Hey, Nick, gimme two slices...
and wait--put some anchovies on em;
make it to stay.
It was only the top
of the fourth
with the Yankees down a run.
All in all
not bad, not bad
at all.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

WHAT DO I DO

now that I'm too old
for love
but not love songs?
What if my tears
are for me
& a world
grown paunchy
& infirm?

I'm not gracious,
I know.
In fact,
more ravenous
as my stomach shrinks
from a diet of memories.

How do you feel
the first kiss
or the last
good one?
How do you breathe
that young breath
of candy-store bought powder
or an educated perfume?
How does your body shiver
when fingers,
other than yours,
unzips you?

It's time to declare
a "Do Over," a "Hindu;"
the ball hit a crack
or was taken by a strange wind
& spun
in a direction
unintended.
I want another shot
at these ancient mysteries.

And who knows?
I might even find you?
Again.
Perched on a ledge
ready to dive
& kindle
a wild river
or have nothing
on your hands
except time.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

WHAT WOULD THE OLD ONES SAY?

No, not the graybeards
that gave name to this merrygoround;
and, no, not the Old Masters
who took pain
and oil-slicked it
with words
& brushstrokes
& notes;
and not the ones
who casually rested
along the outlines
of my skin. No.
Not them.
The ones I think about
are those who've entered
when I was most vulnerable,
blood-jet love,
and had hearts
I clawed into
& tugged & ripped
& eaten--human love
at its most animalistic,
sheets etched
with blood & semen.

I believe
I gave
so little
& robbed
so much
god-awful
time worse
than betrayal
or sins
which sit
inside
a novel's spine,
that I wonder
what would they say
seeing me obey
the rigors
of mortality?

Ancient vulnerabilities
exposed. Humbleness
dictated by god's engine.
And although I'm still fighting
all this, I know that is not
a way to go.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

RAVENESQUE

Dark & dreary
bleak & black
chilled & drizzly,
we humped along Park
downtown & across
the bridge to score
some tea & time
& heat & eats
& maybe,
just maybe, a little sex
on our kid's break
from whatever smacked
of responsibility.
Any day, really, was a good day
for pot. But especially days
like this as the ice rain ticked
along the windows
& pinged & ponged on the roof
while a young friend,
but old lover leaned
past my shadow & into the folds
of our laughter as the bridge
& her cables rose before us &
the fog seeping into the ground.

Some days
are made for pot,
& some days for dope.
Rare are the days
that give coke a good name,
but anyday, everyday,
is an alcohol delight
if the saloon is dark
& those who bottom there
know you well enough
to leave you be.

We got out
into the mist
& Amy paid him.
There was a skinny Rican
we knew selling
Panamanian Red
by Hoyt & Bergen:
good count for the price,
& rich sweet earth tasting
pot. But we still needed
to throw a few sevens: he
had to be there; the reefer
had to be there; & a cab
or car service needed to drift by
or be found. Everything in this life
is a matter of timing. Edgar's was piss-poor
and he paid dearly; that day
ours was better. How was yours today?
How has your life gone?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

MOST EVERYTHING

bugs me
these days:
a vein
resistant
to liquids,
a candy colored
blemish
of fear
in the cheeks
of a baby's smile.
The passage
of years
have set
my teeth
on edge:
The price
of toilet paper
or the toil
of buses
wailing
from the grim
silence of
travelers
risks
gunfire
and chafed
hearts.
My woman
keeps to
herself.
She has prepared
a dinner
she doesn't expect
to eat
with consequence.
Luckily,
I do not
come home.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

JUST SAYIN: YOU WAZ ROBBED

You picked your own pocket.
Shorted yourself.
Wrested defeat
from the jaws
of victory.
Thrown out
at home
by the crooked arm
of reason; grew fat
on lies
until you believed
the truth
of those lies.
You were born
to dance,
my dear,
to trip
into my arms,
to laugh
the demons
into
submission.

I waz robbed,
too; I was 57
once.
The next minute
I was 69.
The way I figure it
you fucked me outta
three years.
And fucked yerself as well.
Put your finger
in time's bellybutton.
Make it baby,
make it green
again...

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

SHE HAS KEPT HER DISTANCE

w/her body,
but her mind
cannot help her
from knocking
on my door.

