THE ADDITION OF SUBTRACTION

Each day adds
to your diminution
of the life
(of your life!)
outside
of you.

It's nothing to get hung up about;
it's just flakes of dead dry skin
carpeting your next step.

O, yeah, one other thing.
if ya think too long about it
you feel like shit
trying to race down
a fly-papered tube.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

HEY GOD, WHY DO YOU STILL ITCH IN THOSE PLACES HARD FOR ME TO SCRATCH? AND WHILE WE'RE AT IT, LET'S GET SOMETHING TO EAT

I'm an old fuck. Simple.
Supposed to be wise? Nah.
Supposed to be cool? Nah.
All things that ancients
are said to be, I'm not.
Now, I'm just a nervous wreck,
have to do more
with less.

You'd think
having gone
through a hundred Thanksgivings
with a hundred poisoned arrows
sticking from the breasts of turkeys,
and a hundred Christmas'
using my balls for sleigh bells,
I'd stop asking, "why?"
But you'd be wrong.

Another one of life's suckers
sitting on the edge of my bed
balancing a tit in one hand,
and a ringer in the other.
I hide in the darkness
between dreams watching the frost
weeping on the gravediggers muddy boots.

My weatherman is Lear.
Unlike Rasknolikove,
I've done nothing wrong,
yet want to be punished.
I'm one of few remaining
hip white men: Mulligan
playing with Monk; singing harmony
with Jerry Lawson & The Persuasions;
thinking if I could sing like Roi
onto the white page I could escape
a bleached & bland topography.

And so, here I am,
sitting on the edge of the world
as we threaten to once again
blow it up, but that doesn't
bother me; that has never bothered me;
a recalcitrant fool
is my calling card,
no matter the age.
No,
it's all the people I've loved
who parade by & drift away
when I want to grab & hold.

But I'm an old fuck
with arthritic fingers
juiced with memories
and confusion.

Listen, hon,
I'll have the fries with that
and don't forget the hot sauce, please,
and if you can double bag it
I'd appreciate it--I've got a long way
to go. And
here's a little bit extra,
for you. Thanks...(Usually,
that works.)

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

THE VIEW AT 72

For my brother, Bobby: ...as a result of an afternoon conversation, 10/23, where we tripped down the road to Hell, but found a marriage made in heaven...A random fragment of that conversation.

It feels like shit, I said,
if you wanna know the truth:
legs, shot;
lungs, shot;
heart, stoppard by pinpricks of lunacy;
dick, marcescent, safe
as a steel condom
molded to the shaft,
weighing heavy
in the mocking mirror's grotesquery;
a bunghole corked, a runway
stacked-up with cancelled flights
of fancy...my brain, though,
and I'll be a sonofabitch,
still revs past the red line.

What else do you wanna know?

Those?
Those are paint chip stalacites;
when I'm working, getting this shit down,
they threaten to behead me,
forcing that ground control asshole
to get the flights out
before this soul crushing ennui
denies my reprieve: fucking
with words.
Because that, my brother,
has been the one thing that works,
that still works,
against the honest vows
spawned from bullshit & bravado.
They've allowed me to look
for angles, for impossible
bank-shots; to see behind
dead ends & rear ends & time bends
& warped trends; they've allowed me to wait
behind lies for easy preys
and rare sightings; they've made sense
of nonsense. They've given me shelter,
a vacation from life, if you will,
from solitary--
And all I had to do
Was wait...and bite
into a Lucky Strike
between pursed lips
for the next good word,
for the next good line.

Simple
ain't it?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

TWO NURSES, A TIGHT CLOSET, AND ME

positioned between them
the heat from their white purity
invading my pubescent hospital pajamas
flushing my cheeks
igniting my regions
as I Bobby Darined my way
through Mack the Knife.
1959 was the year,
diabetes the disease,
Brooklyn the place,
an all male hospital ward my home
of dreams, rock 'n roll,
& trouble
percolating like a virus gone wild
in a rapidly aging eleven year old body
finger snappin, pretending
I was both the singer
& the song.

