POETRY, OF SORTS

You straight?
What you need?
A bundle.
He held up his hand
above my head
with his index finger
pointing downward
and nodded
to a kid
standing
next to a quintet
of garbage cans
on 7th and C.
Give it to him.
I nodded
and almost skipped
across the street;
the night rich
with possibility.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

A TWITTER THANKS-

GIVING THANKS

Well,
I'm still here;
(I thank you)
(So much,
for that.)
What more
to say?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

NO WONDER

most relationships
go south:
we're creatures
of the worst sort:
not satisfied
with just fucking
we need understanding
and forgiveness
for instincts
that common flies
have.

Scramble two.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

TAKING MYSELF OUT ON A CHEAP DATE FOR MY BIRTHDAY

I'm gonna turn on
my computer
and jerk
the fuck
off

(maybe

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES

It doesn't come 'round often,
and it doesn't last long,
but when it does
it's something
truly magical;
a gift
from the gods
given to only
two humans
at a time.
It arrives
as mothers push
baby strollers
with their new born
safely inside;
the babies are dizzy
with new, dazzled
by surprise
in each beat,
every note
hitting
a new nerve,
their heads bouncing
this way
and that,
to
and fro,
up
and down,
grinning
and dribbling
down a toothless mouth;
their joy
bubbling over
their chariot.
You can hear
laughing,
humming,
songs of lyrics
yet defined,
so much better
than letters
locked
upon letters,
so inadequate,
so incomplete.
Their eyes
big and hungry
with next,
seek the face
pushing them
and who mimics
and mirrors
every inarticulate
sound and gesture.
As mad as they are
with discovery
with possibility,
the air dancing
upon their skin,
light tickling
their nose,
laughinglaughinglaughing
at the circus
unfolding
constantly
knowing nothing
outside their bond
between them;
knowing nothing
except each other
and the stupid silly world
as it parts
to let them
through.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

PORN TODAY, MIGHT BE GONE TOMORROW

I've decided
to take myself
out
on a cheap date:
no prep,
no talk,
no regret,
and little
expense.

I'll squeeze it
in
between
the words,
if the words
ever stop.

Freedom.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

MAKING ROOM FOR THE DEAD

for my birthday;
I have a little bit more
than a week
to prepare:
get some books and papers
off the floor,
the couch,
a broken down rocker
near my window
that can be used
in a pinch.
The yellowed tiles
near the tub
need to be scrubbed
from the ash
I flicked there;
in fact,
I should make the joint
safe for food:
get the grease
and the dust
and the rinds
of dreams
out the door
and down
to the pails
outside.
Also,
I need to throw out
the fucking deadbeats
that are currently squatting.
I allow them to take
up far too much space
ordinarily,
but now,
for my birthday,
I've got to boot them
in the ass
if I haveta.

The dead
rarely announce themselves
and sometimes get here
a day or two early.
They really get fucked up
if they have no place to hang
their hat.
But it is mostly me
who loses
if there's not enough room:
they remind me
how lucky I am
to still be jousting
with the words;
to still be fucking
with death
and all its cousins.

I would think
that after what I've done
to some of them
they wouldn't show,
but they do.
At first I was somewhat
embarrassed, chagrined,
felt awkward, creepy,
but they just sat
and explained;
they held
no grudges,
and wanted
nothing
from me.
They just wanted me to know
they were still here
and hoped my ears
had become attuned
to listen
and my head
and heart
and gut
better able to absorb
and integrate.

When this first started
only one or two
showed up. But now,
turning sixty-five
I expect quite a crowd.
The ones I've loved,
even partially,
I look forward to;
the ones I've fucked over,
not so much.
I wish I had a choice,
but I don't.
I offered once
to put the ones I've fucked over
in a hotel,
but they wouldn't hear of it.
Some of them even stood
the whole day
to be near me.
So be it.
I've learned
at my age
you have to pick
your battles
carefully.
I know
I'll get bloodied up,
but it will also give me
some words to play with;
damn the vanity.

Hank said,
that sometimes the best thing
a writer does
is simply
write.
The rest of the time
is mostly ugly
for him
and for those
who cross
his path.

Excuse me
while I get
a mop and broom.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012