Such a waste

of good flesh

& the time
it takes
to devour it.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

PRIVACY...AT A PRICE

For all my Russian readers...

There's me
buying a vacuum
on Amazon; there's me,
again, watching
a gorgeous chick vacuuming
thirty-five cocks
into her mouth
on my Mac.
O, look,
me again
buying a children's tea-set
on Target
for my granddaughter
who lives on Crete and me,
once again,
an hour later,
copping some oxycodone
from a Mexican outhouse pharmacist site
on my smartphone.
I feel so important
being tracked
& looked after,
like a president
in a palace.
And really,
there must be
better porn,
& better drugs,
& better prices out there
and why would I want
to use all my precious time
finding them?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

IT GOT LATE EARLY

It could have been
the noise
from their fights
for cheap power
or my panic
of drowning
in my own fears?
Maybe
it was shoddy
craftsmanship...
you know,
poor wiring,
from the manufacturer,
but whatever
it was
a part
of me
went dark
early on
and no matter
what I've done
or tried to do
that light
has not even
flickered.
The switch
has simply
been out
of reach
since.
And now
I'm tired,
too tired,
to even
look.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

ON A NYC STOOP ON THIS DAY OF ATONEMENT

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=csE28cJxxNE
For Samira

Had we met
forty years ago
we'd have had
a grand time
setting each other
on fire.
It would have been lovely
to be both ignitor
& charred; pyromaniacs
of the soul; LaVern Baker's
Angel Heart.

Your eyes belied
the lust your body struggles
to contain. Brown & burning
they see too much & try
to offer so little, but
they fail to protect
or to serve you well.

We're trapped
in our own time
& by our own sense
of morality
while cowboys ride
faraway fences
& Aretha Franklin
moans in the dark.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

THE TICK OF TOCK

cannot be
reclaimed.
It vanishes
& shape shifts
into an easy
old shoe
dance
of lies.

I loved
that woman.
But can't
be sure
who
that woman
is
now.
Or
who she was
then.

Only
a refrain
returns.
Who wrote it
or sung it
I can't be sure.

Years
have turned
while the wind
scratches
its dead
from branches.

Soon it will be dry.
And then moist.
A jack-o-lantern smile
will beckon.
And then jingles.
And I'll be me
and you, you.
What could be
never was.
Perfectly
empty, allowing
a metronome
of sorrow
to play
over
& over
& over
again.


Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

TOMORROW

my agent
will call
with news
that's good;
and my brother
will show-up
with magic numbers
on a lotto ticket;
& my heart
would not fail;
& my toes would grow
back & someone
would fall in love
with my words
and have to
take me
with them;
& my nose
would not get longer,
but my dick would,
& cigarettes
would rejuvenate,
not decimate;
and I'd be generous
with my own
stinginess &
those who doubt miracles
will marvel at what
their lies reveal...

and I would tell you more
but today
is very demanding
on my time:
work
food
eat
sleep;
it feels,
suspiciously,
a lot like
yesterday,
but, graciously,
has nothing to do,
with tomorrow.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

WAITING FOR THE EIGHTH AVENUE BUS

I had some ideas
for a few poems--
The Pope coming
to NYC, a heart
mad with love, cheap
Chinese food--
you know,
the usual.
I ogled fifteen
or twenty
young, old,
& older women,
watched the traffic
on Hudson Street
inch forward, noticed
the unloading of cases
of Coke & Bud & Americana,
clocked the maniacal owners
of dogs & cats & parakeets
& one lizard
as they went
into the vets
with worried expressions
talking to their better companions,
while sweet green saplings
held the hands of parents
taking them to the river
or dentists or ballet classes.

There was heat
but the city's air
had lightened
slightly. I stood
in the shade & waited
& waited & waited.
I had to get to work,
and the train presented problems.
For some reason
the Eighth Ave. bus
knew no schedule
ever; it paid no attention to
the poor or crippled or deranged
who had to ride her.
By the time she showed,
forty minutes from when I arrived,
I had worked out the few poems
in my head &
had written this one.
I'll never get back
that forty minutes &
wouldn't want to.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

A MAN'S WOMAN

There's a woman
who said
she's going
to take care of me.
She told me not
to worry; to leave
everything
in her most capable hands.
It was,
I thought,
a very fortuitous
thing. What's
your name?
I asked.
You can call me,
Mother, she replied.
Mother? interesting,
I said, mother what?
Nature, she added,
but just "mom"
will do.
Yes, I thought,
why waste time?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

JUST WHEN

my body
was getting
comfortable
decaying;
just when
it began
to adjust
to the rust,
sludge,
& crumble;
just when
it found
its natural rhythms
of a dignified
obsolescence,
I outfoxed it--
I started to work
again; I got
a job.
I started to walk
to and from
the subways;
I started to
eat right;
get to bed
early; wake-up
early. In short:
I fucked my body up.