After the fear
loosed its grip
& needles & shots & tubes
snaking from mouths & assholes & veins
to bottles hidden beneath beds
or crucified on poles
& strange & bearded men
lost their ghostliness,
my body regained its hum
and my little Panasonic its life.
She stood propped against the door,
in all her beauty, her starched white uniform
& pronged pointed hat atop her cornsilk hair
couldn't conceal a body wanting to explode
from its confinement, watching me
mouthing lyrics, snapping fingers,
and gyrating against the pillows
allowing Bobby's hipness to take me
to where I wasn't.
I couldn't have known
that everything we are
or was going to be
was held in a tune.

I caught her
watching & smiling
a smile that wasn't--
a smile meant for a lover,
a smile that wasn't cute
but coquettish; a smile
on a different highway
with a different destination.
She held her slim index finger
up in the air...soon she was back
with another nurse. Slowly
they came to my bedside
& she reached for my hand
& led me, on trembly legs
to a supply closet across the hall
where they pressed against me:
"Sing it again, baby," she coaxed me,
"just like before."
I began to stammer.
"It's OK, baby, sing it again,
just like before."
And just like that
I snapped my fingers, found the beat,
& the shark came out
to play.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

THE OLD FUCKS CLUB

In those ebuillent, carefree,
serious as cancer, full of shit,
sixties, while driving
I'd see a car approaching
from the other side of the road,
and, as he drew near,
he'd flash
his highbeams at me.
And in the spirit
of comradery,
I'd flash him back.
We were part
of an unstated club
of Porsche drivers
and nothing more
need be said.

Now, I'd be walking
concentrating mostly
on what was in front
of my next step,
but also what awaited me
further on as well.
I'd see coming up
on a cane or walker,
fingers gripped
& knuckles white,
sometimes with a friend or attendent,
another old fuck,
and as we neared,
measuring each hard fought
& precious step,
we'd look up
into each other's eyes
& smile,
or nod,
or shake our head,
wondering where
it all went
& to where next
we were going?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

ACT YOUR AGE!!!

And therein lies
my confusion:
I am
all ages
at all times;
I blow bubbles
as I blow by
reason; I cheat
on common sense tests;
I've found a home
on the cusp
in extremis;
I've indulged
a radical obediance.
I've flown high
on an electrical trapeez
naked, wondering
where the hell the bar is...

Under my pillow
I have a warehouse
of fantasies;
my sock drawer
is filled only
with holes
& secrets; I keep
your breath
inside my own
to shape the glassblower's art.

I need not get
any older
than I was
when a kid;
when madness
was vivid
& possibility
endless, when nothing
made sense
& feeling
& only feeling
suggested
an old & abiding
intelligence.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

I SOUND LIKE AHAB

walking the deck
of The Pequod.
I thump
up & down
the empty stairs
of my brownstone
with my cane
sounding my own
particular madness
raging at God's
insensitive deafness
& my brown & drying
departed youth;
a body
in the midst
of rebellion
& decay.

I will give any man
this enigmatic gold doubloon if,
with this harpoon,
forged by a devil's fire,
to find for me
a memory
that doesn't speak
in simple sentences,
but rhapsodizes in soliloquies
righteous of prosaic complications--
going one step
to the next,
going out
& coming home
& warming myself
by the word furnace
of make believe
so elementary
& so endless.

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

HOW CAN THAT BE?

One day
your dick
stands
at attention;
the next day
all you do
is touch
your zipper
and a bugler
blows, "Taps."
You've done nothing
except live;
there is punishment
enough
in that.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

OVERNIGHT

the rivers freeze
& the sand deepens.
Once, you were able
to do things
like tie shoelaces
without thinking
& now
you would prefer
not to think,
but have to.
There's nothing
to be done
but adjust
constantly.
I could offer advice
but like myself
you wouldn't take it.
This is the wind
from vacant lots,
the straw in the hair
of heros.
These are words
like tombstones
in the mouths
of mumblers.
Everything
is a beginning
of something.
Everything
is an end
to something
that came before.
There is little to be done
with the dead skin
except remember
how vicious
& vibrant
we once
were.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

THE GOOD & THE BAD

Miss Susie,
as she was called,
or Susannah Mushatt Jones
her birth name as she was known,
died yesterday
at 116 years of age
in Brooklyn; the last
of those born in the eighteen hundreds
in Lowndes County, Alabama.
Goddamn!
I've got
another 50 years (at least) to go
of watching Law & Order reruns
to beat her.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

WISDOM

Better to simmer
than to sit
& stew.

