I'VE BEEN LOVED

by women past
& present
many years older
or younger who
I love
when not too much
in love
with myself.
In each affair
I've given
everything
I couldn't
hold back.
Women who've been
to finishing schools
& rouged their nipples
& dressed before bed
in French silk taffeta,
and those who've spent
endless nights on open grates
on east village sidewalks
and brought weapons
wrapped with sex
& mindfulness
into our cradle.
They have ways
about them;
ways of doing
& of being done;
they bleed
style. They have monstrous
needs; they drink their own milk.
They drip neurosis
freely to mouths greedy
& grateful.

One day the words
will have moved on
to greener pastures--
then it will be over
for me
but not yet.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

MY KIND OF GAL

You're a willful little girl
who'll pretend
to eat all her food,
every last bit of it,
but that the toilet bowl
will swallow
sometime later;
you'll buy winning tickets,
but never cash them;
you'll wear disappointment
like a birthright
next to a trampled heart.
You'll get in front
of retrospect
and won't look
while crossing.
You don't believe
in God,
but wonder
if he's angry
at you.
You've predicted
your prophecy
and are determined
to get to where
you're unsure
of going.
You've set up
a lingerie shop
in the south Bronx
selling Parisian silk
to old whores
and do not care
how much cash you keep
on hand.
You are hellbent
and driven
and hand the keys over
to nobody.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

AN OPEN SECRET

The Chinaman
ironing shirts
knows this;
the matador
poised on his toes ready
to thrust
knows this;
the coke smuggling wetback
knows this;
the milkman
and gravedigger
the lancelot and stevedore
the film idol
and long distance trucker
and FBI tracker
and Appalachian miner
and proctologist
know this: Nothing
is worse
than fighting
with your woman
on Sunday night.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

SHE LOVED

shooting dope
and eating
Devil Dogs
and digging
White Light/White Heat.
She was
a handful.
She'd touch
D'Lugoff's balls
as he let us in
on Latin Night
Mondays at The Village Gate;
and placed a rose
on Simone's piano
because she wanted to.
She made her fix
by hustling
as a nude model
at SVA
but wouldn't fuck
the professor painter
of the class
no matter his name
or his threats.
Her name was Barbara
and she lived
on Pineapple Street
in Brooklyn Heights
and she died
before I could tell her
all she did for me.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

A HARD KNOT

of no

lives

inside me.

It claimed

this space

before yes

arrived.

Its flag

is black.

It has not

recognized

surrender.

It only weeps

for strangers

it has no chance

of ever knowing.

It stays,

like these letters,

between heartbeats

and consequence.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

A PETRI DISH OF MURMURED MADNESS

Eye
droppers
& dollar collars.
Rubber
nipples.
Book matches
twined
& humping
each to each.
Spikes
dull
rusty
blood caked,
but O
so necessary.
Black carbon
underbellies
of spoons.
White ladies.
Dope sick.
A warm November
evening, '69.

Let's dance.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

APES, STILL--POST DEBATE POST MORTUM

How far
from the caves
& trees & forests
that history swings through;
how far
from the single cells
of slavery
& perfunctionary fucking
have we traveled
to get to
last night?

The desert's lion's head
& sand beasts,
Constantinople & catastrophes
hold little sway
over inherent cruelties
& madmen.

Once upon a time
we were apes
with clubs...now
nuclear weapons.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016