It's now taken
its revenge:
my dick
grew back (I think
it got longer)!
My hair
has a gleam;
my teeth
whiter,
my gums
are pink!
People no longer
give me
their seats
on the subway
or bus.

Once again,
I'm indestructible.
Once again,
I'm in
trouble.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

THE NUREMBERG EGG is a 26 page poem that I worked on from 1967 to the spring of 1970. It got me my BA degree from The New School for Social Research.

"BA" could also mean, "Bullshit Artist." Either one applies. Anyway, that's how I met Allen Ginsberg who mentored me for two years and edited parts of this poem. I've always been, as so many others have, indebted to him. For some reason that I haven't figured out, I'm not able to transcribe the form of the poem and so words, fragments, phrases, and lines, that were supposed to look different on the page can only now be viewed one way. There is nothing else to say about it.





THE NUREMBERG EGG

I
"You cannot get away.--Let me follow the roads here again, burdened with my vice, the vice that sank its roots of suffering at my side as early as the age of reason--and that rises to the sky, batters me, knocks me down, drags me after it."
--Rimbaud

now that i think about it
it reminds me of an
eviction notice
served by a rubber glove.
i can still feel being caught
and pulled
by my wet head out smoothly
as i locked
my feet inside her thighs
and hung in there
sweating.
i saw him grin,
“the little sonofabitch is tough,
but don’t worry,
we’ll get him.”
and he did
and again
i was speechless.

crystal halls
(cat calls)
in a carpeted house
conceal the bare basement
of half digested experiences:
electric heat
air-conditioning
two-car garage
& a little white
poodle.

II

sitting in a stuffy room
thoughts longing to breath---
you taking it all in
staying behind
---a memory drug
numbing nerves
that wish to run
to a lyons house
that stinks from sheet soaked piss
dead wine bottles
insane innkeepers
presents a mysterious aura
for the intruder.

---can’t escape
from a warm carpet
under cold sheets

played in the summer snow
winter warmth
as the days/months/years eluded us
crept away
unnoticed
while we thought of all the time we had
all the instants
contained in beginnings/ends
thrill seeking of warm thighs
and sighs
wide grins and hand shaking
until the 12 o’clock bell
summoned
& we ran
afraid to be late.

---can’t escape
from invisible chains
anchored
to a nonexistent dock.

in bed we stayed
fucking ourselves to death
(from an inverted hard-on)
---swarms of dollars in my head
islands with brown-chested dancing girls
tickling my cock
with wet tongues
(i loved every minute)
until sleep
brought tomorrow

i cringed
under a banner of laughter
from a funny line
they never knew
how deep it went
longing
for some sort of veracity.

i could say
with surety
on a hot moonlit evening
while flickering candles lick wine glasses
some girl
leaning backwards
would say,
“confusion is the cause
that sets the course.”
i’d become an aristotelian
at the wrong time;
this would only hesitate
her departure
& my celibacy for another evening---
I DIDN’T SHOWER TO HEAR THAT!
FUCKING IS WHAT I WANT TO DO!
(No Bullshit)
RIP OFF PLENTY OF ASS!
(am I getting crazy?---
commit me.

time is slipping
(already it takes longer to get hard)
sliding
off
my
back
to a book
not yet read
to a legacy
not yet written

III

ma,
stop screeEEching like chalk,
talk low.
two fathers
father/father
living a lie---
man (i dig this shit)
it started like this
in a six floor walk down
so don’t leave
you can’t
pretty paradoxical
& for once
i ain’t jiven.