I walk slower,
but go quicker.

Some
would call that wisdom.
O.K.,
let them.
That's wisdom,
too.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

JUST LOOKING,

I say
wordlessly
to all the pretty chicks
who look back
but move on.
The parts of my body
necessary
for that type of commerce
can only rent,
but even that
I'm not sure of.
I've been profligate
& foolish
in equal measure,
though that's
easy to say
now.

Thirty-one years ago
I helped my disease
saw-off half my foot.
At that time
I wanted to slow down time
while speeding up my demise.
I had a blood-jet mania
for propulsion & my usual
exits were backed-up
& stalled. Nothing
worked. "What
should I do now?" I asked
my surgeon.
"We all
have just so many steps,"
he replied, "use them
wisely."

And that is why
I still look--
I'm not dead
yet.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

LET FREEDOM RING

The body ages
while time speeds:
older?/faster.
God is good--
to some of us.
Red roses
are bored.
They have
only one
destiny.
The sun
comes out
between drops.
And we?
we were so sure
of our place
in the world
yesterday--
now?
not so much.

I write
what won't
be read
except
by a special few--
the few
who are
alone & reach
for meaning;
the few
who will
hear the explosions
from inside
their fears;
the few who've
never understood
their fellow humans
but have made it
through
anyway.

Tonight
a pilgrimage
is made
by millions
to see the fireworks.
New York City puts on
quite a show
despite the warnings
from tribal hands
whose pleasures
serve ancient deities.
Not to worry, we're told,
our God is younger, hipper,
better. Who am I
to argue?

I walk slower,
but go quicker.
There's wisdom
in just that.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

THE GIRL

has lived on my block
as long as I have--over
forty years. I watched her
grow into
a woman
creased
around the edges--
not necessarily
a bad thing.
At first
I was drawn
to her stately
gait; she moved
much like a Lipizzaner;
she had a black-haired mane
that flouted and a knowing
irreverence that hinted
and announced. I would not
have been surprised
if trumpeters marched
in front of or behind
her, yet
she was alone
in all her comings
& goings.

I saw her today
as I sat & smoked
& thought about death
in the most kindly of ways:
How it's been good
to keep itself close
but not too close; how
at one time it screamed
& now just hums
a familiar tune.
She pranced
down the block
toward me, her legs
moving like well-timed
Weber carburetors
and bounced
on the balls
of her feet.

I lowered
my sunglasses
and nodded
to her.
She did the same.
How long,
I asked,
have you lived here?
Almost forty-two years,
she answered, slowing
to a stop.
Me, too,
I said.
She smiled. I know,
she said.
I smiled.
March '74.
You're older,
she teased,--May '74.
Norman, I said.
Alice, she replied.

Two lovers,
plotting.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

HIGH SCHOOL SHIT

I don't remember the class,
nor the subject,
nor the teacher,
but I do remember the boredom.
I remember reading something...
a short story,
a poem,
a novel,
something
but I do remember the line:
"we are what we're least afraid to be."
It stopped me.
It resonated.
Echoed.
I read it a few times
and obviously
committed it to memory.
I was not a good student.
Easily bored,
distracted, ashamed
of my awkwardness
and inability to fit
anywhere.
I had a brashness
a bravado
to try and balance
the scales,
but I knew
deep down
just what a jerk-off
I was.
I knew I could not make it
in the straight world,
normality was not "my thing"
and so cultivated any
and everything that took me
outside it: gambling,
unprotected sex, brown paper bag
drinking, reefer, and finally
dope. I was a "traditionalist."
Drinking without ice, without
chasers; women with no particular
discernment; dope that needed
to be shot.
Somehow
I managed to survive:
good women, mostly.
And somehow
I grew-up
somewhat
and realized
just how true
that high school line
was and is.
There are those
hiding under a guise
of isolation,
more afraid to be loved
and less afraid to be rancid;
those who wonder
what those outside lines
mean and what it is
to cross them;
I am more afraid to live
and less afraid to write
about living; and those
who live with quiet urgency
and keep their desires
loud inside them.

