CALLING DR. FREUD

Vell, it's obvious, no?
He is trying to replicate
his greatest success,
his only success:
The Apprentice.
All his other business'
went into the shithole, no?:
Airline, Steaks, Water,
A Charity, A University,
A Football Team, Buildings, even Casinos (where
only the most incompetent
can't make a dollar)--Poof! Gone!
Only his Daddy's money
(and that was very stinky money, too),
bailed him out until other Daddys
allowed him only to keep his name
while they made the shit.

But The Apprentice, ah, The Apprentice,
that was his. He could be his boorish,
stupid stumbling self & still rule
the little office where syncophants went
to grovel to the mushroom capped cock
underneath a desk of make believe.
It is there, in the safey
of his home, he wants people--
and now cities & states--
to slug it out.
He wants people
to beg
before he hires.
He wants bodies
to contort,
to agonize.
He wants to see
all the states
all the cities
who betrayed him
turn on each other
in a feeding frenzy
for money, for equipment,
for a breath;
he wants those cities & states
to bring those trucks,
those iceboxes,
so he can see
in real time
with his racoon eyes
the dead carted out
to wait to be planted.
He loves this;
it's what he lives for.

Today, on this Friday, March 27th, afternoon,
he's already started to primp himself--
plastic hair, orange flesh--
for his daily fix:
a "news" conference
where his mouth--
looking more like a turkey's asshole--
will emit today's droppings:
small hard pellets of shit.
He will stand above the fray
& select the reporters he deigns to favor
with more lies
knowing full well
the havoc
& death
he stokes.

All this talk,
all this handwringing,
& all this breastbeating &
all these acts of courage,
is for naught.
He is
his one & only firament light
that he navigates by;
he is the only star
in this show.
He cannot
& will not
give that up.

There is only one word
for this disease, my friends;
one word that captures
a pathology for which
there is no escape--
that word
must be
love.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

ALL TOO HUMAN

My ass is parked
outside Rusk,
on a bench,
cane in hand,
waiting
to begin
rehab. You see
my heart
is broken
from self-love
& other
obsessions.
But I've not given up
& so believe
I can regain
my abilities
(& desireabilty)
to hurt myself
(& others) again
one day
soon.

We're born
into this:
Addiction, Anorexia, Bulimia, Cancer,
Diddling, Drunkeness, Frigidity, and all
the other A B C's of youth, childhood rearing
and wonderment.
But this
is what awaits:
age & sickness
of indeterminate stays.

And so I watch
as life
in all its
fragility
march past
into the mouth
of medicine.
And I wonder:
do fleas
ever lose
their hardon
or Queen bees come down
with vaginal prolapse?
Are ants beset
by Alzheimers
or roadrunners arythmias?
Do lions go deaf
from roaring
or elephants
break hips from falls?
Do swans seek facelifts?

Past our prime
we all cling to failure
while little children
the world over
never notice the fissures
in the frozen lakes
and lace up their skates
anticipating an afternoon
of fun & fancy.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018