IV

(chicken fat in a clenched fist

(a little ball of fat at twelve
johnny-on-the-pony pillow
then the hospital
with an unrelated disease to me
not a sore throat or usual cold
something called diabetes
making me skinny & old
at eleven
but
being traditionally young
i didn’t let it bother me
too much
went out
to prove
i was never sick.

as this story begins
in a stone fortress jr. high
where objective awareness took a back seat
to scenes & times---
gaudy ponchos
white tennis sneakers
square-tipped shoes
black leather jackets and
shiny sharkskin pants so tight
that it held up socks, back then
as the crotch puffed up
innocently---(neat)
“fuckin” was the Great Adjective used
in front of everything:
“look at those fuckin girls,”
“i can’t, i gotta go fuckin home,”
“last night, i got the best fuckin fuck you ever scene,”---
you get the fuckin idea;
anyway, the school i went to
thunderbird was the fuel used, or maybe it was tango
those satisfying beverages
in-between periods
as the girls eyed us suspiciously
envying the difference between the sexes.

comic book classes
note passing & whispering
about how she has a marvelous cunt,
“i heard she’s hot for ya, you could
fuck her easy.”
“fuck her.
i wanna fuck that one over there.”
but outside that shit stopped.
it was fights, basketball, slap ball, stickball,---
“take preston, that motherfucker hits tree sewers.”
they would hang around
waiting for their man to finish
and tend to personal business---
teased hair so high
you could actually see thru it,
clearly a sign for then; black rings
circling their eyes, cheap perfume, (canoe)
under their arms
making us hard & hot,
we’d stare at those with big tits and say,
“now there’s something to hang onto.”

saturday nights
on the corners
of couches
i’d turn into the great rhetorician
in tune to the mellow kings---
girls melted---internalizing
thinking
that tonight
maybe was such a night and
“holding you so near,” was a musical innuendo
for things to come---
“it’s got to mean more.”
“of course.”
“you aren’t the type to tell your friends....?”
“are you kiddin? you think that I’M like the other guys?”
“no, but I want to be sure.”
“SURE, YOU WANNA BE SURE?
ARE YOU FUCKIN’ KIDDIN’?
I TOOK YA BOWLIN’, TO, TWICE, TO THE MOVIES,
YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE I’VE BEEN SEEIN’ FOR WEEKS NOW,
AND YOU WANNA BE SURE. WHY DO YOU THINK I’VE BEEN SEEIN’ YOU?
i like you, that’s why,
and i think this could develop
into a meaningful relationship....but if
you don’t wanna....”
“no, it’s not that...”
“if you don’t like me as much as i...”
“no, it’s not...”
“then let’s stop becau...”
“NO”
sly motherfuckers
their little vaginas itching
for a touch
behind their mother’s unhip asses
sticking
their cute little tongues at 15
into a nicotined mouth
digging the first taste of saliva
syrup for them.

high
in the alley
i was like some great greek god
hurling the mighty ball
against our adversaries
(it became much more than that)
religious rites every friday and saturday
for the next 3 years.
meeting all the scum
that floated like a bad dream
in & out of doors from coney island
to middletown new york---
action was the thing
that reigned
above all other wants---
i was good!
better than school
better than other sports and
people were betting on me!!!
crowds, who knew my right arm, took out
case 5’s and 10’s trying to end the night
rich.
all in the right arm, 10 frames
“up 2 sticks, 3 boxes.”
“need a turkey.”
“cover 200?”
“you’re covered.”
all night into the morning
2 people, the ancient contest---
once you feel you gotem,
gotem by the balls,
never let go---keep churning
‘til his guts splash
over the scorers table---
(do what you do best
right?)
if it wasn’t the alley
it was the pool room---
there’s something about poolrooms & bowling alleys
that lend themselves
to action:
soft green/hard wood
clinking of colored balls/explosion of 10 pins
bridged by the smooth stroke.