I still have needs
that need to be met;
I need to be told
that surgeons
do not need scalpels
to make you well
and whole
again.
I am not abstract;
I am a straight line
that grew-up
crookedly; I've made
with a will,
not my own,
something
better, something
that loves me.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

EVEN THE SIMPLE IS COMPLICATED ENOUGH

I take myself out
for a bite to eat
to the same Greek dive
I've been goin to for 35 years
now. Hell,
been livin in my pad for over 40--
but who's counting?
Nick & Paul,
the owners,
have seen me
in many different states
through many decades:
sober, drunk, young, wild,
old, wild, high, low,
indifferent, maniacal, calm,
pensive and apoplectic.
I've sat isolated
and speechless
or boisterous and boorish.
I've littered their booths
with the scents of women
and love and the smell of
defeats; defeats from jobs,
publishers, women, friends,
and body. What I do,
and who I'm with,
no longer raise their eyebrows
or lowers their lids.
I've eaten their eggs & ham,
bacon & sausages & pancakes,
homemade moussaka, bread pudding,
& brisket, drank their coffee
& stirred their little creamers
& watched their children age
& them grow old.
I've seen favorite waiters & waitresses
farmed out to pasture because their legs
cannot get rid of the water & have ballooned
as big as their waist. The only person
who didn't age
is me.
Neurotics don't age
but hold fast
& hold on.

Today,
I had a hamburger, fries, salad.
It was the same bottle of oil,
the same vinegar, the same tomato
& the same slice of onion; the burger
was thinner, the bun bigger; the fries
still frozen & pretty much
as tasteless as ever,
but the price has tripled.
And why not?:
the farms are dry,
crops roasted,
cows suicidal,
the beef chemical.
The half-buck & buck tip
is now two or three.
Nick & Paul tell me
they'll soon retire;
they're tired of working
for the landlord.
But not me. I can't
retire--I'm a poet.
And poets are not supposed to "work,"
they only have to "live"--
which is the harder,
and more complicated,
of the two
I think I know,
but will never ever
say.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

THAT CERTAIN FEELING

Men feel it before,
and more acutely,
then women,
I think.
Athletes male
or female,
feel it first, followed
by artists
& skilled
laborers (though
I'm not sure
about the artists
& skilled laborers part).
It happens
before you're aware
of it happening:
you know what you want to do,
you can see it,
but you just can't do it,
anymore:
you see an opening
but can't take it;
you see a punch coming
but can't duck it
or slip it.
There's a kind of rust
on your reflex; your body
is a beat behind
the rhythm section.

The first time (or two,
or three) it happens
you'll reject it; you'll resort
to bullshitting yourself
& believe it,
(but not really),
you'll say:
just one of those days,
stop fucking around,
get more rest,
go on a diet,
get into the weight room,
shut-off distractions--
friends, family, hangers-on,
--stop chasing
skirts, concentrate--
& that might work...
for a bit.
But where once your youth was
has now looked
& found
greener pastures.

I'm well passed
my prime; I make
what I make
by skill & wits,
a reluctant intelligence,
a stubborn neurosis,
& guts, all enfolding me,
embalming me into
a state of grace.
Like today:
I saw these young beauties
walk by. I knew what I wanted
to do
to each
& every
one of them,
but cannot do a thing. How unfortunate
for all of us.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

MY SECULAR BODY

has caught up
to my manias:
"Fuck you,"
my legs say;
"Try breathing
now," my lungs
stutter; "Pump this,"
my pump mutters
through the sludge
while grabbing
his crotch.
When I take a piss
I bring reading material
to pass the time
as well as the water
and get bemused
by the white flag
of surrender hanging
off the tip.
But even this
is O.K.
by me: This poem
has given
me a laugh
on a very
grim day.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013