WE FINALLY COME TOGETHER IN THE REVERIE OF LOVE

burnt rubber; masks. a dog.
frozen.
in his best
dog-like
death.
flesh OR steel (!)
blood
(and cylinders).
lungs, pistons.
arteries.
and a
broken
fuel pump.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

ONE FOR DIANA NYAD...(AND ME)

She gave me courage...
and motivation.
She infused me
with the desire
to go on,
to persevere,
to surmount
all obstacles
including my own
biology.
I'm a year older
than she,
sicker
I would think,
and not as
wise.
But I was determined.
This morning,
a day after
her feat,
of swimming
from Cuba
to Key West,
amid jelly fish
and sharks,
blistering sun,
and memories,
in just fifty-four hours,
I stepped into
my shower
and whacked-off.
I did it
before the water
turned cold
which I knew
it would
in five to six hours
adding
more pressure.
Keep going,
keep going,
keep going.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

DESPITE EVERYTHING

The Betty Poems

we've done
and said
to each other--
all the pain
we've inflicted,
all the mis
communication,
we would like
nothing better
than the "other"
show-up
unannounced
on our doorstep
and take us--
as crippled
inconsistent
and damaged
as we are
into our hearts
like our birth
givers should have
but never
did.
It is an act
that punishes
speech
and which we know
will never happen.
Which is why
we will
settle
for nothing
less.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

COMMITTING THE CARDINAL SIN

I don't know about
anywhere else, but in Brooklyn
(and later New York City),
when two or more guys
got together
to bullshit--
whether on street corners
or saloons,
in upscale restaurants
or diners,
penthouses
or jails late
at night
or early in the mornings
--pussy would eventually
be the subject
you got to
and stayed on.
You could begin
with global politics
or local sports,
social utopias
or communism
as opposed
to capitalism,
famine in Africa
or the metaphysics of souls,
sooner or later
the cunt
would have to be discussed
in great detail
and tried to make
intelligible.
Rarely
would it be about
how a relationship worked
but how and why it didn't.
The talk would sometimes
be personalized,
but most of the time
it was the gossip
about those we knew
(past and present)
who weren't there
with us then.
Most of the anecdotes
were funny, sometimes
hilarious; enough
to make our stomachs ache
and our eyes water.
But sometimes they were
"Fatal Attraction"
"Play Misty For Me" tales.
We always let the teller
tell--the better the teller
the better the tale--
only interrupting with a
"what happened next, c'mon
tell us,"
like children being read to,
like we couldn't wait
to turn a page.
When it was finished
we glanced at
whoever else was there
speechless
until someone said,
"you know dontcha
never go out with anyone
who's crazier than you?
Never."
But since
I was usually the one
either telling the tale
or reciting the admonition
I never believed
it would apply
to me.

Until it did.

I had one like that once
and I would have gladly
given her
my money,
but there was none
to give; instead
she bit off
huge chunks
of my soul
and stripped me
of the little dignity
I had.
Ate me up,
spit me out.
Did with me
what she wanted
when she wanted
how she wanted.
The only thing
that saved me
was geography
and selfishness. Hers.
And the only reason
you're reading this
now, is her grace
and limitations.
Of course,
I vowed
I'd never allow that
to happen again,
but I hope I would.
In fact,
I thank her,
and think
we should all thank her,
for that.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

A YOUNG WHORE

walks by
and sees me--
an easy mark;
a man
who would mistake
touch for love;
a mouth, a cunt
for invitation.
She sits
in the empty wrought-iron chair
beside me, but not
before asking:
Do you mind?
Feel free, I respond.

Neither of us
have much of a mind
on this hot and humid day
and neither of us
mistake what we have
as freedom.

Let the games begin.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

DOCTOR'S ORDERS

I was overdue
to see my endocrinologist
and wasn't feeling well,
so I set-up a visit.
After checking my vitals,
we sat down to talk.
You look well,
he said,
but a tan covers many things.
We'd been doctor/patient
for many years
and usually spoke
about what aging men speak about:
pussy, growing old, and death.
He had me by ten years
and so was closer
to the aging and death part,
but was so gentle and funny
it made me feel further away
from those processes.
Tell me,
he continued,
what you've been eating?
He stopped me
after the third item.
What was that
again? he asked.
I repeated the name
of the woman.
Oh, her,
he began. Don't
eat that--she's
sugar coated
with an inside
of arsenic.
Really,
I replied. Damn.
You know that, he said,
sounding a little pissed,
most of the good fucks are.
I know it's easy
for me to say,
but just stop it; don't
do it. I want
to see you in a month.

I walked out of his office,
lit a smoke,
and made my way
home. I'm going to live,
I said to myself.
But no one
would be
very happy
about that.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

ONE FOR MY OL' MAN, BIG MICK

"Norm,"
he said to me once
when I was quite young,
"those 'short hairs'
on a woman's pussy
are stronger
than the cables
that hold up bridges."
I laughed.
I'd been fucking
by then
anytime I could
(of course)
but was still sixteen
or so.
He said this to me
in the presence
of a wise guy
friend of his
in some Canarsie lounge
in Brooklyn
in the sixties.
The wise guy
shook his head
in agreement,
drew on his Camel,
and snickered as well.
They knew
something
I didn't.

Until now.

I never knew
or felt
that kind of love
from my side
of the fence;
never knew
the pull,
the draw,
the obsession,
or strength.
Never knew
how powerful
a thing
one woman's pussy
could be.

Until now.

It's a mighty thing.
A miserable cunt
of a thing.
A Bermuda Triangle
of pain.

Sure,
I thought I was in love
many times before;
and sure,
it didn't work;
and sure,
there was a hangover
for however long there was--
but they passed
--sometimes like piss
and sometimes like a kidney stone,
but they passed.

This one,
has sealed all the doors,
and fires back.


It's good to know
I'm just
one of the guys.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013