tattooed arms
long hair combed in either a square back
or duck’s ass
bopping on kings highway
to a tough tune,
bad wheels lookin’
for a reason---
“you said sompthin’ bout my girl?”
“eh, no, i eh, don’t even know your girl.”
“you don’t know MY GIRL!
WHY YOU LYIN COCKSUCKER!”
BANG
BOOM it would start.
toughness was fun, excitingly
mistaken for a jelly jewish identity
surrounded by friendly insane wops
i made it work
being ballsy and loud
befriending the people i knew
protecting them
by my associations,
never bullying anybody---
people knew i was mean just by lookin’
at my scared snarl---
DON’T FUCK WITH ME, MAN
(please)

my folks got frightened---
“BOWLING ALLEY BUM,
GANGSTER, BASTARD,
my luck
i should have a son like you---
look at david, so nice, so refined,
so much respect for his parents
(respect, i hate that word)
your poor father and i have no luck
raise a child to be a bowler,
a gangster; is there any future?”---
“i’m leaving.”
“leave already, leave, go on and leave already.
enough, enough, i’ve had enough
your children should only give you
what you’re giving me and your father.”
“o.k. i’m leaving....”
“WAIT, WAIT, FIRST EAT,
WALK THE DOG,
AND TAKE OUT THE GARBAGE, (goddamn him.)”
always the garbage---
i could be dressed up
or balls ass naked,
taking a leak
or a good shit, still
there’d be that piercing cry:
“THE GARBAGE, THE GARBAGE.”
---i still don’t know really if it was garbage
for garbage sake
or just because that was
a way of showing i cared....about something.

abraham lincoln is alive & well and living
in brooklyn.
surviving years of decay
in an atmosphere of sterility
tended by a horny nun.
a big game---
more effort taken in cutting classes
than going to them.
pink cards by the dozen
3 envelopes so full that a truck
was needed to lift my file in my senior year.
big play in junior year by folks:
PLAN ONE:
find out what’s fucking him up;
PLAN TWO:
cure him (or it)
PLAN THREE:
get him into a college---
even if we have to build one!
what put them on my scanty trail
was the story older than prostitution:
“he has the potential, if....”
well, a battery of psychological tests
was the first step
in the ultimate solution
at n.y.u. for $100.00---”oh yes, well worth it.”
days & days (repeat)
(repeat)
(repeat) to find out:
i have the potential, if...
big trouble was study habits;
score so low it couldn’t be graded;
suited to be anything from an english teacher
to a minister---
which my folks would have settled for---
anything but a bowling alley bum.
once finding out that there was a brain
somewhere in that scatological body of mine
a shrink for “the cure” was next---
(a bad case of the clap would have been easier
and less painful)
---first shrink
stared at each other for 40 min. last 5 min. he asked,
“what are you thinking about?”
didn’t tell the prick.
this went on for 3 sessions
‘til i decided to leave
out of guilt
for wasting my parents bread on this asshole.
---second shrink
was great; went to him religiously
every wednesday, talked my poor
heart out---blaming my mother
for the way i dressed, smoked,
pissed,---the whole thing---
he called me an asshole,---
i understood. things got much better
but after 9 months my folks couldn’t see
any visible proof of my recovery
so they terminated the relationship.
i couldn’t blame them; i still bowled,
smoked, and fucked off. they called him an asshole,
in defense i called them assholes,
he called me an asshole---
pretty balanced, huh?

anyway, things started to change.
college was something important
(for my parents sake; (besides, i couldn’t
figure out a fucking thing to do with my life)
but with a 77 average there weren’t many ivy league schools
i could go to.
sullivan county community college accepted me.
requirements--------------------------------------------
blood.)

V

mashed potatoes on the wall
upstate
first school with fetal pig remembrances
of out the window
in double file
to double time
& time
that merciful healer
of small abrasions
of wife fucking
(somebody else's)
all very ethical---
she dug it.

pagan ritual, frazers’
vegetation cults all in
april
the cruelest month

HEY---
where’s my tarot pack?
quick get my cards---
it’s all in the queen’s cunt----;
hairy secrets
don’t wake me---
can’t you see
my emissions.

VI

ditch diggers
in south east asian snow
give me a gun,
sets of works, a tambourine man
on every corner;
“fast american crackers
trying to pass themselves off as europeans.”
brasz knew it
even from the lower east side
he saw clear across the country
into everybody’s heads
& puked.
who’s etherized now
t.s.?
& where? that’s far more important.
“everywhere,” you say?
“is it perfume from a dress
that makes me so digress?”

VII

i was judged
insane, by my own peers, man,
imagine that?
mere spectators
who want to suffer
my insanity. the sadder
i feel, the better
the experience
for others.

