I DROP WORDS

like breadcrumbs
so others
can find their way
to my home and I
can find my way
back.
It is a two-way
highway
of neurosis
on a one way
blacktop.

Men
are so obvious,
needy
& weak;
women
so devious,
cunning
& cruel.

Woods
emit light
from the center
of a sorcerer.
The evil parent
has been killed;
the house licked
clean. Bite marks
lace veins
in the finest filigree.
Memory
is the killer.

I no longer write
from instinct
but intention.
You've captured
me and we both
remain lost.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

BUS STOP BLUES

Sometimes
waiting for a bus
is enough
to send one
over the edge.
The sun hot
enough to fry
ovaries & gonads,
sweat pouring
into your underwear
as you watch
wheelchairs run over
walkers that topple
over legs splayed
over curbs holding
up the infirm the demented
the luckless, the loveless,
the broke dreamers,
the damned who only know
others just as damned.
And now
you know it,
too.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015