VIII

she’s pushing me
against the literal wall
hysteria
i’m sure of it
only yesterday she kissed
my forehead
and asked me to repent
(imagine that?)
ME
a good contraceptive catholic
way beyond the pleasure principle/sense pleasure
/hedonistic pleasure
cryptic, man,
it’s all vague
billy should not have died
he should have
vered away.

IX

dressed in drag
i’m getting married (in the morning
ding
dong
the bells
are go-
ing
to
chime)
to some
10th. st. faggot
who loves me
in silence
with frills & curls &
sweet smelling perfume
so nice
so soft
so...

X

my education
took place in subways
& 2nd. ave. johns---
prophets, i tell you
prophets:
---”nothing sucks as much as
success”
9-5 with fat faced bosses
2 cars with some skinny chick
that has bushels of hair
up and
down her arms and underneath her chin;
kids that fuck her
up and
down while you’re riding
that l.i.r. to boredom
` never to be seen again
lost in obscurity &
loving it.

XI

it’s all ambiguous, man,
nepenthe
some lost nymph
in some lonely wood
birch bark
all over her ass
“KISS ME”
she screams
& gives me
her cheek (of all things)
to say
the least
i was confused
(crisis)
so i took my cuban missile
disarmed it &
split.

it’s all phallic (also)---
smoke rings, pens, pencils, doors,
keyholes,---everything---even god
and i bet the pope
would like to be a nun
on fridays.

XII

you are there
while here
being & becoming
what you are already
existing thru nonexistence
starting from where you did not start
ending where you began
beginning where you ended.

“No Exit”
(“they are not consulting me
passing invisible judgment;
prematurely i have died
without accomplishment.”)
death does not come easily
or planned
“but at that moment
your life is completed
ready for the summation.”)
spit on rock
and fire
rasknolnikov, you bastard
drop your ax.
in that instant
a manifestation of my (his) free choice
an apparition whose presence haunts me
old ideas smother
while spontaneous flashes ignite in their wake;
we lose ourselves in agony and millennium
to save ourselves, only to lose
ourselves....freedom.
cheap tricks
all to deceive the forgetful eye;
emerson’s transparent eyeball,
smerdyakov’s head,
“you are---your life, and nothing else.”

XIII

surrounded by myself
my own flesh
forming infinitesimal cisterns
in my head

lead me to christ, o lord
make my sins
absolve themselves.

these hands are no longer hands to create
but only to rest themselves on an empty page.
CREATE MOTHERFUCKER
CREATE
silence, no response/inanimate
(why should i trouble myself
with ideas that are too much discussed
by me?)
of a blueprint love,
exactness, baby, that’s what counts
no mistakes
reminiscences
of long ago
can’t imagine what it once was
i there to fuck it
or stroke it
‘til i burst into flames
at the touch of a hand,
(speculation, all this
speculation bullshit, “ i would
i could
maybe
might have,”
potential possibilities---
all unredeemable in time)
carrying productive sperm
to give life
to another dead person
which is only the result of living (loving?)
living is a prelude
or the finish precedes the start
this precise moment is no longer
words are straightjacketed
i mean they strain
and crack
under the pressure
of too many tongues.
i’m trapped in the amorphousness of limitation
in the middle of being & becoming
non-existing/existing

lead me to christ, o lord
let my sins
absolve themselves.

XIV

a ransacked palace
stands alone on a ravaged hill
blocking the unassailable sky
behind it.
its jewels taken
halls left bare
stripped of all possessions
save a barefoot child with small splinters
crossed on the souls of his feet.

i must leave
the fruit is ripe after being nurtured
for twentyoneyears.
i have no arthritis
suffering from no constipation
obligated to no old masters
running out now
hurdling, actually
radiant---
twentyoneyearsold.

XV
"Was I wrong? Could charity be the sister of death for me? At least I will ask forgiveness for having fed on lies. Let us go now. But not a friendly hand! Where can I find help?"
--Rimbaud

but beware
the monkey demon
is here
all around us
watch out
for his claws
stinging flesh
sinking his teeth
into every pore.

i must escape
this lunacy
which has lasted
ever since
i became cog-
nizant of the fact
that
where is mom’s nipple
now?


POSTSCRIPT TO THE NUREMBERG EGG
THE ANSWER

the answer lies


somewhere between the thighs
or in the brain
of the organ.

the truths of scientists
are nothing
compared
to the truth
of the
moment.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1967-1970